Fate of a Highlander

by Baker, Katy

  Steeling himself, he ducked under the curtain of willow branches and found himself stepping into a small glade carpeted with grass. In the centre of the glade sat a tree stump but other than that, it lay empty. Finlay turned around slowly, examining every inch. There was nothing.

  "Ye look like yer brother, do ye know that?" said a voice.

  Finlay spun. In a heartbeat he'd grabbed his bow, nocked an arrow, and had it aimed right at the speaker's heart. His eyes widened slightly when he saw who the speaker was. Not a child or a lost shepherd boy.

  It was an old woman.

  She was sitting on the tree stump and was so short that her legs dangled off the ground. Her hands were folded in her lap and she was smiling at Finlay warmly, completely untroubled by the fact that she had an arrow aimed right at her heart.

  "Who are ye?” Finlay demanded. “What are ye doing here?”

  "Which question would you like me to answer first?" the old woman said jovially.

  Her face was a sea of creases and Finlay doubted he'd ever met anyone so old. Her hair, gray like the storm clouds that sometimes gathered over the sea, was pulled back in a bun and she wore a plaid in colors that Finlay didn't recognize. But her eyes...her eyes were dark and deep and sparkled like chips of polished flint.

  "My apologies," Finlay said as shame washed through him. Had he been reduced to threatening defenceless old women? He lowered his bow. "I didnae mean to threaten ye. Ye startled me, is all. Forgive me."

  "My, but ye are a well-mannered boy," the woman said with a smile. "Nay doubt yer father taught ye well. Laird David MacAuley was always a stickler for such things."

  Finlay glanced at her sharply. How did this woman know who his father was? And then the words she'd first spoken suddenly registered. Ye look like yer brother, do ye know that?

  He fixed her with a hard stare and said in a stout voice, "Ye are mistaken, my lady. I dinna know of this Laird David of whom ye speak."

  "Dinna ye?" she replied pleasantly. "Have ye also never heard of yer brother, Logan, either? He's the one ye look like by the way, not yer other brother, Camdan. He got his looks from yer mother's side I daresay."

  Finlay fought to remain calm, although his heart was suddenly thumping. He’d been so cautious. For years, ever since he'd left his ancestral home at Dun Ringill, he'd been careful to hide who he really was. Stories of the cursed MacAuley brothers had begun to circulate soon after they'd disappeared, becoming something of a local myth. Only his lord knew the truth but now a strange old woman who appeared out of nowhere had seemingly deduced who he was.

  He gritted his teeth. "As I said,” he grated. “Ye are mistaken, my lady. Ye obviously have me confused with somebody else."

  "Oh? My apologies then. There must be another exiled brother to the MacAuley laird around here somewhere." The look she fixed on him was deep and penetrating.

  Despite himself, Finlay took a step backwards. "Who are ye?"

  "My name is Irene MacAskill," she replied, smiling up at him like a kindly old grandmother.

  "MacAskill? The MacAskill clan live far to the north. Ye are a long way from home, my lady."

  "Aye," she replied. "As are ye. But it isnae too late to find yer way back, should ye wish it."

  Finlay pressed his lips into a tight, flat line. Find his way home? Not too late? Oh, how little she knew!

  "My lady," he said, forcing his voice to patience. "I must be on my way. If ye wish, I will escort ye to the nearest road. Mayhap ye can find yer way home from there."

  "There ye go again," she replied. "So polite. Definitely the most polite of the three of ye. Nay, thank ye, my lad, but I can find my own way home. I dinna need yer aid, in fact, I think it's the other way around."

  "What do ye mean by that?"

  She hopped down from the tree stump. She was so small she barely reached his chest but even so her presence seemed to fill the glade like a thunderstorm. She walked towards him and it was all Finlay could do to hold his ground as she approached. Lord, what was wrong with him? He'd faced down enemies in battle. He'd faced opponents who thirsted for his blood without flinching. So why did one small old woman fill him with such uneasiness?

  Fae, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. Ye have encountered her kind before and look what came of it.

