Dylan turned to peer at Coll, but could see no expression in the darkness. “Sure of what?”
“Just making sure our apple-squire cousin is doing his job and not taking advantage of his position.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He loosened his grip on Artair’s throat in order to not kill him.
“What it sounds like,” Artair gasped, now able to breathe. He felt of his sore throat and tried to pry Dylan’s hand off but failed. His teeth clenched. “Be glad I didn’t find ye niggling her.”
Dylan blinked at the strange use of that word, but got the meaning well enough and slammed Artair’s head against the wall. Cait’s youngest uncle groaned. “Take that back. She’s not like that. You know she’s not, and Iain Mór would kill you for saying she is.”
Artair growled, “Will ye go whining to him, then?”
“No, I’ll kill you myself if I hear it again. Now, get out of here.” He hauled Artair off the wall by his shirt and shoved him into Coll, who staggered back. “Both of you, clear out. Leave Cait alone, or I’ll have to wonder why you’re taking such an interest in your niece’s bed.”
The two skulked back to their rooms, but Dylan knew they weren’t gone for good.
Dylan sat back down on his bunk, and alarm surged. Artair and Coll could tell something was up, and it was only a matter of time before the truth would get out. Tormod had been warned not to tell of the ring, and wouldn’t necessarily have known who the ring was for, but someone had done the math. Artair and Coll had fully expected to find Dylan in Cait’s bed tonight. Now Dylan wondered how well he’d put them off the scent by not being there. If Iain learned of the engagement now, and especially if he heard it first from the wrong people, Dylan could well be refused permission to marry Cait. He had to move quickly, to establish himself, to learn what he needed to have a farm, a home for Cait.
He began picking brains on the subject of farming, and engaged Malcolm at every opportunity. The old man seemed amused that the young man from the colonies knew so little about farming and cattle, but obliged with answers and advice. Many an evening they spent in the stable, leaning back on broken chairs, discussing the ins and outs of the family business, while the rest of the clan gathered in the Great Hall.
Malcolm sometimes asked questions in return. “Tell me, Dylan, do they practice reiving in the colonies?”
Dylan frowned, trying to remember what “reiving” was, then it came to him. Cattle reiving was what would soon be known in America as “rustling.” He said, “No. People get hung for that over there.”
Malcolm laughed. “Aye, they get hung here, too, but only if they’re caught at it by those with influence in Edinburgh. Everyone else looks on it as sport. We take from the MacDonells, the MacDonells take from us, the MacLeods take from the MacDonells, we take from the MacLeods. It all evens out in the end. It’s less burdensome than taxes and more efficient than charity for feeding those in need.”
“Social welfare.” Dylan said this in English to put the point across.
Malcolm had to think about that for a moment, then nodded and said, “Aye. Well said.”
“But you can get killed doing it.”
“Ye can get killed digging a well, too, but that doesnae stop people from digging them. Reiving is an old custom, with strict rules that everyone knows and abides by. It’s only done to cattle. Take anything else, and it’s thieving. If you’re caught with the goods, restitution is made, and nae argument. If the spréidhe are tracked onto your land and ye cannae show a track leaving, then you are responsible and must give restitution. Ye never take more than the other man can afford to lose.”
“Or it defeats the purpose of the custom.”
A grin crossed Malcolm’s face. “You’re smart, for a colonial lad.”
Dylan laughed and took a deep breath of the musty scents of old straw and horse manure. Here he was, with a business degree from Vanderbilt University, chatting about cattle rustling like it was a gentleman’s sport. Anymore, he wasn’t sure he shouldn’t have majored in history. Or, perhaps, animal husbandry. He’d never even been a member of 4-H. Never even had a dog.
He looked down at Siggy who dozed at his feet. Well, he never had a dog until now.
He said, “How come you aren’t married, Malcolm?” A shadow crossed the older man’s face, and Dylan added, “You were once, then.”
Malcolm sighed. “Aye, I was. To a Fraser girl with a fire in her eye and a figure so soft and generous a man could lose himself.”
