Lost Highlander

by Cassidy Cayman

She howled with rage and flew at him, knocking over the lantern, spreading burning oil across the floor. As soggy as the straw was, it still began to burn quite efficiently. She screamed with frustration.

  Evelyn crawled over to the door and tried to pull herself up, choking on the rapidly spreading smoke. The pounding was getting stronger, they must have been throwing their bodies against the door now that they realized the place was on fire. She heard one of them running away.

  “Evelyn,” Sam yelled, seeing she was again at the door. “Don’t. They won’t let us get back.”

  He was frantically trying to stamp out the flames. While he was distracted with trying to put out the fire, Daria ran at him with her head down, plowing into him with all the force of her mad rage, and knocked him to the ground, his head thudding dangerously near a patch of flame. He tried to sit up but she hurled herself on top of him, plunging her knife into his side as she let out an animal howl of triumph.

  Evelyn watched this with her hand on the bar of the door, feeling the rhythmic thumping of the guard as he hit it. She saw the fires spreading across the floor of the cell, felt the heat closing in on her bare feet. The smoke was choking her as it billowed up and began filling the room. Daria was screaming and raising her knife again. There was blood pooling on the floor next to Sam.

  Jane Austen isn’t even born yet, she thought.

  Leaping over as much of the fire as she could, her feet sizzling, she could actually hear them sizzling, she wrapped Daria in a choke hold, flinging her body backwards to wrench her off of Sam. Daria’s downward thrust of the knife went astray of its mark and sunk deep into her own thigh. She screamed again, this time in pain, and dropped the knife. Evelyn kicked it away and rolled on top of her, ruthlessly banging Daria’s head into the stone floor.

  “Hurts, doesn’t it?” Evelyn couldn’t help taunting, then almost lost her grip in a spasm of coughing. Daria managed to get in a slap but Evelyn didn’t feel it. She was as good as dead, in the fire, or probably sliced in two with a sword when the guard got in. The air was so thick she was nearly smothered, her chest bursting with the feeble gasps she could still barely manage, her stinging eyes awash with gritty tears. She didn’t feel any of it. With her last bit of strength she wrapped her hands around Daria’s throat and squeezed.

  Chapter 21

  The barn seemed the best place to do it. It would have been too hard getting Brian’s body up the stairs to the tower. Piper didn’t think it really mattered if Lachlan went back in a place other than where he started.

  “And this way it’ll be easier for you to escape,” she reasoned, not wanting him to end up locked in the tower again.

  They’d wrapped Brian’s body in old tablecloths and Lachlan had hauled him to the stables. They now sat on the brick floor, the wrapped book and the cloth bundle in between them. Brian’s corpse was on the other side of Lachlan, out of Piper’s line of vision, but close enough where Lachlan could reach out and put a hand on it when it was time. It was important to Lachlan that he get Brian back. He felt it would be justice. Piper was just grateful she wouldn’t have to deal with the local authorities, the endless questions. She was sorry that Mrs. Abernathy’s murder would have to remain officially unsolved, though.

  They’d sat there for a while, holding hands. She struggled to let him go and get started but couldn’t. She tried to pick up the book and unwrap it a half dozen times but her hand wouldn’t move from his.

  “My love, you must remember your friends are in my time. I think they’ll be wanting to get home.”

  Piper sniffled. “That’s not fair.” He laughed ruefully and pulled her head to his chest. She wrapped her arms around him and tried to burn the feel and smell of him into her memory. “Fine,” she said. She took the sticky note off the wrapping paper and placed it on the bricks. Unwrapping the book, she flipped it open to the bookmark, trying to only touch the one page.

  “Could you hold it open for me?” she asked. “It gets jumbled together.”

  With the smallest bit of apprehension, Lachlan held the book open. He visibly relaxed.

  “Nothing coming at you?” she said with a laugh. Lachlan frowned.

  “Piper, when I’m gone, please destroy this book,” he said. Taken aback, she shook her head.

  “But there’s so much in it,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “Recipes and family history.”