  Irene came to stand in front of him, her head tilted back so she could stare up into his eyes. She smiled warmly. "I know the wariness and distrust that fills yer heart. I know the despair that ye are forever trying to keep at bay. I know ye think this is yer life, doomed to serve a man ye hate, doomed to bring death and destruction to those ye hold dear. But it doesnae have to be that way. Bargains can be unmade, new ones can be made in their place. There is always a way back, lad. Destiny has a way of leading us safely home if we go astray—as long as we have the courage to listen when it calls."

  Finlay swallowed thickly. Her words awoke a longing within him. They awoke that terrible ache that was there every time he opened his eyes in the morning. They awoke that yearning for the life he might have led. A simple life full of love and family and laughter. A life that could never be his.

  "I wish what ye say were true," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "But this is my life, such as it is. I can lead no other."

  She took his hand, her skin warm and dry like autumn leaves. "We shall see, my dear. We shall see." She lifted her face to the sunlight and sniffed a great breath through her nostrils. "I smell change on the air. Great upheaval is coming to the Highlands. It will come upon us all like a tide and the only question is will we swim with that tide and allow it to sweep us to new horizons? Or will we fight it and allow it to drown us? That is the choice ye will soon have to make, my dear. Yer destiny will soon be calling. Make sure ye are listening when it does." She patted his hand and then turned and walked across the glade, disappearing through the curtain of willow branches.

  For a moment Finlay was too stunned to do anything. Then he came to his senses and ran after her. "Wait! At least allow me to escort ye to—"

  His words trailed off as he ducked through the willow branches. The riverbank was empty, with no sign of Irene MacAskill. He knelt, scanning the ground for any sign of her passage. There were none. No footprints other than the original set that had led him here.

  Fae, that voice whispered in the back of his mind again. He'd dared to hope the Fae were done with him. Seemed he was wrong.

  Hefting his bow, he retraced his steps, picking up the animal trail that would lead him out of the valley. He suddenly wanted to be far away from this place. Breaking into a jog, he turned his steps towards the north and hurried on his way.

  Chapter 2

  Eleanor put her bags down on the kitchen table, took off her coat and hung it on a peg by the door.

  "Now, ye are sure ye'll be all right?" Alice asked for about the hundredth time.

  Somewhere in her fifties, Alice was the practice nurse at Eleanor’s new surgery and she was taking her duties of settling in the new doctor very seriously indeed. She'd picked Eleanor up from the airport, driven her to the tiny, one-bedroom cottage that she'd be living in, and deluged her with information about the local community until Eleanor's head was spinning. She already knew far more about Mr Croker’s bunions than was absolutely necessary and thought she could probably recite in detail all the ups and downs of Mrs MacTavish’s latest pregnancy.

  "I'll be fine, honestly," Eleanor replied. "I think I'm just going to have a bath and then get some sleep. I'm pretty tired." In truth, she was jet-lagged to hell and feeling more than a little queasy. The journey had been long and uncomfortable.

  Alice's face softened. "Of course, my dear." She patted Eleanor's arm. "Well, if ye need me, I live at number two, just down the road. I'll see ye tomorrow."

  "Okay. Thanks for all your help, Alice."

  Alice smiled and then let herself out, leaving Eleanor alone in the kitchen. She looked around. The cottage was small but homely, with everything she needed. There was a liv
ing room with an open fire and a bedroom and bathroom up the rickety stairs. Crossing to the kitchen window, Eleanor looked out. The endless vista of the Highlands, a patchwork of hills and valleys, stretched into the distance, looking resplendent in its spring finery. There wasn't a traffic jam in sight.

  Eleanor smiled to herself. Already some of her tension was beginning to lift, to be replaced by a little tingle of excitement. For the first time in a long time she’d followed her heart, followed it to this place, this tiny village in the Highlands that was so different to anything she knew. And yet, it felt right. In a way she couldn’t quite explain, she felt like she’d taken the first step along the right path.

  Lugging her case upstairs, she put her clothes away neatly in the little wardrobe then pulled on her coat and locked the cottage up behind her. Sure, she was tired, but she was also eager to begin exploring.

  The tiny village of Achfarn tumbled down the hill ahead of her, a collection of small, stone-built houses with a single road winding up the middle. She passed the post-office, the pub, and finally the doctor's surgery where she'd begin work tomorrow. It didn't take long to walk around the entire settlement and Eleanor couldn't help but wonder if there would be enough work here to keep her busy.

