by Barbara Bard
Finlay continued chanting inside his head, his mind and body so wrought with fatigue that even he was unaware of where he was headed. His hands slapped the smooth rocks of the cave, echoing slightly as his vision blurred, his energy became depleted, and his body collapsed onto the floor of the cave.
Finlay's last thoughts were that he was now dying, no longer a member of the living. He then hoped to meet his wife on the other side and prayed that God would welcome him and his now dead brothers into the warmth of paradise with an abundance of love and relief.
Chapter 1
“Ye’re just as beautiful as yer mother,” William said, his weak pasted, and weathered hand gently caressing the cheek of his daughter Isla as he felt the last breaths of his life being pulled into his lungs. “Ye also have her strength. By God, I am so proud of ye, my dear Isla. Only ye can lead our people tae salvation.”
Isla’s full and vibrant lips formed into the wriest of smiles. She was proud that her father was pleased, a sense of elation filling her traced with sadness that came as a result of the knowledge that he was not long for this world. Her father was dying. These were the last few moments of his life, one well-lived and serving as an inspiration for their clan, all gathered on the outside of his tent and offering up silent prayers for God to ease his transition into the next life.
Isla gently placed a kiss on her father’s hand, caressing it as she reached forward and stroked her fingers through his wiry and thinning grey hair. “Rest now, father,” she said. “Ye have done mair than ye know fer our clan.”
“The fight is nae over yet. The English will not stop until they have driven all of our people oot of Scotland.”
Isla shook her head defiantly, thoughts of the English nobles who killed her mother and burned her people’s village to the ground still burned vibrantly in her mind. “I will not fail our people, father. I will lead them. I will guide them.”
William smiled, his eyelids fluttering as he planted two fingers to his lips, kissed them, and stroked the side of his eldest daughter’s cheek with a fond and gentle demonstration of his love. It was a simple moment, a subtle passing of the torch to his eldest daughter. Though tradition stated that it would be a male heir to William the Laird’s leadership, those in the clan knew, without a shred of doubt, that Isla was the proper heir to the throne. Her beauty was her mother’s—but her drive and headstrong sense of leadership was a direct inheritance from her father.
A tear slid slowly down the side of Isla’s smooth, silky cheek, hints of red on her cheeks from the pride and sorrow as she said to William: “Rest now, father. Be at peace…”
William then drew a final breath, his chest expanding as he rested comfortably back into the mound of fur that cushioned him. With the slightest of smiles, William exhaled his last breath slowly, closed his eyes, and passed away into the unknown. Isla held onto her father’s hand for a full minute, clutching desperately onto their final moments as a family before resting his arms across his chest and turning solemnly out of the tent.
Standing at the head of the gaggle of clansmen and women outside the tent was Isla’s brother, Denholm, his typically jovial demeanor now slack and dismayed as Isla embraced him and said: “He is gone. Father is wi’ the angels now.”
With a full heart and a pair of watering eyes, Denholm embraced his sister with his burly frame, as their younger sister Gavina, just shy of eleven years of age, wedged herself in-between her siblings and wept quietly into Denholm’ broad barrel-chest. The entire clan, just shy of fifty members, gathered in a huddle around Isla and her siblings, ready to pledge their allegiance to the new leader of their clan: Lady Isla.
Laird William was burned on a pile of wood, not more than an hour after he had passed. Silence had overtaken the clan as they watched the smoking timbers of the fire burn and consume the man that had led them away from slaughter, the smoke billowing and rising as it escorted his soul to the heavens.
Isla felt numb, still processing her father’s death while simultaneously debating internally on how and where she was going to lead her clan.
Denholm, hands clasped in front of him as Gavina held onto the tail of his tunic, nodded toward the fire. “Father mentioned an area deep in the highlands,” he said just shy of a whisper. “Are we tae proceed on the same course?”
Isla nodded. "The area is far from the rule of the English. It is a more than a suitable destination fer our people tae live a free and happy existence."
A respectful nod from Denholm, his ginger hair illuminated in the blaze of the fire before him. "As you wish, me Lady."
Isla closed her eyelids. "Do not waste the formalities on me, brother. I accept father's designation as leader wi' the utmost reluctance."
“Then ye must embrace all that the responsibility entails, dear sister.” He gestured to the solemn and slack members of the tribe gazing on with a tearful reminiscence of the fire. “Our people will now look tae ye tae make the decisions they cannot. Ye are their leader, now…”
Isla opened her eyes and nodded, reaching over and squeezing her brother's forearm and thanking God that such a level-minded and headstrong soul as Denholm' was on her side.
“When should we disembark from this area, me Lady?” Denholm inquired.
“In the morra,” the Lady replied. “They deserve a night’s rest. We are far enough away fae the English that we still have some time.”
Another nod. “I will consult wi’ the able-bodied men of the clan. We will set about organizing the caravan fer our departure.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “But promise my one thing, Lady.”
Isla’s emerald eyes, the same ones that had encapsulated so many suitors in the past, twinkled in the fire as she looked on her brother’s face.