Dylan stifled a grin. “And did you?”
A smile curled Malcolm’s mouth. “Oh, aye, indeed I did. There were times I thought I’d never find my way out.” That brought a guffaw from Dylan, and Malcolm continued softly, “She bore many bairns, but only three lived past their first year.”
Dylan’s heart sank as he realized none of those three were still around. He figured Malcolm would let it go at that, but his eyes had gone dreamy and he continued to talk. The words came slowly, as if he were picking his way through a minefield.
“My daughter was a bright and lively girl, filled with excitement, always the chatterer, always up to something. She lived to the age of four, when she was kicked in the head by a horse. It was quite accidental, just bad luck the animal became cross at that moment.
“The grief of our only daughter dying nearly killed my wife, and she was never the same again. During the typhus epidemic the following year she finally succumbed. I’d sent the boys to the Tigh for safety from the typhus, and after burying their mother I gave my working land over to tenants and came here.
“Then, the first year that my younger son went to the shielings he was murdered in his sleep by MacDonell men raiding the cattle.” Malcolm’s voice began to falter, but he told the rest of the story. “Just a few years ago my one remaining son died in a raid at the hands of the dragoons down the glen.”
On a hunch, Dylan said, “The same raid where Iain’s father died?”
Malcolm nodded, his gaze on the floor, and there was a long silence. Then he looked over at Dylan. “Donnchadh was my uncle and my Laird, and losing him was bad enough, but there is nae more terrible thing than to hold in your arms the bloodied body of your child. I’ve done it three times, and my only solace is that it cannae happen to me anymore.”
It took several moments for Dylan to find his voice, then he said, “You never remarried?”
Malcolm shook his head. “I’ve never loved but one woman. Some men are made that way, and give over their soul so completely there is none left for anyone else.” His head tilted as he peered at Dylan. “I think you ken it, do ye not?”
Dylan hesitated in answering, not sure what Malcolm knew or was just guessing, but he finally nodded. “Aye. I do.”
Now that Cait had accepted the ring, Sinann gave up talking him out of marrying her and provided pointers on establishing himself as a farmer. They spoke Gaelic now, because Dylan liked the practice.
“So you’ve given up this nonsense of wanting to go home, then?” She perched on his headboard, and he kicked back on his bunk with his bare feet on his pillow and his hands laced behind his head. Dawn had not yet broken, Cait was still asleep, and Dylan decided to invest his workout time today in questioning Sinann. He chewed a willow stick.
He shot her an evil glance. “I hate you for bringing me here. I don’t belong in this time and I will never fit in. But, by God, I love Cait and since I’m stuck here I’ll be happy to make her happy.”
“And safe.”
“Of course.”
“Then you’ll also be happy to get rid of the Sassunaich.”
He let out an exasperated noise and with his tongue moved the willow stick to the other side of his mouth. “You know I can’t do that. Queen Anne is going to die in a few months, and after that it will be open season on Jacobites.”
“Open season?”
He took the stick from his teeth and looked at it. “Uh . . . they’ll be hunted.” Then he returned the chewed stick t
o his teeth.
“Oh. Aye.”
Dylan continued, “The best thing I can do for Cait is to get her out of her father’s house, where she stands in the line of fire for persecution.”
Sinann was horrified and stood on the headboard as if ready to fly at him. “You have knowledge of what will happen to Iain Mór?”
He shook his head. “Not specifically him. But he’s a Jacobite, the Crown and the Privy Council suspect he’s a Jacobite, and lasting peace between the Scottish and English won’t even begin for another thirty years. My aim is not to just be his tenant, but to buy a piece of land outright. Kicking free of the Jacobite cause is the only way to stay alive. It’s the only way to keep Cait safe.”
“Coward!”
“Realist.”
She sat again. “You’ve got to go to war against the English. Like the great Cuchulain, who was a hero to his people, who defeated monsters and men alike.”
“Cuchulain was a myth.”
“As I am?”
