The Mirror & The Magic

by Coral Smith Saxe

  "This way." He led the way to the back hall and out into the sunshine. Ross escorted her all over the area that had been set behind a rustic fence of interwoven branches. A wealth of familiar plants grew there, including broccoli, onions, cauliflower, lettuce, peas, and leeks, along with several that Ross named for her. "And I've laid in herbs as well," he said. "Rosemary and fennel, thyme, parsley and pennyroyal, see? Are they aught ye can use?"

  "Absolutely. This is going to be a great garden in a few weeks," Julia said. Ross puffed up with pride.

  "Aye, I make sure there's good dung laid in and around and worked into the soil. There's sun here most days. My house is there." He pointed to one of the neat little stone cottages. "I can look out my window and watch for beasts and such that might want to taste my crop."

  "Right. We'll have to think of some way to chase off the rabbits, especially when those lettuces ripen. Those little varmints couldn't care less about fences."

  "Varmints?" Ross's face brightened. "Ah! Vermin, ye mean."

  "Yeah. You could call them that." Julia smiled. "Let's get to work," she said, rolling up her sleeves. "There's weeding to be done."

  She and Ross worked in the garden for hours, oblivious to the sun's journey across the sky. Julia had many questions about the clan to ask as they labored.

  "Ross, why don't Liam and Gordon speak to one another?" Ross heaved a sigh. "It was chickens. Was it eight years ago, now? Or ten? I canna recall, it's been that lang. Gordon found twa or three chickens roostin' at his back door. He claimed 'em and took the eggs for his ain. Liam came visitin' of a mornin' and saw the hens. He squawked worse than the fowl, sayin' they were his biddies and he'd have them back and the eggs as well."

  "Didn't Gordon eat the eggs?"

  "Aye, but bein' reasonable has nothin' to do wi' this matter." Ross grinned and shook his head. "For all his learnin', Liam's a man like any other."

  "Did Gordon give back the hens?"

  "Nay. He refused. Alec, our chief then, Darach's da, went out one nicht and took twa hens frae each man's brood. He had 'em dressed and roasted, then called the men before him and asked for each fellow to identify his ain birds. Well, o' course they couldn't, and they knew they could nae langer fash the chief o'er this matter o' the fowl. But they've no' spoken directly to one another in all this time."

  Julia gaped at him in amazement. "But they seem to get along."

  "Oh, aye. There's naught that one wouldna do for the other. But it's the principle o' the matter, don't ye see?"

  "No, I don't."

  He shrugged. "Neither do I. But that's who they are and how they are."

  "You guys are amazing" Darach came roaring out of the kitchen door. Too late, Julia recalled she had broken yet another rule.

  "Julia Addison!" he bellowed from the far side of the garden.

  She stood up from the patch of kale she was thinning out. She brushed her hands off and walked toward the fence, taking her time.

  "What are ye doin' out here?" he demanded when she drew nearer.

  She swept an arm out over the greening plants. "Gardening."

  "I didna give ye permission to go"

  She held up a hand. "Stop right there. No, you never gave me specific permission to come outside. But you did entrust to me all the cooking and food preparation, right?"

  He glared, but held his silence.

  "Right," she answered for him. "Ross was kind enough to show me his gardens. They're wonderful. They'll be a terrific source of fresh foods all summer." She placed her hands on her hips. "Now, if you want me to prepare foods that'll keep you all strong and healthy, then you need this garden to thrive. Are you going to come and weed and fertilize and water it every day?"

  "O' course not. I canna spare the time."

  "I didn't think so. But I can. Once the kitchen is in better shape, I'll have more time to work out here. Ross is a wonderful gardener. He can help me and see that I don't fly off on a pea-pod airplane." She could tell that he wanted to argue, to put his foot down. But he couldn't. He looked at Ross and looked at the plants that they'd tended already. He scowled and pointed his finger at her. "So be it. But dunna let me catch ye slippin' any rose petals into the food. I had them once in Edinburgh. They taste like a man's eatin' a whore's perfume."

  He stomped off.