  Reaching the end of the village, she found herself at a small wooden gate that led into a farmer’s field. A small way-post marked a footpath that crossed the field and disappeared into a stand of trees on the far side. This place must be a walker's paradise, Eleanor mused.

  She pulled the little gate open and took the footpath. She followed the path through the field where shaggy Highland cattle lifted their heads to watch her pass and made her way into the stand of trees opposite. Here a shallow stream wound its way between the trees, gurgling as it passed over rocks.

  Meandering along the riverbank, Eleanor found herself enjoying the spring day. It was unseasonably warm for this early in the year and she ought to make the most of it. She'd been warned that the Highland weather could be somewhat fierce.

  Eleanor halted. Ahead of her, a huge oak tree grew by the side of the stream, its trunk as big around as a decent sized car and its hoary branches swaying gently in the breeze. The tree’s trunk had been split some time in the past, perhaps by lightning, and was now hollow, forming an archway through which she saw the stream glimmering in the sunlight.

  Eleanor laid her palm against the trunk and gazed up at the branches. "I bet you've seen a thing or two in your lifetime. I wonder what stories you could tell."

  "Ah, ye wouldnae believe half of them,” said a voice.

  Heart leaping into her mouth, Eleanor spun. A tiny old woman was standing behind her, watching her with a broad smile on her face. Eleanor’s mouth dropped open as she realized it was Irene MacAskill.

  "You!" Eleanor gasped. "You made me jump out of my skin!"

  "My apologies, lass," Irene replied, not looking apologetic at all. "I thought I would answer yer question seeing as the tree wasnae being very talkative."

  Eleanor looked around, wondering where the old woman had come from. She hadn't heard her approach. "What's going on?" she asked suspiciously. "What are you doing here?"

  "I would have thought that was obvious," Irene replied. "I've come to talk to ye, dearie."

  "But...but...how did you know I'd be here?"

  Irene tapped the side of her nose. "Didnae I tell ye? Destiny, lass. It pulls us whether we will it or nay and yers has pulled ye here. As I knew it would."

  Eleanor stared at her, unease coiling in her stomach. What the hell was going on? The last time she'd seen this woman was in her office back in the US. Now she’d turned up at a remote Highland village the very day Eleanor arrived! Coincidence? Hardly. A shiver walked down Eleanor’s spine. She looked around, suddenly wary.

  "I don’t appreciate being followed,” she said. “And how did you know I was coming here for a job? Have you been spying on me?"

  Irene didn’t answer her question. With a small smile she said, "Oh? Is that why ye are here? For a job? I thought ye’d come for another reason entirely."

  "What other reason could there be?" Eleanor snapped. She was feeling off balance. Irene MacAskill's sudden appearance was extremely unsettling.

  Irene rolled her eyes. "Dinna I keep saying it? There is only one reason, lass: destiny. Yer true path. Didnae I tell ye that sometimes fate goes awry and we are separated from the place and the people with whom we are meant to walk our path through life? But ye are here now and, if ye wish it, ye can set yer feet on that right road."

  Eleanor backed up a step. The old woman's words were creeping her out. What the hell was she talking about? Eleanor had come here for a fresh start. New job. New life. Simple as that. All this talk of destiny was just ridiculous!

  "Okay," Eleanor said. "I'm going to leave now. I’ve no idea how you figured out where to find me but from now on if you want to talk to me I suggest you make an appointment at the surgery like everyone else."

  She began to walk off but Irene's hand shot out and caught her arm. Despite her advancing age, Irene had a grip as strong as tree roots.

  "Wait, lass," Irene said, her dark eyes flashing. "Dinna ye wish to see what I mean?"

  She stepped aside, giving Eleanor a perfect view of the hollow tree trunk and the stream on the other side. Except, when Eleanor looked she couldn't see the stream anymore. Instead, images began to coalesce in the archway formed by the hollow trunk. She saw a ring of standing stones on a lonely shore. Three men stood inside, their hands joined. Suddenly one of the men turned to look at her and although she couldn’t see his face clearly, she was pierced by an intense green gaze that seemed to sear her to her very soul. With a gasp, Eleanor felt something shift inside her. She knew that man. She knew him intimately, even though she was sure she'd never met him before in her life. Then the image shifted and she saw a castle standing on a windswept hillside with two armies facing each other on the plain outside.

