Veil of Time

by Claire R. McDougall

  Her laughter spread out across the water. “Why don’t we sleep out here?”

  Fergus smiled. “There are too many dangers for sleeping in the open this far from the sea. Do you have no wild beasts in that country you come from?”

  She shook her head. “In Glasgow? No.”

  He tugged her hand. “We must go into the crannog now so that we will be given a place to sleep together.”

  He led her through the gate and along the walkway where the water grew deep beneath their feet. They passed Talorcan on his way back to the cart. He did not seem to share the others’ feeling of relief at having arrived at the loch after their long journey. He would not look at Ma-khee and only grunted in Fergus’s direction. Fergus glanced after him as he passed; he had never seen Talorcan like this.

  As they came under the roof of the crannog, the woman looked all around in the dusky light—she must never have been in such a dwelling as this before with its reedy smell of thatch. Illa brought some of the speckled fish to Ma-khee, and Fergus brought her brose. She offered him part of her fish, but Fergus wasn’t fond of the muddy taste that came with these fish from freshwater. At Dunadd they ate fish from time to time, but only from the sea and more often shellfish and eels, which could be trapped by the shore with a willow trap.

  He kept Ma-khee close so that the others would know she was with him and so she would know he wanted her under the covers with him when the chatter died down. He longed for her now, as the night set in; her fingers along his thigh made it hard to concentrate on the singing that started up and for which these people were well known.

  She wanted to walk by the loch, while others were leaving or lying down around the fire or in couples out of sight in a corner. Fergus marked their spot by the door from the entry room by laying down his shoulder belt and his father’s dirk.

  By the water’s edge, he stood back and looked at Ma-khee’s face upturned, as the moon lifted over the hills on the far side of the loch. Only the small sound of waves broke the stillness. She stooped and splashed her face with water, perhaps for some ritual among her own people. And then she clung to him as though he were a rock, as though she were afraid she might be washed away at any moment. Her fingers found the golden ring he had tied back onto his belt. He didn’t know what that ring signified, but it had meant much to her, and so he kept it close and fingered it from time to time.

  He took her hand, and they walked back along the path to the house, where Marcus had set their blankets by the door. They stepped over Talorcan, lying not far off. From all over the crannog came the sounds of sleeping, and the occasional bleat from one of the goats that had been brought in for the night. Only the mother of Rhada still stirred around the fire, saying her prayers for the evening blessing of the house. Fergus stopped to hear the words in Pictish he knew so well from childhood:

  Deep peace I breathe into you

  Deep peace, a soft white dove to you

  Deep peace a quiet rain to you

  Deep peace an ebbing wave to you.

  In the silence that followed, Fergus called on Cailleach to watch over them, to stand under his world and hold it up with her strong arms. With Cailleach’s blessing, he lay down beside the woman, turned her gently, and looked into her face, far into the eyes that searched his face. He pulled the blanket over their heads so that they lay facing each other in the dark, breathing in the same air. He waited until her mouth came to his, until her hands reached down around his buttocks and pulled him in against her.

  Under the cover he unwrapped her from her tunic, slowly brought his own over his head. It was easy to let her words mo chridhe turn him from his heavy thoughts and simply fall into her as he had on occasion fallen into the sea. She caught the hair at the nape of his neck and kissed each of his eyelids, traced the line of his nose with her fingertips. She did not look away from him, even though Talorcan’s eyes were open. She was eager for him, moving with him, biting his shoulder so she would not be heard.

  Fergus slept with his arm about the woman, for it was not easy to stay warm in these houses made of willow and mud. Only a good stone house half buried in the earth could keep out the wind. He kept Ma-khee close, because he had noticed how the old man of the crannog had looked at her.

  When Fergus awoke late on his belly, the woman was gone. But he heard her in the next room talking by the fire with the old woman. He strained to catch a glimpse, and what he saw made him smile: the old woman’s hand was over Ma-khee’s, teaching her how to turn the quern and grind the flour for bannocks. It was child’s work, but the days of privilege at Dunadd were behind them. Ma-khee was going to have to learn these things that she must not have learned as a child of privilege in her parents’ home. Fergus could hear Illa playing along the shore with the other children. She was going to have to learn, too.

  Fergus folded his arms behind his head and lay back, staring at the apex of the roof with its abandoned nests. His thoughts quickly shifted to his brother rallying his troops, and to his mother at her fireside on Dunadd hill. He knew he could never leave Glashan until he knew she was safe.

  He got up and squatted by his woman at the fire, noting the red grooves the stick had made in the palm of her hand. He wanted to pick it up and kiss the sore, but he didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the matriarch. He took a pot of bubbling oats from its stone shelf by the fire and looked about for milk. Some things from childhood didn’t change, and this first meal of the day had always been Fergus’s favorite.