  “‘’Tis a dark book. A witch's grimoire.” He let go of the book and took her face in his hands. She tried to burn this into her memory, too. “Please, Piper. I beg you to destroy it, and the pendants too.” He took the pendant from around his neck and pressed it into her hand.

  “No, you need that,” she protested.

  “I do not. Not when I’m home.” He looked down. “I fear if I keep it I may try to find a way back to you.”

  Piper’s breath caught and she looked down at the pendant, beginning to wonder. He closed her hand around it and held her hand in his, his tone urgent.

  “You must promise you will no’ come after me. I beg of you to destroy all this and forget about me. Promise me, Piper.”

  She looked down at his big hand encompassing hers and shook her head. “I can’t,” she said. He kissed her, long and lingering, until she was out of breath.

  “Please,” he said.

  “I won’t come after you, but I won’t forget you,” she said, looking at him fiercely through a veil of tears. “You better not forget me, either.”

  He shook his head gravely. “Never,” he said and repeated it forcefully. “Never.” He kissed her again and then frowned. “I suppose we must start at some point.”

  Piper nodded. She scowled at the pendant in her fist and dragged the chain over her head, stuffing it down her sweater to hang next to the other one. She gestured at the book, which he held open to the marked page.

  She placed her hand on the book and closed her eyes. After she thought she understood everything she needed to do, she pushed the book out of the way and grabbed the bundle of finger bones. She held it in her hands, no longer having any idea what to do.

  “How did she do this?” Piper wailed, setting aside the bones and picking up the book again. Lachlan patiently held it open for her while she tried again.

  “Perhaps if you did the preparations as you came across them? With one hand, or tell me what to do?” Lachlan suggested. She smiled gratefully at him, and with one hand on the book, she arranged the bones in the order she knew was right, even though it looked like a tangled mess.

  They seemed to start moving and fading until she was no longer seeing the pile in front of her, but a cloudy mist that danced before her eyes, filling her with a sureness of what she needed to do. It was as if there were two parts of her, the regular part that was watching and thinking all this was strange and scary, and the other part that was calm and assured, but also excited. She squinted and leaned closer to the the swirling mass on the ground. It spun so fast that the blur soon became a clear vision, almost like an opening into the ground. She thought she saw sky and hills in the very far distance, was sure she could hear birds calling as they flew past. Then she blinked and found she almost had her nose in the pile of bones. Recoiling and glancing at Lachlan, who was looking at her in a concerned way, she reached over and daintily took his knife from his belt. The hand that was touching the book was starting to feel warm, almost uncomfortably so, and she unaccountably knew she had to hurry.

  Ancient words tumbled unbidden from her lips as she shakily held the knife against her forearm. In her mind she knew what she was saying, but to her ears it sounded like a broken gurgling. To Lachlan it sounded like she said ‘The cow needs milking, but no one can find a pail.’

  Piper pressed the knife against her skin, just below the inside of her elbow and held it there. She had never in her life caused herself purposeful harm. If she was honest with herself, she was a real weenie about pain, didn’t even like to walk barefoot on a beach for fear of hot sand, or sit on a wooden bench with shorts
on for fear of splinters, and now she was supposed to take this knife and cut herself? No, thank you. She looked down at the bones and pressed her hand hard on the page of the book, hoping for an otherworldly jolt of courage.

  “Piper?” Lachlan asked. “Must you cut yourself?”

  She nodded and wouldn’t meet his eye, ashamed of her cowardice. He placed his hand behind her head and leaned over and kissed her. His touch was so soft and strong, Piper melted into him, deepening the kiss and wishing once again she didn’t have to send him away. While she was distracted, he gently placed his other hand over hers and pressed the knife quickly and cleanly across her skin. The blade was sharp and it stung only slightly. A few drops of blood fell onto the bones. Lachlan pulled her sleeve down over the cut and pressed the fabric firmly against it. He pulled away, looking sick at what he’d done.

