Highland Tales Series Box Set

by Rory B. Byrne

  I took time enough to use available fist-sized rocks to spell out my name on the ground and added ‘was here’ for good measure. I saw the first signs of life in the small flock of birds flitting through the underbrush. The black-feathered fowl reminded me of chickens. But the birds weren’t domesticated; they hopped and flapped winds that weren’t ornaments, but useful appendages.

  I knew they flew because something some meters away stalked them. The flock took off into the air. I thought it was a good message to me as well. Something spooked the birds. It was substantial and predatory. The birds squawked in warning as they flew off.

  For the lack of proper landmarks, I picked the distant mountains to the west, put the sun on my back, and started walking. I knew a little about how to find civilization in the wild from TV shows. Rivers, bodies of water—people gathered near sources of water. If I found water, even a stream, I could follow it to something bigger.

  I found pockets of water trickling from between stacks of rocks. Nothing worth following, but flowing enough to drink, and the water tasted like Scotland.

  I knew from studying the geography of the area around Inverness and Eskdale, Beauly Firth, and Moray Firth, two enormous bodies of water had several townships along the shores, including the place where I started before I woke up wherever here is. I was alone, doing my best to climb over deep lumpy earth and go around the outcropping of moss-covered rocks. Still, I saw no rivers or firths or lochs.

  When the sun reached its zenith, I assumed it was around noon. I didn’t think about the location of Scotland on the globe, only the sun in the sky. I didn’t have my smartphone, so I didn’t have the time. The emptiness in my stomach only got fooled for so long with the water I sipped.

  I walked over uneven rocks, through bogs, and climbed grasslands, doing my best to follow the track of the sun. I had the distant mountains, and I put my path in association with the deep V that separated the peaks like some giant chopped out a hole in the landscape. I thought once I lost the sun, I might make a few more miles until I had to stop for the night again.

  I ignored my hunger pangs and the burning of my thighs. I had to keep moving, and while it might be in the wrong direction, there was something inside that I couldn’t ignore. Whatever happened to me, whatever took me out of the cavern and dropped me into a muddy hole in the middle of the moors—along with a lifeless limb—it wasn’t anything explainable by anything I understood. I felt like whatever happened had to do with Mom and her field of expertise. I didn’t want to get too excited, given the location and lack of civilization, but something, I guess, intuition, pulled me like a magnet forward. I don’t know if it was lack of food and sleep, but I had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, so I kept moving forward.

  The Clansmen

  Ignoring the cries of a dying animal was impossible. I felt the cold crawling fear dig into my spine when I heard it in the distance. I gravitated toward the gurgling growls and screaming, and as I moved closer, I listened to the thrashing of underbrush around a body. It was gut-wrenching, almost human, childlike screaming, and I eventually discovered the source.

  The dying animal was meters away from me, thrashing against the low branches of a scrub tree. From what I saw of it, I immediately thought, panther. It was larger than any domesticated cat, but not big like a tiger or lion, closer to the size of a cougar or bobcat. It was sleek, black, and a thin braided rope had snared it around its neck. But the cat, whether out of luck or intelligence, had one paw hooked into the noose to keep it from strangulating it quickly.

  Unfortunately, it couldn’t pull free. It couldn’t get its teeth on the rope to chew its bindings. I don’t know how long it struggled. I know I heard it for a long time walking. At first, I thought it was the wind. The snarl anchored the big black cat to a wood spike entangled in the scrub brush.

  I considered the limited options. It knew I approached because it stopped struggling, waiting for me to make a decision. I knew it was alive because its belly rose and fell with decisive breathing. I didn’t want it to starve to death or die of strangulation. I thought whoever set up the snare should share in its fate to know how cruel it was to do that to an animal. I mean, I’m not a vegan or vegetarian. I eat meat. But I think there are better ways of harvesting kills than the nasty snarl in the bush.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Near my hand was a huge rock. Heavy enough to lift overhead and weighty enough to do what needed doing, hopefully, with one swift blow to its skull.