“Drink,” Denholm said with a crooked smile that showed brightly through his red beard. “And drink well!”
Isla smirked as Denholm then produced a bottle, uncorked it, and placed it in his sister's hand. They drank to their father at that moment as Gavina looked on with a curious gaze.
They drank to their hopes and their futures.
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Chapter 1
Eamon Baird stood on the roof of his father and mother’s home, his eyes focused on the horizon as a cool breeze came in from the north. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as the chill licked at his skin, Eamon rubbing his three days’ worth of stubble as he kept his gaze fixated on the horizon.
Ten years had passed. Ten years since the attacks lead by Sir Jessup and his army that nearly obliterated his entire clan. But Eamon was only a boy then, removed from the fight as his elders set about securing another victory, one that bought them time to live in relative peace. But, like all pacts that had been made—Eamon knew it was only a matter of time before the wrath of the Sassenach inevitably struck again.
And he was no longer a boy. He was a man, a competent and headstrong warrior with his father’s massive, sinewy build that struck fear into the hearts of those who did not know him. He had carried on the legacy of his clan’s penchant for breeding the best warriors in all of the land, and now, here and now, Eamon was the official head of the clan’s premier warriors known as “The Bairdsmen.” Many changes had taken place in the course of a decade, and Eamon, twenty-two, appeared to be in his 30’s from the amount of fighting he had seen. It was nothing significant, just scuffles here and there with the Sassenach and fellow countrymen alike. But it was enough to have aged Eamon, and as he stood on his father’s roof and recalled tales of the battle with Sir Jessup, he could not help but wonder when the time would come where he would be involved in a fight of that caliber.
“Eamon,” a female voice called out from down below.
Eamon walked over to the ladder that lead to ground level and peeked over—his sister Rose staring up at him with a perplexed expre
ssion. “Aye,” he said.
“What are ye doing up there?” Rose inquired.
Eamon shrugged. “Just taking in the early morning sunrise, sister.”
“Ye will catch a cold.”
He waved her off. “I am fine. Dinnae worry about me.”
Rose took a beat. Eamon could not help but note how much she had grown in the past few years as she did. They were no longer the children—they were the leaders of the clan.
“Father wishes tae speak tae ye,” Rose said.
Eamon descended the ladder and met up with his sister.
“Are ye sure ye are all right?” Rose asked.
“Aye, I told ye I am fine.”
“There is a look in yer eyes.”
“There is naw look in me eyes.”
Rose laughed. “I ken ye well, brother. I ken when something is troubling ye.”
There was—but Eamon did not want to say it out loud, though he knew his sister was probably well-aware of what was troubling him. He merely hooked his arm around her neck, kissed her on the cheek, and said: “Ye think tae much, sister.”
Eamon jogged ahead of her, no longer wanting to speak about what was on his mind for fear of reminding himself that many things weighed heavy on his heart. Instead, he raced ahead to the tavern, knowing full-well where his father was and what he was up to.***
Finlay Baird was no longer than man he once was. He was old, complete with a head of silver hair and a beard to match. He had sustained enough injuries during the course of his life that he was no longer able to fight. He walked with a cane, and he fought of a cough that seemed to rear its head every few days to remind him that his time on Earth was slowly coming to an end.
He was sipping a whiskey in the tavern, his thoughts focused on his wife and his children and all that they had built as Eamon walked inside.
Finlay smiled—consistently proud of his children. “Me boy,” he said. “Come. Sit.”
Eamon gestured to the whiskey. “A little early in the day fer that father, is it nae?”
Finlay flashed a smile. “I will nae be told by me children aboot when and where tae drink. I am an old man. I hae earned a little carelessness.”
Eamon sat, looking at his father fondly. When both of the men were in the same room, one could not help but note how alike they look. It was only a difference of weathered skin, silver hair, and aging that set them apart—two generations of Bairds, seated together, passing the torch slowly but surely from the last generation to the next.
“Rose said ye wished tae speak with me,” Eamon said.
Finlay nodded. “Aye…”
Eamon waited a long beat for his father to continue. “Well,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “What is on yer mind, father?”
Finlay slowly leveled his gaze on his son. “Today is the day. Is it nae?”
Eamon felt his heart sink into his stomach. He tried his best to fight off the choking sensation in his throat, his emotions struggling to get out. “Aye…” he said. “It is.”
Finlay shrugged. “I just wanted tae see if—”
“I am fine, father,” Eamon replied, shifting his weight, defensive. “I am nae some wounded animal that needs tending tae.”
“Naw one said that ye were.”
“Naw one needed tae. I can sense it in the tones that are spoken tae me.”
Finlay could see the anger welling up inside of his son. It was only naturally, considering the circumstances. “Rose,” he began, “thought that it might be appropriate tae raise a toast tae Juliet this evening. She thought—”
Eamon held up his hand, gritting his teeth as he heard the name out loud that ran through his mind at least a dozen times a day. “Please, father,” he pleaded. “Dinnae speak of her out loud.”