  “You had to,” Piper whispered, grateful it was over. She stirred the bloodied bones into a different pattern on the ground. A part of her was revolted and another part was strangely ecstatic. The bones seemed to vibrate under her fingers, almost making a humming sound. When they were arranged to proper specifications she felt words welling up in her again. All she had to do was open her mouth and they spilled out. She could hear them but she couldn’t understand them. Lachlan was staring at her and she wondered what he thought of the strange language she was speaking. All he heard this time was ‘Tell the cloth merchant his wares are too dear.’

  Piper picked up the knife again and looked at Lachlan meaningfully. He nodded and held out his arm. She knew it was almost over. If it worked, and the strange, other part of her knew it would, he would be gone soon. In minutes. She started to tremble and held the blade against his forearm. As hard as it had been for her to imagine cutting herself she knew she would never be able to do it to Lachlan. Once again, he placed his hand over hers to do it for her.

  “No,” she said, starting to cry. She tore her hand away from the book. Her palm was burning and she shook it. Dropping the knife next to the circle of bones she leaned over until her head touched his chest and cried. “I don’t want to.” Her heart was breaking, she was sure of it. A year ago she had been working in Jamaica as a personal assistant to a German expatriate heiress who just wanted to tan and get her nails done and pick up boys with dreadlocks. She lived in a hotel with a terrace that looked out onto the water. How could everything have been fine such a short time ago when now everything hurt. Everything hurt so much.

  Piper pulled his face down to hers and kissed him hungrily through her tears. She would find a place in the book that would tell her how she could go back with him. He would have to wait, Sam and Evie would have to wait, wherever they were.

  Lachlan wrenched away, full of regret and wanting as much as Piper for things to be different. He grabbed her hand and placed it on the page she’d been holding. Then he quickly pressed the knife handle against her palm, wrapped her hand around it and forced her to slice his arm, holding it over the bones.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking into her eyes, knowing he’d remember their deep hazel color for the rest of his life. At the moment, he hoped it would be mercifully short. Surely one couldn’t live with such terrible pain for long. She sobbed and reached under the collar of her sweater, yanking the pendants free from their chains. She put one in his hand and tried to get him to hold onto it, desperate now, knowing he’d be gone in a moment. He shook his head and tried to give it back, then dropped it when she wouldn’t take it.

  “You have to,” she screamed, feeling he was already far away. “It’s a guide. Please.” She yanked him closer by his belt and tucked it into the folds of his kilt.

  “I love you,” he said, and was gone.

  Piper knelt for several seconds with her arms held in the position they’d been in when he was there. Her hands were no longer clutching his belt, and she squeezed them shut feebly and dropped her arms to her sides. There hadn’t been a noise, or burst of light, or a gust of wind. He was just gone. Her head pounded and the cut on her arm throbbed. She noticed with a faraway relief that Brian’s corpse was also gone. It was just her, the bones and the book. She sat back down on the bricks and consumed with anger, kicked the book as far away from her as she could, then did the same to the bones. Tears rolled down her cheeks, an unending fountain of sadness. She lay down on the bricks and cried for her lost Highlander, not knowing what else to do.

  Chapter 22

  Evelyn pitched forward, smashing face first into the stone floor. For a second she couldn’t see but realized she was squeezing her eyes shut. She opened them and was in the dark. The air was cool, cold really, and she found she was breathing in clean air. Her lungs were ragged and parched, but the air she gasped into them didn’t hurt. She rolled onto her side and lay there coughing, waiting to be stabbed or bludgeoned or set on fire. The cold seeped into her skin and she shivered. As her eyes adjusted to the dark she stared at a table leg that was a few inches from her head. Dragging herself up, she realized she was in the tower room. The modern tower room. The desk was a dark outline next to her, the bed on the other side. Nothing was on fire. She pushed open the door to try to get some light but it was also dark in the hall. There were matches and a gas lamp on the table, but the thought of a flame made her feel sick.

  “Sam?” she croaked out hoarsely, assailed by another fit of coughing. She pulled herself up on the desk and took a shaky step over to the back of the room. The cold stone was both agony and a relief to her burned feet. She called Sam’s name again, wanting to fall onto the floor and pass out. She started to keel over but caught herself on the bed frame, using it to steady herself as she felt around by the foot of the bed. The room was empty. Evelyn had made it back, of that she was fairly certain. Where was Sam? She remembered with a sinking feeling the puddle of blood forming by his side. She remembered trying to kill Daria and wondered vaguely if she’d succeeded. The thought of Sam being dead in 1729 was too much for her and she shoved it back.