  “I don’t know what else to do,” I said.

  The black cat yowled in response.

  “Oh, no, please don’t do that. I don’t know what else I can do for you. I can’t get close to you. Obviously, you’re a wild cat. I didn’t know Scotland had panthers.”

  As if understanding what I said, it trilled and yowled again.

  I picked up the rock and closed the distance between the snarled cat and me. It faced the bush, and I got close enough to see its pink tongue inside its muzzle. I saw the long white canines. It panted desperately to get a lungful of air.

  I raised the substantial rock overhead, and I saw from the angle of my approach the deep icy blue eyeball turning hard to see me looming. Its struggle intensified. Its cries worsened. Its growls and snarling, the thrashing made its front paw, caught in the snarl pull out. That immediately snapped the entanglement tight around its neck, cut off its air, and shuttered the caterwaul. That’s when I dropped the rock.

  “Please, hold still,” I said. It was stupid and impossible, but I chose to save a life instead of stealing it.

  It shuttered at my touch. I managed to grip its neck in a fistful of ebony fur. I slipped my fingers through the snarl, digging between its neck and the rope. I leaned against the struggling cat.

  “Stop, please, stop moving,” I said. I knew I needed slack in the snare to make it loose against its neck. I caught the feral icy blue eyes staring at me. The neck muscles of the cat tensed. The moment I pushed against its back with my knees, the snare loosened. I saw a swath of pure white on its chest, almost shaped like a diamond. The rest of the flawless black fur bristled at my handling it.

  The cat caught a deep gasping breath. It rolled to its crouch, all four huge claws on the ground. I managed to tug on the snare, got it over one ear, and then the next. Just as the cat felt the shivering sense of freedom by backing up, I moved sideways, toward its front.

  The cat in gratitude for freedom as it broke away, scratched at my hand. Three of the five needle-sharp nails caught the flesh of the back of my right wrist and hand. It was like three lines of liquid fire scorching my skin. I screamed and fell, pulling back my hand. The cat moved so fast, leaping away. I felt the wind of its body but didn’t see it leave.

  I tucked my hand against my stomach wincing.

  “Okay,” I said. “You’re welcome.”

  I sat on the ground, squeezing my burning wound, wondering if I’d die of starvation before I died of infection. I knew the wound bled because I felt the blood soaking into my shirt though the nylon of my jacket.

  I pulled at the coat, bunched around my hand, and looked at it. It looked like a cat had scratched me. Only it was deep like it was a wild Scottish panther instead of a domestic tomcat.

  “I hope you’re happy,” I called. “I might need stitches. Thanks for that. I’m so glad I stopped by to save your life.”

  I knew it was pointless yelling at a wild animal that was probably miles from me by now. But it made me feel better and distracted me from the pain. I pulled at the snarl. I managed to get it loose and free of the brush. I saw the braided rope and the end of the notched spike.

  “Well, at least now I know I’m not alone out here.”

  I balled the rope and pulled the snare and the carved wooden spike into my left pocket. I kept my right hand as immobile as possible, pressed against my jacket. Its nails sliced through the cuff of
the jacket and the flesh with equal ease.

  Instead of wallowing in pity, I got off the ground and continued in the same direction I started. If I found water, I’d wash the wound. Until that happened, I kept my wrist tucked against my stomach, wrapped in the jacket. I didn’t have anything to cut strips of fabric for a bandage. I did the best I could with what I had.

  It was close to an hour before I realized I wasn’t alone anymore. I saw the occasional swipe of a long black tail. It danced behind the low bushes some meters from me. Occasionally, I saw the intense gleaming blue of its eyes from the underbrush before it saw me looking and slipped away. I continued marching forward.

  “I know you’re there,” I said. I knew if it was close enough to see me, it heard me talking. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m American, and we taste like greasy fast food.”

  I pulled at strands of long grass and chewed on them in passing. Underfoot was spongy, like walking on a mossy mattress. I wanted to find higher ground before I stopped for the night. I needed to rest. The fight with the big cat had taken more out of me than I had expected.