Dylan sighed and tongued the stick to the corner of his mouth again. “You got a point there, Tink.”
“You think you know everything of the world, do ye, lad? You think your Bible has all the answers? Is that why you willnae learn the Craft?”
Dylan was silent for a moment as irritation rose and he held it down. Then he said, “Why are you so hot to teach me this stuff?”
“Because you can use it against the English. Against Bedford. You can use it to defeat them.”
“What makes you think I can even do it? I don’t have any magical powers.”
“Ye do, lad. There’s a power in all things. There is power in every rock, every plant, and every creature. Every man.” Her tone was beginning to get through to him. She was neither sarcastic nor angry, and that made him listen because she was so rarely anything but. She thought for a moment, then said, “Tell me, lad, can you believe in miracles?”
This was a hard question. Dylan took the stick from his mouth as he thought, then said, “Yes. But I don’t believe I can make them happen.”
“And I say you can. I know you can, because I’ve seen other mortals do it and with no more power than what you’re given. Christian mortals they were, as well.”
“Saints.”
She shook her head. “Nae saints. Ordinary men as pure in heart as yourself.” He looked at her to see if she was needling him, but she was serious. He returned his toothpick to his mouth as she continued, “The only question is whether you want to try. And ye cannae be afraid. Your Yahweh wouldnae let you come to harm. Do you think he would give you a power and not expect you to use it?”
“Yes. I have the power to murder, but I believe it’s evil.”
“Nae. You have the power to kill. How you use that power decides the good or bad of it. You have killed, but you’re nae evil. You used that power to stop a terrible thing from befalling yourself.” Her voice went low. “And to keep an even worse one from your beloved Cait. It’s the same with every power granted to every creature of this earth, including myself. The evil is not in the using of it, but in using it for evil. And there are some as would say the knowing the difference is what makes you human.”
Dylan stared at Sinann, and didn’t reply. This he wanted to believe. She was making sense, but he was still unsure of what to do.
Finally, she said, “Hear me, lad. We’re of one world, all of us. You once told me you dinnae want to hear about the Sidhe, but I can tell you where to read of them. Go find Malcolm’s Bible, and take a look at the book of Genesis, chapter six, verse four.”
Dylan opened his mouth to tell her to bug off, but before he could say it she snapped her fingers and did exactly that.
The following morning he asked Malcolm to see his Bible, and was told to find it on the shelves in the North Tower. Dylan climbed the steps to Malcolm’s chamber and searched the books till he found the frail, old, yet cumbersome copy of the pet project of England’s first Stuart king. He turned the delicate pages to Genesis 6:4 and read, There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.
Dylan stared for a long moment at the text, then whispered to himself, “I’ll be doggoned. Cuchulain and the Sidhe.”
* * *
Finally spring crept into Ciorram, first showing signs when the snows turned to cold rain in March, then to less cold rain in April. Peering through the garderobe hole one morning, Dylan saw someone in the garden below, digging and distributing matter from the pile below across the turned soil. Even over the dank odor of the stone and fertilizer he could smell fresh-turned earth and new growth all around. The grass was greening and the white roses on the rail fence were in bloom again.
All through the castle, shutters were thrown open and fresh air circulated. Cattle were driven from their biers, bone thin and hardly able to stand. Dylan helped some of the farmers shove, cajole, and almost half-carry their beasts outside to the pale new grass. Preparations were made for the young folk to take the livestock to higher pastures later in the season. Early in the month the sun popped out for a day and stirred Dylan’s memories of what it was like not to ache from the cold. That day the castle work routine went to hell while people made excuses for walks to houses in the village or around to other parts of the loch.
Even Dylan slipped away. Cait was weaving cloth with the other women, which he knew was an all-day activity, and his presence was barely tolerated, let alone needed. He took a freshly laundered shirt and kilt, and a chunk of soap, and strolled to the stream behind the ruined tower in the next glen. There, he stripped to his skin and immersed himself for the first time in over six months, then soaped and scrubbed every inch of his body. It was the coldest bath he’d ever taken, and his balls climbed so far up he thought he’d never find them again. But he sat on a smooth granite boulder with the mountain stream pressing at his back, flowing and splashing all around him.