  Julia turned to Ross, wide-eyed with wonder. The two of them burst out laughing. A flock of birds rose from the trees nearby, startled by the sudden commotion. Julia fell silent and looked around her, listening.

  "It's amazing how many kinds of birds I can hear up here," she said. "And insects. And even voices, echoing in the hills and glens. Back in the city, it's too noisy to hear anything that isn't right in your ear."

  She stopped in the path, a chill suddenly coursing over her skin. She held up a hand as Ross started to reply.

  She trained her ears all around. Then, shading her eyes, she searched the blue, blue sky above.

  "It mustn't be," she murmured. "It can't be." She shook her head. "It isn't."

  Ross was watching her, concern on his long, thin face. She raised her hands and shrugged. "You don't have any noise pollution up here," she said. "And almost no air pollution."

  "No," he said cautiously.

  "It's astounding what you can hear in this place. And see." She sniffed. "And smell. I never noticed it before. You don't even have any planes going over. You must be way out of the flight path for everybody."

  "Aye."

  But that was impossible. Sooner or later a plane or a forestry helicopter had to fly over. Something. There had to be some sounds of civilization. Hadn't there?

  She sank down on the broad tree stump that sat in one corner of the garden. Though she hadn't admitted it until now, she had been wondering if perhaps, just perhaps, she might have somehow fallen through some loophole in the laws of physics, and she was, indeed, years in the past. Everything was too convincing here, too wild, too young, if that was the word she sought. There was an innocence in the air itself, as if the scents and substances of her own twentieth century had never touched this place.

  And the men never slipped. Never once did any of them use a phrase that betrayed modern times, unless it was one she herself had introduced. Never once had they faltered in their day-to-day manners and life-styleit was all convincingly medieval. Her reenactment theory was shot to pieces.

  She began to quake. Ross placed his hand on her shoulder. "Julia? Are ye ill?"

  She clenched her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. "No. No. I'm not ill." She looked up at his long, kindly face. Tears rose in her throat. "But I think I'm lost." He squatted down beside her. "Lost?"

  "I don't belong here. I belong in another place. Another time." She gave a short laugh. "Only I don't really belong there, either."

  "I canna follow ye, lass."

  She bit her lip and forced back tears. "It doesn't matter," she said quickly. She must sound like a madwoman to him. Or perhaps a witch. That, she didn't need.

  She smiled. "It's nothing. I was justremembering something, that's all. I'm all right now. Shall we take these goodies inside?"

  Ross led the way out of the garden. She followed behind, her mind and spirit curiously still, as if she had stumbled upon some truth that had settled into her for good. She went about preparing the evening meal, thankful for Ross's quiet nature and respectful distance.

  Time travel. The idea had been simmering on one of the back burners of her mind for some time. She had pushed it aside, hardly allowing it to form into words. It was too preposterous.

  And yet the preposterous explanation was the only one that fit. She had somehow crossed into The Twilight Zone and was now ensconced in the Highlands of the late fifteenth century. In the middle of a lost time, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of an ancient clan. She was a pawn in a feud that was fought centuries before her birth. She was among men who were dust long before the Pilgrims set out for the New World, before there was baseball, dental floss, or penicill
in. She was baking apple crisp for a house full of ghosts.

  She began to shake again. She grabbed a cup of ale and sat down on the little three-legged stool that stood near the hearth. She took a sip of the strong drink, wrapping both her hands around it to keep from spilling it into her lap. Questions were forming in her brain like kernels of popcorn exploding over a hot flame. How had it happened? Could she go backor was it forward?into her own time? Would she end up in some time other than her own, wandering back and forth through the ages?

  And how was she going to tell Darach?

  She gave a little whimper as she huddled on the stool. This was too much. Darach and his men were still fearful that she might be a witch. They were more than half convinced she was a spy. And she was certain that they had some sincere doubts about her sanity.

  She clamped down on a hysterical laugh that bubbled up within her. If she were to tell them what she now thought had happened to her, she would remove all their doubts in one sweeping pronouncement. They'd probably hustle her off to an exorcist, and she wasn't at all sure that she could blame them.