Finlay leaned forward, adjusting his grip on his wooden cane. “Ye hae nae spoken of her since it happened, me son.”
“What is there tae say? Me wife passed from illness. All in the clan kens of what happened. Saying it out loud dozens of times will nae change the fact that she is gone.”
“It is healthy tae purge yer mind of the burden, me son. Ye let these thoughts of her fester. Ye allow yer grief tae define ye.”
“I dinnae let me grief define me.”
Finlay rested a weathered hand on top of his son’s strong and abled hand. “Ye dae, Eamon. I assure ye of this. I am yer father, and I am telling ye that ye are nae letting yerself grieve…”
Eamon sat back, absorbing his father’s words. He knew them to be true, and he hated admitting that fact to himself. “She passed a year ago, father,” he said. “That is enough time tae move on.”
“But ye have nae,” Finlay replied. “Ye merely speak these words without any conviction behind them. Ye say ye hae grieved—but I dinnae think that this is true.”
Eamon shook his head. “Naw man or woman or creature should dwell on thoughts of losing a love one fer this long a time.”
“There are naw rules, Eamon. Grief is naw something that goes away quickly.”
Eamon hung his head and screamed internally for his sadness to subside. For a moment, he was vulnerable, his father’s words cutting through him like a knife. “I miss her,” he said, low enough that only his father could hear. “And it does nae seem tae be any less potent of an emotion as each day passes. My heart weighs just as heavy as it did when she passed…”
Finlay nodded. “I can only imagine, me son. It was a sudden passing. It was a lot fer ye tae bear.”
Eamon sighed, his memories depleting him of energy as he sat back. “We hae all lost so much,” he said. “Ye, me, Gavina. Every person here. It does nae seem that one day passes without someone we love being lost tae the abyss…”
Finlay nodded, completely empathetic with his son. “I ken, Eamon,” he said. “Believe me, I ken…”
Eamon opened his mouth to say something else—but he was cut short when the loud and terrified shrieking of a woman was heard from the other end of the village.***
Finlay and Eamon hustled outside of the tavern, their eyes scanning for the source of the noise.
“Over there!” a voice cried out. “There! Over there!”
Eamon diverted his gaze to a woman who had been in the midst of tending to a garden, her finger crooked toward the west as a single rider on horseback, clad in gray garb, mounted a horse and began riding away from the village.
“Stop him,” Finlay said, gritting his teeth and gripping onto his cane with a white-knuckled grip.
Eamon located the nearest horse, sans a saddle, and mounted it. He bucked the horse and rode off after the rider.
The rider, moving as fast as his horse could carry him, removed a bow and arrow from his satchel. Lining up a shot, he aimed at Eamon, closing in from thirty yards out, and let off a shot.
Eamon, spotting the bow being lined up, ducked to his left and narrowly missed being impaled as he closed in on the rider.
The rider, cursing at his miss, kicked his heels into the side of the horse and continued his ride. He headed for the foliage in front of him, dense and stretching on for a significant number of miles.
Eamon, hot on the rider’s heels, cursed once he realized he had no weapons on him. He trailed the rider as they zig-zagged their way through the trees, the rider competent in his stride and keeping Eamon on his toes.
Eamon pursued the rider for a half-mile, unable to close in on him—and then a thought popped up into his brain. He broke right, disappearing from the rider’s rear as the sound of his horse’s hoofbeats slowly faded.
The rider, casting a look over his shoulder, smiled with satisfaction, certain that he had lost the Highlander. He continued to ride, as fast and as hard as he could, making his way toward the designated rallying point that his leader had given him. He looked ahead, a cascade of light peeking in from the other side of the forest—his salvation.
The rider pushed…and pushed…and pushed, confidant that he was on the cusp of making his escape. As he attempted to push throug
h and out of the forest—he felt the weight of the horse of the Highlander pursuing him slamming into his side and knocking him clear off of his mound.
Eamon, having successfully flanked the rider, also fell from his horse. The two men laid on the ground for a moment, the wind knocked out of them as they struggled to stand.
The rider stood first, slowly unsheathing his sword as Eamon found his footing. Eamon knew he had no time to waste—he charged.
He tackled the rider to the ground, the two men tumbling over each other and struggling to get the advantage. It wasn't long until Eamon knocked the sword from the rider's grip, leaving him no choice but to fight with bare hands.
Eamon punched the rider. The rider punched Eamon. A few more kicks and blows were exchange, one of which knocked Eamon silly. The rider took the opportunity to put Eamon into headlock, preparing to break his neck as Eamon began to see dark spots around his vision.
Eamon felt things slowly turn to black, his hands groping along the ground for anything that could assist him. His fingertips then grazed a rock, his palm quickly suctioning up against the rock before he picked it up, swung it back, and slammed it into the rider’s skull.
The rider fell instantly, the rock having cracked open his skull in a fatal blow that killed him right away. Eamon stood back, catching his breath as he stared on at the sprawled-out corpse. Moments later, two of the other Bairdsmen arrived on horseback and quickly dismounted.
