Sinann showed up. She appeared before him, fluttering a couple of feet off the ground to be eye-to-eye. “A pity, isn’t it?”
Dylan looked down and didn’t answer.
She landed beside him and continued, her voice filled to overflowing with compassion. “Three weans without their da, and all because a Lowland pig wanted their land and could use the English courts to get it. They’re killing us, lad. Sometimes in numbers, sometimes one by one. If they have their way, the Gaels will be wiped from the earth, never to be heard from again. You can stop it.”
Dylan half-closed his eyes and said nothing.
Sinann fluttered into the air again and looked around. “See over there? The Laird and his Lady?”
Dylan looked with his eyes, but kept his head down. Iain Mór stood nearby, murmuring to a woman Dylan had not seen before. She was tall, handsome, of regal bearing, and closer in age to the Laird than the woman he’d thought was Iain’s wife. He glanced at Sinann, then toward the cluster of women. There was the pretty, young blonde from the night before, whose tears for Alasdair were now silent but still copious.
Sinann continued, “Iain Matheson is a suspected Jacobite. It’s why the Crown encourages and facilitates confiscation of his lands whenever possible. They cannae prove his sympathies, or they’d have hung him for treason by now and taken all of Glen Ciorram.”
Dylan finally spoke in the lowest whisper possible, trying to look like he was praying. “I thought it was Alasdair’s own land he died for.”
Sinann shrugged. “It’s true that many men are now buying their own land. The title was Alasdair’s, but nevertheless, as a Matheson in allegiance with the Laird Iain Mór, taking his land is the same as if the land had been owned by Iain and as if Alasdair had been his tenant. Any man here would have fought and died for that very property, for they all prosper when a one of them prospers. One of them goes under, they all are hurt. One of them is murdered, each has a grievance as if it were his own brother who was killed. How can you be a Matheson and not understand that?”
Dylan thought of his relatives back home who had inherited the same sense of kinship by which were born ugly family politics and blood feuds. He didn’t reply.
Sinann continued, undaunted by his reluctance. “Surely you must know of Glencoe.”
He shrugged and nodded. He’d heard of the massacre, but knew little about the specifics.
The faerie enlightened him. “Just slightly more than twenty years ago the treacherous Lowland whoreson John Dalrymple, who was Scottish Secretary of State under William III, sent a regiment of king’s men, made up of the equally treacherous Campbells, to partake of the hospitality of the MacDonalds of Glencoe. For a fortnight they stayed, in the depths of winter with snow on the ground and provisions growing scarce. Though the MacDonalds had previously been in bad odor with the Crown, the Laird had recently taken an oath of allegiance and the clan took the soldiers’ presence as a gesture of peace. Then, in the dead of night, the regiment rose from their borrowed beds and attacked their hosts, who’d had nae warning they were to be butchered as example to those clans the English consider lawless. Women and children they murdered, like so many sheep. And they think we’re the barbarians. They continue to butcher and enslave. To grind the Gael under their fine polished boots is their wish, for they dinnae think we are people.”
Dylan stole a glance at Sinann from the corner of his eye and was shocked at her obvious fury. Her face was flushed, her posture tense. He couldn’t reply. Even if he had an excuse to talk to himself in the midst of a funeral, he had nothing to say to her, for there was no doubt the massacre had been despicable. However, he surely didn’t know what he could do about it. He was just one man.
So he kept silent and raised his eyes again for another look at the blonde. She was amazingly beautiful, though her nose was now as ruddy as her cheeks from crying. Who was she, if not Iain’s wife? While everyone else’s attention was riveted on the sheeted corpse, Dylan indulged himself by staring at her.
Having been accepted, nominally at least, as a kinsman and especially as an extra pair of working hands, Dylan was given a bunk in a barracks-sort of place over the stables, where nine other men snored and stank in racks that stood to the ceiling. The room was dank and windowless, lit only by a couple of candles set on a table in the middle of the room, and the stench of horse stalls wafted from below through the wooden flooring.
The bunk assigned to Dylan had hash marks carved all along the head rail, in a pattern he could tell was not accidental. They were not simple tallies of numbers, but he couldn’t read them. There were other carvings, and a date: 1645. Old graffiti, even in this time. He slipped off his shoes and leggings, put his sporran with them at the foot of his bunk, and curled up on the straw mattress under his plaid, with Malcolm’s knife in his fist. He closed his eyes to sleep and tried not to feel the cold.
The sun wasn’t anywhere near rising when he was shouted awake and bade in English to get his lazy colonial ass out of bed and eat breakfast while it was still hot. He tried to move quickly, but his body shrieked with pain at the cold. It took a monstrous effort to move at all, and the shivering made him clumsy, but he forced himself to pull his belt on around his kilt and tuck it the way Sinann had told him. He’d not taken his shirt off in three days now, and it was beginning to stick to him, but bathing with no hot water in this cold was unthinkable. He figured he might as well stink like everyone else here. Piece by piece he put himself back together exactly as the day before. It was a leap from his bed to the wood floor, and when he landed he nearly collapsed onto the straw scattered about. He groaned and tried to control his shivering as he ran his fingers through his hair.