  She staggered out of the room, only wanting to be away from the tower. Her shoulder throbbed, her hands and feet were burned and she couldn’t stop coughing and get a good breath. She would have cried but her eyes were dry and raw. Outside the tower room, near the steps leading up to the hallway, she saw a dark lump on the floor and used all her fading strength to hobble to it, landing in a battered heap on her knees next to it. Sam was lying on his back, the front of his shirt was mostly covered with a large round blood stain. It looked like one of his sleeves had caught fire. Evelyn shook his leg, then his shoulder, turning his face to her. He was covered in soot, his eyes closed. He felt cold.

  She knew it was going to hurt, it hurt to breathe in and out, but a scream started to bubble up out of the wreckage of her lungs, and she pushed it out with all the air she had left. When it was gone, she wheezed and coughed and then screamed again. It felt like razorblades to her smoke ravaged throat, but she had to try to get help for Sam. She was gasping wretchedly to try for a third desperate scream, still shaking Sam by the shoulders when she realized she couldn’t get anymore air to go in. She’d let it all out in yelling for help, despite the burning, tearing pain it caused her.

  “Crap,” she choked, leaning over in a last attempt to inhale. The dark hallway was turning bright white from the tiny flecks of light dancing around in front of her eyes. Focus up, Merkholtz, she thought hazily. You made it home. Don’t die now, that would just be silly. Her grip on Sam relaxed and she fell over, cracking her head on the floor.

  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  She opened her eyes. Her head was half sunk into a satiny smooth feather pillow, it felt like her whole body was half sunk into satiny smooth feather pillows. She was warm, blissfully warm, a comforter pulled up to her chin and tucked in around her. Turning her face to the side she saw Piper sitting on a magenta brocade armchair about two feet away, reading a magazine.

  Evelyn made a scratchy gurgling noise that was meant to come out as Piper’s name. Piper leaped out of the chair and broug
ht her a glass of water which Evelyn chugged with pleasure. Her throat was still sore, but it was tolerable, no longer like she’d swallowed rusty nails. She wormed her way out of the mass of blankets she was under and tried unsuccessfully to get into a sitting position. Her shoulder was bandaged and stiff, but hardly hurt at all. Her hands and feet were wrapped in gauze and she had an itchy sore spot on the side of her head. She rubbed it gingerly and grimaced.

  “Thank goodness you’re finally awake,” Piper said, her eyes welling with tears. “I’ve been trying to keep you medicated but I thought I may have put you into a coma.” She nodded to the array of prescription bottles on the bedside table. Piper ran to the door and hollered for Mellie.

  “Where’s Sam?” Evelyn asked, everything slamming back at her. She tried to get out of bed, but Piper pushed her back onto the pillows with remarkable ease. She was so weak. How long had she been in this bed?

  Piper nodded to the other side of the room and helped Evelyn to sit, carefully propping pillows behind her, then giving her another glass of water, holding it while she drank. Evelyn was pretty sure she could have managed the glass but didn’t want to hurt Piper’s feelings. She had deep circles under her eyes, but what was worse, her eyes looked sad now, instead of just harried and worried. It hurt Evelyn to see it.

  Looking around the room, Evelyn saw that Piper’s huge bedroom had been converted to a makeshift hospital wing. Equipment, rolling carts with medicine and bandages and monitors were in between her and Sam’s bed, which was across the room. He was asleep with a tube attached to his arm, leading to a bag of clear liquid that was slowly dripping. When Evelyn’s eyes widened in dismay, Piper quickly rushed to explain.

  “He’s all right, really. Just dehydrated from the fire.” Piper forced another glass of water at Evelyn, who held it in her bandaged hand and took a sip to appease her. “You were too, but not as bad. You cracked your head pretty hard, the doctor was worried about a concussion.”