  Ma-khee looked up at him and smiled.

  The old woman said, “The goat is tied to the gate if you’ve a mind for milk with your porridge.”

  Fergus hesitated. He had been used to milk coming in a pitcher. He took Ma-khee by the hand and led her to the goat, hoping she would offer to help.

  He waited, but Ma-khee was more intent on stroking the rough fur between the beast’s strange staring eyes.

  Fergus cleared his throat. “I’ve heard it said that milk flows more freely into a woman’s hand. The hand of a man is too rough.”

  The woman smiled her disbelief. “This goat is a woman, and I’m sure she appreciates the hand of a man better.”

  Fergus smiled. She had confused the word for goat with the word for danger.

  Ma-khee gave him a shove. “You don’t know how to milk the goat.”

  He handed her the pot of oats and gestured for her to hold it low beneath the animal’s rear legs, while he reached for a teat. His fingers around the dangling appendage felt more like grabbing a fellow man than grabbing a woman, and his instinct was to let go, but Ma-khee was watching, and there was much face to be lost here.

  Fergus squeezed without producing a single drop.

  “I know how to,” he said, “but it has been some time.”

  Ma-khee laughed. “I think you don’t know how.”

  “I do.” He grabbed the teat again and squeezed harder. A single drop fell into the oats and was lost.

  Fergus stood up. “Like all women she needs to be warmed up.”

  He stroked the goat’s back. He tickled behind her ears, tapped gently the fur between her eyes, then tried again. There were two drops this time, but they quickly ran into the oats.

  Fergus stood up. “It’s clear this goat has already been emptied.”

  Ma-khee set the pot on the ground and took a teat in her hand. She squeezed and pulled, producing a jet into the oats that swirled around the edge of the pot and stayed there. Fergus was so excited he gave a shout that brought Illa running.

  “What has happened?” Illa asked.

  He placed his hand on her hair. “Nothing.”

  “Come,” she said. “The grandfather is teaching me how to mend nets.”

  Illa tugged so hard, Fergus had no choice but to take the pot of oats and follow. He glanced back at Ma-khee, who was laughing as she walked over the walkway back into the crannog. The old man called to Fergus as they approached the shore. He was painting pitch onto the bottom of the curragh he used
for fishing and for visiting the other crannogs on the loch. The smell of the hot tar made Fergus turn his face away. Illa went on with the net she was sewing with a bone awl.

  The old man lowered his voice so that Illa couldn’t hear. “There are young women here at Loch Glashan,” he said, “who are in need of a man to provide children such as your Illa. We lost too many men in the fight with the Northumbrians, and now there are not enough to go round. I ask in the name of Cailleach, let me know which one you would like to go to first, and my wife will arrange it.”

  Fergus looked at his feet and then back at the old man. He knew this duty to Cailleach could be asked of a man, and his brother Murdoch would be glad to help in this way, but he feared his love for the woman Ma-khee would make him unable, like the goat he had just tried to milk.

  “I will look,” he said in a way that didn’t convince the old man.

  “What is this woman you have brought with you from Dunadd?” the old man asked. “Marcus says she is not your wife. Is she a slave? Could I take her if she likes men grayer in the face?”

  Fergus shook his head. “You can’t take her, old man. She will be my wife.”

  Now it had been said. Only he wasn’t sure yet that the woman agreed with it. And then suddenly he saw her coming from the woods with Marcus, carrying willow wands, perhaps for a screen for their sleeping area in the crannog. The old woman came out of the crannog and called to Marcus to stand the willow in water or it would be no good for bending.

  When Fergus went back into the house, Ma-khee was kneeling by the old woman, who was showing her how to make wattle with old willow wands that had already been soaked. But Ma-khee’s hands were not tough enough for such work. She kept putting her fingers in her mouth, bringing storm clouds over the woman’s face, making Marcus laugh, though, because of his low rank, he should be keeping those thoughts to himself.

  Fergus pushed Marcus forward. “You’re not free yet, and my lady needs help.”

  Ma-khee looked at him and smiled. Fergus longed for the warmth she was in the night, though her limbs were soft and hairless such as he had only ever seen on a child. It was no wonder she was always cold. Perhaps Iona might know of an herb to make hair grow on her body as it did on other women.

  The women had settled Iona out in one of the field huts so she could be alone, and the wattle Ma-khee and Marcus were making was for her hut. Talorcan had nailed honeysuckle over the doorway to mark the place as sacred. Fergus intended to visit the girl and have her cast her stones.

  As the days passed on to the time of the winter solstice, snow began to fall on Loch Glashan, as it rarely did in the sea air of Dunadd. Ma-khee stayed inside by the fire and worked the quern. She did not often go out with the other women. Fergus began to wonder if she was with child, the way she guarded herself.