  I hoped it was too soon for infection, but my forehead felt hot to the touch of my left cool palm.

  “If you killed me,” I said. “I am going to be so pissed at you!”

  I slowed because I was tired. I covered more landscape than I wanted to think about. The base of the mountain didn’t appear any closer, and the sun began to drop between the cut in the distant brown mountains.

  I felt a little woozy, and I hoped it was exhaustion over an illness.

  When I heard the voices, I thought I was hallucinating. I stopped walking and crouched among the bushes. I waited, closed my eyes, and felt the pulsing heat of my head and neck muscles.

  Two adult men, I heard them running over the terrain as if jogging on a path. I didn’t see a road, and it took me forever to get to that place. They didn’t see me as they ran by. I saw glimpses of them through the foliage.

  “Tha campa Slora dìreach os cionn a ’chnuic,” one said. At least, I think it was words. I thought maybe Gaelic or something close.

  The other responded with, “Gabh na tha a dhìth oirnn. Ma tha iad ann, marbhaidh sinn an crannchur.”

  I waited several minutes hunkered down. I didn’t know what they said, and I didn’t know if they were good, bad, or otherwise. I saw very little of them, but I knew one thing: I wasn’t entirely alone.

  “You think they set that snare, don’t you,” I whispered. I saw a glimpse of black, the flash of eyes in the coming darkness. “I think you’re right.”

  I don’t know if the big cat followed me out of curiosity or expected an easy meal once I finally keeled over. I needed help. I didn’t know if I’d get it from the two men. From what I saw, they were brutish Scots. But I had nothing to lose.

  “Well, that’s not true,” I said.

  I stood up and followed in the direction they ran. I had no options.

  I managed a point close to the hillside that overlooked the tiny stone huts with the grass roofs. There were four small buildings, big enough to have a few people in each. I saw the men clearer in the dark. I smelled the fire from the cooking pit at the far end of the four huts.

  The men approached with stealth. I saw each of them had short swords. Their clothing wasn’t modern, more like something I saw during Highland Games on TV or the county fairgrounds. They didn’t wear kilts or boots. I saw rolls of dark fabric and furry slippers on their feet.

  “This can’t be right,” I said. After everything I had experienced, I had to stop doubting my eyes.

  I knew the scene before me only showed trouble. They were strangers to the miniature village, just like me. The way they crawled through the long grass, I knew they had no good intentions.

  I moved closer, keeping the tall grass and hillside from giving away my approach. My companion, the panther of the moors, took off before I reached the huts. I watched as the men moved to the edge of the closest stone hut.

  The area had a relative flatness, the ground well-traveled.

  When I saw the girl, she didn’t see the two guys huddled near the end of the hut. The girl had a lamb in her arms. It bayed at her, and she didn’t see either of them. One of them lifted the short sword. I saw him talking to his companion. I got closer because they concentrated on watching the girl instead of behind them.

  She squatted near the remote hut, put the lamb on the ground, and continued petting it. That’s when the first man started moving forward. He gripped the sword in his right hand in a way that meant business.

  I was out of my depth. I felt a million miles from home. And if the scene before me was a movie set or a view out of the Society for Creative Anachronism, I don’t think the little girl knew it.

  As one burly bearded guy wearing a reddish toga and carrying the sword moved toward the girl, I walked up behind his companion. I picked up a rock, a little less the size of the one I had earlier. I needed two hands and forgot my wounds.

  I saw it all in real-time. The girl looked up. She saw the guy pick up speed. He ran low and forward toward her. Her piercing scream sent me into motion. It wasn’t about flight or fight. It had to do with the element of surprise.

  Less than seventy-two hours ago, I was in New York, worried about how tight my jeans fit. Now I was in a place—I didn’t know really know where—and I was about to commit my first felony assault. I whacked the guy in the forehead. I aimed for the temple, but he turned at the last second. The look of surprise on his bushy-bearded face happened at the same moment I clocked him. The impact drove his skull against the stone wall of the hut. He didn’t recover before I leaped over him.