  She looked up and saw Ross glance quickly away. Get a grip, girlfriend. She might feel this truth in her very bones, but this was neither the time nor the place to go public with her conclusions. She'd have to bide her time. And when she went to make her escape, she'd better have a damned good plan. She took another bracing draft of the ale and went back to the oven.

  The lairds were especially jovial at the evening meal two nights later. Julia had prepared roast venison, a salad of tender new greens, and steamed dumplings. She felt proud of how well everything turned out, despite the limitations of the old kitchen.

  After the food had been cleared away and a roaring fire built in the hall, the men treated Julia to a round of utterly hair-raising tales of battles their forefathers had fought and their own escapades in peace and war. As the hour grew late and the fire died, Alasdair told a ghost story about a weeping lass and her dead lover that literally raised the hairs on the back of Julia's neck. She shivered in delicious fear, feeling Darach's solid presence next to her and the safety of having all the other men round about.

  But when Darach escorted her to her room and bade her a brief good-night before locking her inside, sadness welled up within her. She wasn't one of them. And she was no closer to freedom than she'd been the first day she'd stood before him in the great hall.

  She tried to shrug it off as she undressed for bed. But what had worked for her all these years since her mother's death didn't seem to work in this odd place. She couldn't pretend that she hadn't missed the kind of closeness she'd witnessed among the clan members these past weeks. Cammie, her stepmother, had told her often enough that she was such a gem because she was so grown up and self-reliant, even at age nine. That was when the parties for important people had begun, with Cammie and her father, as newlyweds, the laughing, beautifully dressed hosts. Julia had been trotted out for her one appearance of the night, after a full inspection by a tsking Cammie, who would send her off, murmuring that it was ''a blessing the girl was so intelligent, at least."

  Julia shook off these memories as she climbed into bed and blew out the candle. She was self-reliant. And she was intelligent. She'd done more things in her life than Cammie and her country-club set had ever dreamed. And she most certainly wasn't one of those whining, nurture-your-inner-child types who blamed all their problems on their upbringing. She knew she alone must resolve whatever conflicts came her way.

  Still, she'd never been confronted with a conflict quite like Darach MacStruan and his clan. And she didn't think she could be blamed if a small twinge of longing crept into her heart when she thought of belonging to such a close-knit group. Or belonging with anyone, for that matter.

  She'd had relationships with men, it was true. One had even been serious for a time. Until Julia had grown restless and dissatisfied and moved on to a new place, a new interest. It was a pattern that had started and ended most of her relationships.

  A recollection of Darach's voice came to her, along with the warmth of his nearness, the tang of his earthy, wool-and-leather scent, the look of his tall, powerful body as he strode about in his kilt. Her mind had told her to get a grip, but her body had cheerfully disobeyed, rousing heat within her and prompting tendrils of desire to curl around her midsection.

  Was it belonging she wanted? Or just to climb that big, glorious body and get lost in the velvet of that deep, rich voice, murmuring outrageous love words in her ear?

  She rolled over and pounded the pillow, groaning into its depths. Such thoughts and dreams were more dangerous than the swords of all the lairds combined. She knew now that she was in the wrong place, the wrong time. She couldn't, wouldn't let him get to her. Especially not that way. Not in a way that would trap her in those steel-banded arms, or imprison her beneath . . .

  "Aaiggh!"

  She bit the pillow.

  The mirror was "awake" again. Julia knew it as soon as she woke in the chill of midnight. In the darkness it lit the table by her bed with its ethereal glow.

  She tried to ignore it. She went so far as to put the bed pillow over her face to hide the light. Her efforts were all in vain. She could no more ignore the mirror than she could fly. She needed to know why, after all these years, her mother's looking glass had suddenly begun to speak to her.

  She slipped out of bed, went to the door, and listened. All was quiet as far as she could hear. Reluctantly she went to the table and got the mirror.

  She climbed into bed again and, with a sigh, took up the mirror. Its lovely, opalescent light grew and her own image gave way quickly to the face of the woman she'd seen before.