  Eleanor's heart was beating so hard she could feel it hammering against her ribs. "What is this?" she whispered. "What am I looking at?"

  "Oh, I think ye know, my dear," Irene replied in a soft voice. "The balance is out of kilter. A life has been stolen that shouldnae have, a bargain made that should never have been. As a result war and strife is coming to the Highlands. But ye can stop it, lass. What say ye?"

  Eleanor tore her eyes away from the images and looked at Irene. "Me? What can I do?"

  "Everything, my dear. All ye need to do is step through the arch. But I warn ye, if ye do yer path will be hard. It will be dangerous and heart-breaking and at times ye will be sure ye made the wrong decision. But if ye have the courage, if ye can find a way to truly follow yer heart, ye have a chance to find what it is ye've always been searching for and to heal that ache in yer soul. What is yer choice, lass?"

  Eleanor opened her mouth and closed it again. Irene's stare was intense, her gaze unblinking. She looked from the old woman to the archway and back again. Anyone with an ounce of sense would turn around, walk away from this crazy old woman and return to the village. But it seemed, after all, that Eleanor didn't have any sense, because she felt herself taking a step towards the archway.

  Follow yer heart, Irene had told her, and right now her heart was tugging her towards that archway even as her head was screaming at her to stop.

  Eleanor took another step. Now she was inside the hollow trunk and above her head was the heart of the living tree, green with life. She glanced back at Irene and the old woman smiled at her encouragingly.

  Taking a deep breath, Eleanor stepped through to the other side.

  FINLAY CLIMBED OUT of the valley and entered the next, moving swiftly, barely leaving a trace of his presence behind. He slipped through the landscape like a ghost, only the wild beasts taking any notice of his passage. Yet any pleasure he’d taken in the spring day had evaporated following his encounter with Irene MacAskill. Her appearance had stirred up old feelings, ones he’d believed long buried. Now his thoughts ch
urned, whispering one thing over and over.

  Traitor. Turncoat.

  Gritting his teeth, he strode onwards, pushing his way through thick undergrowth, barely noticing the brambles that snagged his plaid or the branches that whipped his face. He tried to drown out the voice but it would not be silent.

  What would yer father think? How would he feel if he knew what ye’d become? Stewart’s Hound.

  “They wasnae a choice!” he growled aloud.

  He wasn’t sure who he was talking to. His father? His brothers? Or maybe his own conscience?

  There is always a way back, Irene MacAskill had told him. Finlay knew that wasn’t true. Not for him. Such hope had died long ago, along with the last vestiges of the man he’d been.

  He heard a sound and froze. Cocking his head, he listened intently. Aye, there it was. The rhythmic drumming of hoof beats. They were heading this way. In a flash Finlay ducked behind a hazel thicket. Crouching, he slid his bronze dagger from its sheath and held it lightly as he peered through gaps between the leaves.

  The hoof beats grew louder and three riders burst into view, galloping headlong down the trail, lather covering their horses’ flanks, mud flying from beneath their hooves. Finlay tensed. The men, warriors with swords strapped to their backs, wore the MacAuley colors and Finlay saw that at least two of them were injured, one favoring his side, the other with a crude bandage wrapped around his upper arm. The riders thundered past Finlay’s hiding place without stopping and disappeared into the distance.

  Finlay stared after them. What were MacAuley scouts doing in this area? When he was sure there were no other riders following, he straightened and stepped cautiously from his hiding place. He re-sheathed his dagger and squinted down the trail. Those MacAuley warriors had clearly been in a skirmish. That meant they’d encountered a Stewart patrol somewhere nearby.

  Finlay scowled. Damn it all. Lord Stewart had sent out a patrol without informing him. Again. How was he supposed to track the enemies’ movements if he didn’t know where his own forces were? He glanced at the hoof prints. They led to the mouth of the valley, towards the uplands. What had happened up there? He had to find out. With a growl of annoyance, he set out, following the trail.