The Great Hall was relatively warm, and the parritch good and hot. By the time he’d finished eating, he was feeling more or less human and the shivering had stilled. The sky was purpling above the peaks when the men and women of the castle started on their way to a small, narrow field tucked between two hills off the valley on the far side of the village, and the chill of the air was mellowing.
Dylan learned quickly how to wield a sickle. It was pretty straightforward stuff, just another edged weapon, only this one had teeth and was used on inanimate plants instead of a moving, intelligent opponent. The crop was oats, which he and other men mowed with the curved blades then let drop to the ground. The women and children then picked it up to tie into sheaves, which they stacked in teepees. Back toward the village, Dylan could see other folk loading the sheaves into wooden carts pulled by small, shaggy horses. He discovered the thatched haystacks were actually stacks of oat sheaves, set for drying then thatched to keep out the rain.
The men around him spoke in tones that suggested they weren’t happy with the work. They hacked awkwardly at the oats, as if they didn’t want to appear proficient. Dylan kept his mouth shut and his attention on the job, not caring if the work was beneath him. A job was a job, as far as he was concerned, and right now nothing that paid honest money was beneath him.
Very early into the day he found himself wishing he had had an opportunity to warm up his muscles. A nice bit of light movement and stretching would have been good before starting this repetitive, jarring work.
As the sun climbed, the temperature rose to almost warm. Sweat began to appear on the men’s faces and shirts, and Dylan wiped his forehead on his sleeve almost as repetitively as he swung his sickle. The others tied pieces of cloth around their heads, but Dylan owned only the clothing on his person and was pretty sure he didn’t want to start tearing pieces from his only shirt. Every so often a woman made the rounds of the workers with a wooden bucket and drinking cup, from which everyone drank.
Ranald ran with the children as they loaded carts with cut oats, and squealed with delight at everything he saw. His relentless cheer and noise was an annoyance that wore on and on all morning until it was Dylan’s dearest wish the boy be taken back to the castle. He wished in vain.
By noon Dylan’s shoulder ached and his back
felt like it might break in half. As the fall sun reached the middle of the sky, some older women brought baskets filled with bannocks cut and stuffed with meat and cheese to distribute among the workers. These bannocks, though, were triangular instead of round, crisper on the outside, and heavier on the inside than the ones he’d seen at Scottish festivals. The heavy work that morning had made him hungry enough to think they also tasted better, in spite of the burned spots.
After eating, the men and women rested a bit, chattering to each other in Gaelic and generally ignoring Dylan. That was okay with him. He was still hoping for the faerie to show up, announce her error, apologize profusely, and zap him back home. She didn’t, though, and he finished his sandwich by himself.
He looked around at the flat, mowed field behind them, then rose and walked to a clear area and began to do some stretching. Then he slipped into a formal exercise. Block, step, block, retreat. It felt good to return to that part of him. It reminded him of who he was.
When he came to the end of the form, he bowed and shook himself off. Then he looked around and realized the chatter had stopped and everyone in the field was staring at him. Artair shouted to him, “Are ye daft, now?”
Dylan knew he was a fool to answer, but he said it anyway. “It relaxes me.”
A huge grin crossed Artair’s face. “Well, then, if exercise relaxes ye, I expect ye’ll be sleeping well come nightfall.”
The others laughed, and Dylan bowed Asian style just to piss off Artair, then turned to find his sickle. He had nothing to say, and was ready to work again even if they weren’t.
Draped over his sickle where he’d left it was a piece of white linen he recognized as one of the napkins that had lined the baskets used to transport the sandwiches. He looked around for the woman who had dropped it there, but the rest of the workers were turning to the harvest again, and the baskets had been taken back to the castle.
Checking again to see who might own the napkin, he shrugged and decided to put it to use. He tore a strip from one side, folded it lengthwise, and tied it around his forehead, then lifted his hair over it to let air to his scalp. The remainder of the cloth he tucked into his belt. Then he went back to work.
Sinann showed up at sunset and hovered before Dylan with crossed arms. “Have you decided to help, or nae?”
CHAPTER 5
Dylan kept his attention on his sickle and continued whacking oats. “Bite me, Tinkerbell.”
She laughed. “It’s a wise laddie who is careful what he wishes for.”
He glanced at her between strokes, but said nothing.
“That Sarah, I think she’s taken a liking to ye. Perhaps if you’re in a mood for biting—”
“Knock it off, Tink.” He was beginning to feel like the city visitor in an old movie about hillbillies. “I’m not in the mood for much of anything. I’m tired, hungry, thirsty, and I want to go home. I miss my bed, I miss my television, I miss my refrigerator, I miss my . . .”
One of the other men, whose name Dylan thought he’d overheard as Robin, slapped his shoulder to get his attention. The others were wrapping up for the day. The men had all put their tools in one of the carts, and everyone was helping the children scoop up the last of the fallen oats. Dylan did likewise, and when the field was cleared of stray objects he followed the group back toward the village. Sinann followed him, sometimes walking, but flying a few feet whenever Dylan’s strides left her too far behind.