  "You're still there?" The quavering, liquid voice floated to Julia's ears.

  "Y-yes. I'm here. Where are you?"

  "It doesn't matter. You must leave at once."

  "Why?"

  "You are in terrible danger. Don't you sense it?"

  "How do you know this?"

  "Beware of the chief. His heart is dark. You must go and not return."

  "But how can I?" Julia whispered. She groaned. "Oy vey, I can't believe I'm having a conversation with a mirror!"

  "Do not fear. I am as real as you. The glass holds the power."

  "Fine. But how can I leave? I'm not even sure where I am!"

  "You don't have much time," the woman said. Her voice was growing clearer. "Things must go back to the way they were." "You meango home? You don't unders"

  The door burst open. Julia shrieked as Darach crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the mirror from her hand. He raised his arm and aimed for the wall.

  Chapter Eleven

  "Darach, no!"

  Julia was out of bed in a flash. She grabbed Darach's arm before he could let the mirror fly. "Please don't!" she begged.

  He glowered down at her, his face lit by the rushlight in the hall outside the door. "I'll not have ye practicing yer witchery in my ain house!"

  "I'm not a witch, I swear! How many times do I have to say it?"

  "Words come too easy to ye, Julia," he said. "It's deeds that count. What kind of deviltry were ye tryin' to work wi' this thing?" He brandished the mirror before her.

  "Nothing! Nothing." She cast about for an explanation. How could she explain what she didn't understand herself? "I'm lonely, Darach," she said, knowing as she said the words that it was the truth. "I was talking to the mirror because I was lonely." She reached up and touched its heavy silver backing. "It's the only thing I have left of my mother's," she said softly. "Ever since I was a girl, I've kept this mirror and felt . . . closer to her.''

  Darach lowered his hand, but he didn't release the mirror. "Your mother's dead?"

  Julia nodded. "And yours?"

  He shook his head. "Gone."

  "I'm sorry."

  He looked at her. What was going on behind those eyes? she wondered. He seemed on the verge of telling her something, then seemed to think better of it. He looked at the mirror
, turning it over and over, studying it.

  "I know I'm strange to you," she said. "You're strange to me. This is a strange place. A strange time. Please let me have one familiar thing to keep with me." She placed her hand on his arm. "I haven't yet given you reason to fear me, have I?"

  At the sudden, hot spark that lit his eyes, she wished she had said something else entirely. Was he indeed afraid of her? Because he thought she was a witch? A spy? Or was there some other, more intimate reason?

  She glanced down and realized that all she wore was a thin linen undergown. A surge of warmth began to creep up into her cheeks despite the chill around her. Her hand was still resting on Darach's arm and she felt the powerful, corded muscles of that arm shift beneath her touch.

  She raised her eyes to his. She recalled her wayward thoughts as she had gotten into bed that night. She wanted more than anything to resist the tide that was carrying her toward him, but it was beyond her powers of will. The longing that welled up inside her, the heat of her desire, combined in such a way that she swayed toward him as if he were the force of the moon and she the waves of the ocean.

  She stood up on her toes and kissed his stern, beautiful mouth. His arms came around her, pulling her up and into him, melding their bodies perfectly. She slipped her arms about his neck, letting the heat of his big frame soak into her through the fragile cloth of her gown. Nothing had ever felt so entirely right to her before. His lips teased and coaxed at hers, urging more from her, promising more in return. She sighed, feeling herself turning to liquid in his embrace.

  Suddenly he reached up and pulled her arms away, setting her back from him. His breathing was ragged.

  "What is it?" She put her hand to her mouth, feeling suddenly bereft.

  He shook his head. "Ye play the game nicely, lass. But I willna fall into your trap. If ye think ye may lull me wi' kissing, you're wrong. I'm no' the sort of man who makes decisions wi' what's beneath my plaid." He handed her the mirror. "Keep it. For now. But if I see any signs of mischief, it will go hard on you, lass. Know that. The priest is still to come."