by Kate Gray
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“I expect I’m a bit of a Doubting Thomas, however, since every bit of the cynic in me wants to have some sort of proof that I can see.”
“I am not a magician, nor am I a medium. It is difficult to explain properly. Some of those in the upper echelons, in the Guards, that sort of thing, they see persons such as myself as merely talismans against bad luck. Taken universally, I suppose we could be. I have always been able to feel the vibrations that ill forces create. But instead of being a bastion against them, it is more that I must understand them, interpret the intent, and bring to bear whatever I can to beat them back.”
“Very well. If that’s the case, however, how does one fight that which is unseen?” She did so dislike this bizarre turn of events.
Beyond how discomfiting it was to have all of her philosophies upended in a matter of hours, she felt a great deal of dread regarding all of it. How could she accept it?
Macconnach was not terribly forthcoming with useful information. She would probably need to take matters in hand still.
“I know what you think.” His voice startled her out of her thoughts.
Her head snapped around as Macconnach spoke. How???
“Your doubt is not unusual.” He sounded amused. “Your father probably had to be convinced in a similar manner, but I imagine he has come to accept it as a matter of faith.”
“Faith. Bosh. If you cannot tell me, why bother letting me know any of it?”
“Let me try to explain.” He strode in front of her, causing her to stumble to a halt. “In our Gaelic traditions, there are what we call wards. They are meant to block evil. A lot of them are simple superstitions, but the ones that are effective are the ones that the druids used to put into use. The Celts always had a strong bond with the natural world, trees and animals in particular. They incorporated those items into artwork, which, in turn became symbolic wards.”
He unbuttoned his waistcoat. Isabel felt a hot rush of blood to her cheeks. “Please forgive me this, I know what it must look like, but I assure you that it is part of what I am trying to clarify for you.” His hands hovered over his shirt buttons for a moment as he seemed to be half trying to make a decision, half waiting for permission.
“Well?” She said, nervously. He sighed and opened his shirt. Isabel felt her breath catch as she tried to make sense of what she saw. He was marked in the same manner that had been on the goats and the boy.
Except, they were not the same, not really. These were somewhat sensible; interlaced lines and curls across his chest, with, as Macconnach had said, certain elements of nature woven in.
Some of them men in the camp had tattoos, to be sure, the kind that soldiers get when they drink excessively and miss the company of women even moreso. The extraordinary part about Macconnach’s tattoos was that they did not appear to be as such.
They looked as though he had been born with them, as though they were completely natural. Once she got past shock, she could not help but notice his lean and finely-muscled torso. A tremor passed through her body; he seemed to notice, and quickly buttoned himself back up.
“The, ah, images, what particular meanings do they have? I admit to ignorance in your mythology.” She said this with no little degree of embarrassment, recalling how she had scorned his own ignorance very recently.
“You may have noticed what is referred to as knotwork, but there is also ogham. It is the oldest written language of the Celts. In this case, there are the symbols of trees. The rowan, a tree that the gods have long used, as has man. Even now, in the Age of Christ, everyone plants a rowan near their home, if they’re able. It offers protection from outside influences. More important are my central wards of ivy and elder, and their accompanying animal companions, the swallow and the raven.”
He fell silent, unsure what to say next. It was incredibly improper of him to have behaved the way he just had. An utterly mad impulse had driven him to do it, but not to shock or upset her. “I do apologize. It was not my intent to have you think me some sort of depraved lunatic.”
“No, no, I do not think that. Oh, look, here we are, back at the fort. My apologies, Major, but I am most tired. I shall see you for tea tomorrow, yes?” With that, she darted away. He was left in her swirl of dust and chaos, which was a foreign, but not entirely unpleasant, surround.
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It would have been far too easy to curse her, and to blame her for becoming involved in this unexpected circumstance. The trouble was that he knew exactly why he’d gone along with her again.
It had less to do with keeping her safe, and more to do with simply wanting to lay eyes on her again. Lord only knew why; she was as frustrating and impetuous as any female creature with which he had ever had dealings.