“The Great Cuchulain never worried about having a bed to sleep in.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not Irish and I’m not a hero. I have no intention of being anyone’s watchdog, and I’m not likely to burst forth with superhuman feats of strength and skill.”
“You know of Cuchulain, then?”
He nodded, still with his eyes to the ground as he walked. “He killed some dog . . . belonged to this guy named Culain. So to replace the dog he worked in the animal’s place for a while. That’s how he ended up being called Cuchulain. Hound of Culain. He was a human watchdog.”
“Very good. I’m pleased to know the stories haven’t died even if your Gaelic has.”
“It’s a hobby, and those stories aren’t all that easy to find. Not like Robin Hood or King Arthur.”
“And what else do you know about him?”
“That he was an extremely violent man, that he killed people wholesale, and that he was finally killed in battle himself. But before he died he tied himself to a rock so he wouldn’t fall to the ground.”
“Of course he killed. He was a defender of his people. But he was fiercely loyal and ever true to his word. He always did what was right, no matter how the deed might hurt himself. He made good his promises, no matter if they might end in his death, and when he was buried his wife loved him so much she lay down and died right there in his grave with him. He was a great man.”
Dylan gave a crooked smile. “Yeah, he sounds like a real fun guy.”
He’d been following the field-workers and expected those living in the castle to return there, but instead he found them gravitating toward a large bonfire in the center of the village. It wasn’t so much a community center as simply a spot equidistant from the few houses near the castle. Women Dylan recognized from the castle bustled about in preparations for supper, and some began to serve cups of drink to the men coming in from the field. The children ran and played, shouting, shrieking, and laughing, and Dylan realized he couldn’t tell whose kids they were. All the adults attended to all the children, it seemed.
The men washed up in a couple of wooden buckets set on boards placed across low stools that stood out of the way of traffic. Dylan joined them to roll up his sleeves and rinse some of the sweat and grime from his hands, arms, face, and neck. Without a towel, he had to wipe himself dry with his shirtsleeves. Then he scratched the itchy beginnings of his beard and wished he had a razor. Someone thrust a cup into his hands, and he smelled of it then took a taste. Beer. Wait. . . . he tasted again. Not beer, but . . . ale? It was smoother than beer and went down a lot faster. The foam bubbles were smaller. He looked into the cup. Is this what real ale tasted like? He took another drink and decided he liked it. Hearty, almost like food, and better than beer, which was bitter and watery by comparison.
Exhaustion overwhelmed him, and he wondered where all this energy was coming from, for the people of Ciorram seemed ready for a cookout. Meat was on the fire, warm bread was passed among the workers, and everyone seemed in a hurry to down as much ale as possible before eating anything. The mood was not exactly festive, but Dylan could tell it was time to relax and enjoy the evening. As the sun set, the cold made them all gather around the fire, pulling their plaids and coats around them. Dylan found a seat on the ground between an old woman on a stool and some men who shared a log. He sat on the sod cross-legged, and flashed back to his boy scout days.
Wooden plates filled with meat and bread were passed to the men, who chattered in low voices as they ate with their hands and alternated swallows of meat with draughts of ale. Dylan was too hungry to care much about utensils, and picked up his slab just like everyone else. A cluster of barefoot children in plaid dresses and miniature kilts stared at him, until he stared back, and then they ran, giggling. Tired as he was, he couldn’t help the smile that touched the corners of his mouth.
He said to the faerie who sat next to him, also cross-legged, “So you’re Sinann Eire. Eire, meaning ‘from Ireland’?” He took a bite of the beef, and was surprised at how tender it was. He had to look at it to be sure it was beef and not chicken.
“Aye,” she replied.
He swallowed a bit too quickly, and the meat went down hard. “Don’t look now, but this isn’t Ireland. How did these get to be your people?” He took a drink of ale to wash down the beef, then another bite of meat.
She raised her chin at him. “There’s nae so much difference between the Irish and the Highland Scots, you know. It’s nearly a common language we speak, and the North Channel is nae so wide
that a number of people couldn’t cross it and cross it again with ease. In the early days, even before Kenneth MacAlpine, the first Scottish king, it was custom for Irish families to foster their sons in Alba and Scots to return the honor.”
Dylan nodded. “Yeah, I know. So how come you’re no longer in Ireland?”
“They think I’m dead. And they named a river after me.”
“The Shannon.”
“Aye, again. You’re not as dense as you at first appeared, lad.”
He sighed. “So, not to belabor the question . . .” One of the men nearby glanced at him, so he lowered his head and his voice, and peered into his ale cup as he continued, “But what are you doing in Scotland?”
She took a deep breath before starting in. “The story goes, and it’s true what I’m telling you, Irish Druids once made a crystal fountain in the heart of the island, surrounded by seven trees that bore the fruit that contained all the knowledge of the Tuatha De Danann. Hazelnuts, they were, big and plump ones.”
“Hazelnuts?”
“I like hazelnuts.”
“You also like power, I bet.”
Her mouth went crooked for a moment, then she proceeded with her story. “Well, to make a short story even shorter, I picked from one of the trees. . . .”
“Which you shouldn’t have.”
“How was I to know it was forbidden?”
Son of the Sword Page 7