A tune he’d been hearing lately was stuck in his head and he mumbled it to himself as he scrubbed, “Glaschu bheag . . .” He tried to remember the words. “Dol ’na lasair . . .” Something about Glasgow in flames and Aberdeen . . . somethingorother. Oh, well, it was heaven to be clean all over, to reach all the spots that one simply can’t get when washing from a bucket. He leaned back to wet his hair, and soaped it thoroughly.
He also scrubbed his beard, which had grown to a respectable if not particularly impressive thickness. Another way, besides his coloring, in which he differed from the old world Mathesons was that his was not the thick, bushy facial hair sported by the rest of the clan. His straight-haired beard lay against his face, more smooth than bushy. He soaped, then took his sgian dubh and trimmed his mustache so it would stop falling into his mouth while he ate. Then he rinsed and spat.
Once clean, he went inside the ruined tower and stretched out, naked, in the sun, in the center of the grassy floor. The ground beneath him smelled fresh and green, and the earth warmed him. He drowsed, and wondered if life in any century got better than this.
Sinann’s voice woke him, “Och, it’s skyclad he is, and ready for Beltane, sure.”
Dylan didn’t budge, but said in a lazy voice, “Ogle all you like, Tink. I can’t be moved to care.”
She made a guttural noise of disgust. “You take all the fun out of the teasing.”
Dylan chuckled. “Oh, well.” He stretched like a cat, then rolled over to sleep like one.
But Sinann wouldn’t leave him alone. “Have you thought about the learning of the Craft?”
Face-down on the grass, he muttered, “I have.”
“And what is it you’ve been thinking?”
He rolled back over and sat up. It took a minute to focus his thoughts in the drowsy sunshine, but he had to admit to himself that, whatever else he’d been taught to believe, he was faced with the reality of Sinann. Even if he was certain he had some of the answers, he obvi
ously didn’t have all of them, so maybe he shouldn’t dismiss her teachings out of hand before finding out what they were. He said, “You really think it will help?”
“Oh, aye. Most assuredly.”
“I won’t worship the Sidhe.”
She snorted. “Och! Nobody’s asking you to, lad! Do what you like, for a’ that. It makes no difference. Learn from me, but never worship me. I leave that to who needs it.”
He sighed and said, “All right. Let’s do it.”
She leaped to her feet, giggling, and did a little dance Dylan would swear was a jig. He reached for his clothes, but she said, “Those willnae be necessary, if it’s all the same to you. You were enjoying the sun, so continue.”
He looked at his kilt and sark, and shrugged. “Okay, Tink, acquaint me with the ways of the Sidhe.”
“First there must be a fire.” Dylan groaned. She said, “Take that dead branch over there and break it up. It needn’t be a large fire.” Dylan obeyed, laid the broken pieces in the stone hearth. Sinann lit them with a snap of her fingers. Dylan hoped the smoke wouldn’t attract the attention of the soldiers in their barracks, but his concern was allayed when he saw there was very little and it was diffused by the breeze above the stone walls. The barracks was upwind, so they wouldn’t smell the burning, either.
“All right, novice, kneel before the flame.”
Dylan knelt, sat back on his heels, and took a deep breath. It was comfortable here. Said Sinann, “This tower is a magical place, you know. A great hero died on this very spot, and his name was Fearghas MacMhathain. One dark day while the other men of the clan were away with the cattle, he alone with his sword fought a hundred invaders from Killilan in the glen below. Single-handed, he held off the enemy.”
“Single-handed?”
Sinann’s eyes narrowed at him. “It’s true, what I’m telling you. Vikings, they were, big and bold, and ready to plunder Glen Ciorram from east to west, and rape the women and carry the children off for slaves. But Fearghas, he came at them with his enormous, great sword, and the ugly northern brutes fell as young oats before a high wind.
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