He kicked the dirt. Isabel Alderton, who only listened to herself. No, that wasn’t completely true. She listened to her father as well, but only to confirm her own opinions. Macconnach wondered when Abington had given up trying to gentrify his daughter.
The fact of the matter was that he was frustrated, for the first time in his life, by a woman.
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That woman had run for her life as soon as she’d seen the comforting glow of the encampment torchlights. She was breathing carefully through pursed lips, as she made her decision to forgo seeing her father, climbing the stairs silently to her rooms instead.
Ranajit had spotted her, she knew, and would report her return to the general. Abington might be puzzled and perhaps hurt that she had bypassed him this night, but she typically had good reasons for her actions. It was late, and he was probably as tired as she.
Isabel sat in the center of her bed, trying to calm her nerves enough to allow her to fall asleep. She had arrived at a point of logic which would permit her to place a sort of reserved sense of faith in the major and his fancies.
No, she told herself, not fancies. That did not go along with giving a person the benefit of the doubt. Even if it did seem like rubbish. Rubbish in which her father was fully vested. What was correct, what was truth, what was hogwash anymore?
She threw herself back on to her bed in frustration, and kicked at the air for a good moment or two. All of this was bound to drag up certain subjects she’d been most eager to avoid since her mother’s death.
Major Macconnach. She hadn’t even the faintest notion how to spell his surname. He was ambiguous, exasperating, and so far the only time he had been taken aback by anything was Arpan’s little trick of pretending not to speak English.
He was terribly distracting. She knew she’d had this thought more than once over the past four days, which irritated her even more. Why had he unclothed himself in that manner? She supposed that if she had been just another soldier, it would hardly be of any notice.
Certainly, she had seen her share of shirtless men through the years. But was not a soldier, nor any other kind of male comrade. And he was not the typical redcoat, either. Terribly distracting. Particularly in light of the impulse she’d had at that moment, to reach out and touch him, of all things.
She gave up sleep after an hour of lying awake, and slipped down into the library. Her father’s bottle of brandy was still on its tray. She wondered why he’d left it there, out in the open, and then saw the clean glass behind it.
Silly Papa, she thought. But he knew her too well. A nightcap was one of the only times she’d ever indulged, and so she did, trying to rid herself of the excited feelings still racing along her arms and legs. The alcohol quickly did its work, sending along that slightly leaden sensation in place of jitters.
She swallowed a tumbler-full, more than the usual, and felt the burning all the way from her nose to her lower regions. After a few moments, she pointed herself back to the upstairs, coughing as she went and blinking away tears.
That smoldering sensation reminded her of how she’d felt when she’d first focused on the major’s physique. She’d had an embarrassed interest, but it was visceral interest as well. In bed, she placed all her pillows
over her head, and tried not to think about it, as she fell into a heavy sleep.
ॐ
Macconnach woke far too early the next morning, after perhaps only five minutes of hard-won sleep. He heard the sergeants bellowing up and down the tent lines, and wondered if it was too early to move into his quarters.
Moreover, when were they going to get the building materials to actually make this into a fort? Barracks would certainly further reduce the noise a great deal. His head ached from the late night, and all the energy he’d put into trying to trace an unknown entity.
Worse, there seemed never to be any break from the heat in India. At least in Egypt there had been a winter season, and the nights would grow cool. There was nothing quite like the unrelenting damp and broil around here.
Fighting off an ill temper, he rolled from his cot, and shook himself awake. What wouldn’t he give for a cyclopean block of ice; instead he had to settle for tepid water from a jug in his basin. Shaving wearily, he then dressed, and staggered out to the assembled troops.
He distractedly stood at attention while morning reports were read off. He had to remind one young leftenant to leave off editorializing the absences, and simply say who had gone off to sick ward.
Finally, all was done, and the men dispersed for their morning mess. Macconnach was not particularly in the mood to breakfast with his peers,