  The guy almost reached the girl. Somehow, and I’m not complaining, I caught up to him. As he cocked back his tree trunk sized arm to swing his sword at the girl, I slammed into him. The lamb buckled and leaped out of the way as the girl tumbled. I collided with him and got good contact with the fisted rock against his cheek. It was enough for him to lose the short sword and fall sideways with my weighed momentum.

  I started to roll but lost my footing. As I looked up, my head felt heavy and on fire. My vision blurred, and I saw movement but not details. The first guy I hit came at me. The second guy recovered. I heard more screaming and other voices. More people came out of the huts.

  I saw the guy shift away from me; he snatched at the other guy, picked up the lamb, and left the sword. I tried to stand up straight again and immediately fell over.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I don’t know why I apologized.

  I saw faces but couldn’t make out details. I heard voices. Someone slammed into me, helped my back find the ground again. I don’t know if they thought I was part of the raiding team or just someone random.

  It wasn’t in my nature to act out. I didn’t care enough about other people to lend a hand. There I was, trying to save strangers. I saved a wild cat, and I got scratched. I heard those panicked voices, the shrill of women and the little girl. I found it impossible to see anyone distinctly.

  The voices, the garbled Gaelic, I knew they’d never understand me, but I had to try.

  “Please don’t kill me, I’m American.” It was the best I had; it was all I had before my vision grew dim and shallow.

  “Chan eil mi a ’smaoineachadh gu bheil i leis na creachadairean.”

  Yup, I was a long way from home, and I was all on my own, and way over my head. I knew a smattering of Spanish. Everyone in Ithaca had essential interaction with Mexican-Americans. It wasn’t a big deal. I liked knowing a little of the language. I wasn’t nearly proficient enough to call myself bilingual. The Scottish Gaelic was a whole new thing on top of an already cluttered turn of events.

  As the poison from the panther scratch scorched my insides, the villagers gathered around to watch me die. It felt like I breathed gooey water. I felt hands grab at me. The world tilted, and I was off the g
round. They probably wanted to throw me into a hole before I infected everyone else. There was a point where I didn’t care anymore because I was too sick to worry.

  “I love you, Mom,” I said. She was the reason I ventured to Scotland. Eight years later, and I never lost hope. Now I knew I’d die before I ever knew what happened to her.

  I felt the world enveloping me, and darkness blinded me. I needed to sleep before I died. On the cusp of consciousness before the final beats of my heart, I heard the little girl, her voice familiar because I listened to her screams.

  “Sàbhail i,” she said. But in my head, I interpreted, “Save her.”

  I don’t know why I understood her, or that I thought she spoke English with a Scottish brogue and everyone else spoke Gaelic, but I didn’t care anymore. And I didn’t have to wonder for too long. Darkness descended on me, and I knew death was sure to follow.

  Prologue

  120 CE, Caledonia (modern day Scotland) Legio IX Hispana (9 th Legion)

  Quintus Petillius Ceriali coaxed sparks from the fire pit with the end of his sword. The legion looked to him for answers. All Quintus had was more questions and no gods to follow. They had sustained massive casualties following the march northward. The Ninth Legion was a mighty force of the Imperial Roman army. Quintus’ men had shed more blood for the republic than any legion in any province.

  Tasked with the culling of the tribes north of Britannia, Quintus took his prodigious legion over Hadrian’s Wall and marched for nine days in the treacherous, untamed company. One of the legatus—a high-ranking military officer—joked that the Ninth Legion marching for nine days accounted for something.

  Then the first of the attacks came without warning. Warriors north of the defensive fortification were without masters and discipline. The tribes attacked with stone and spear. They fled as soldiers formed lines. They refused to meet as men on the field of battle. The tribes took to the Highlands and used natural formations as guards and barriers. Their defenses proved serviceable, and Quintus’ men succumbed to raiding parties. Some barbarians threw themselves against swords and spears of Roman centurions while others bashed in the heads of the Romans. It was their attack style, lose a few and kill a lot.