  He laid his hand on her belly and asked, “Torrach?”

  She shook her head. “Chan e.”

  But if she wasn’t pregnant, then why had she not sat in the hut with Iona for her time of the month? He had noticed no blood in the time they had been at Glashan. He would like to have a son to teach in the way his father had taught him. Perhaps Sula had given Ma-khee herbs to close her womb as she had once done for Saraid. But Ma-khee was not young; perhaps it was already too late.

  It pleased Fergus to get up in the morning and see his daughter running free along the shore with other children, or casting off with the old man on his fishing trips. Illa had found a small black cat and taken it for her own. Cats were kept by the grain houses in the village at Dunadd and about the bakehouse on the fort itself. But they were not black like this one. It paced along the shore while the girl was out on the water.

  Fergus rowed along the shore in the old man’s curragh to the tanner and brought back a satchel for the woman, who seemed well pleased by it. He bought a jerkin for himself, which kept in the heat of his body now with the days so cold, the snow on the ground coming and going like the thin ice on the edge of the loch. Soon it would be the shortest day, and they would need Iona to be one with Cailleach in the celebrations.

  It was then the messenger came from Dunadd, a servant, not a slave, but a friend of Marcus, though he spoke no Latin. He spoke in Gaelic, and Fergus heard his words by the edge of the peaty water that had become his haunt. All was not well at the fort. Word had come of Murdoch’s exploits in the north, his men running wild among the Pictish people, even before they had yet met with Oengus’s army.

  Brighde had holed herself up at the top of the fort with the monks and sent Sula down to live with her people. She had stationed guards all about, and no Pict was permitted to come or go. No traders were allowed in, and grain and salted meat were being rationed. With Talorcan gone, there was much scheming now among the Picts of the boar.

  Fergus sent the messenger off to the crannog to eat. He sat on the shore, looking out across the water dotted with the thatch of crannog roofs like this one. Men were out in their curraghs fishing and sometimes sleeping. All was peaceful here; and yet, if they had to, would these people not sign their allegiance to King Oengus? How long before Radha’s family could no longer keep them or risk their own throats? Fergus wanted to return to Dunadd and take his mother off the fort, by force if need be, but he knew she would call on her guards before she let him do that. And he would be able to persuade Sula even less, now that she was down among her own people.

  Ma-khee sat down beside him and wrapped her arms about his knees. He took her hand between his and kissed the knuckles, rougher knuckles these days, as a woman’s should be.

  He spoke slowly so she might understand. “I don’t know how long we will be safe here. It has begun, everything Sula foretold. It rips at my heart to keep pushing us farther from Dunadd, but I see no other course.”

  The woman seemed to understood. She picked up the black cat and laid it in her lap.

  “I would have you with me,” he said, “if you will abandon the place from which you came and seek a new life with Illa and me.”

  He set her hands in her lap, patted them, and patted the cat. She seemed to want to speak but couldn’t find the words. He noticed a tear drop off the end of her nose.

  “I no longer have a husband or daughter,” she said. “But I do have a son.”

  She held on to his knees so that he could not get up. But she need not have feared, because he was pleased by the news. “Then I will take him for my own. Where is he?”

  “He is at a school,” she said.

  “In the east?”

  She nodded. “Yes, in the east.”

  He wrapped his arm about her shoulders to steady her. He worried suddenly that she might choose the son over him. “When we have fought and won or lost Dunadd, then I will take a few men and travel to bring your son to you. I make this promise to you, Ma-khee.”

  She didn’t seem as pleased as she should have. She sighed. Fergus laid his lips against hers and felt her teeth with the tip of his tongue. He had seen pieces of gold in her mouth, surely a sign of high standing.

  “I think in your land you are a queen,” he said. “You have run from that royal house and fear you might yet be captured. For this reason you say nothing about this place you come from.” He placed an imaginary crown on her head. “This is what I think.”

  She laughed and shook her head.

  “Perhaps we should go there,” he said, “take over that kingdom and live there in the east with your son.”

  She said nothing. They watched the black cat run around them with its back arched. Ma-khee reached for it and placed it against her cheek. She said the word Winnie, but he did not know this word, or if the woman’s tears were happy or sad. She was strange to him, strange in the way things affected her, like the stone that Fergus MacErc had brought from Erin, the stone of Scotta. And then Fergus remembered the stone itself. How foolish not to have brought it, though the cart might not have borne such a weight. Now it would be left to the Picts, and they might not treat it so kindly, especially being a thing fro
m Erin.

  The woman left, and yet he couldn’t keep his thoughts from her, couldn’t help reaching for her in the nights that followed, tracing the contours of her spine even while she cried. He didn’t understand what her tears were about, but he hoped she loved him and would shed tears over him, if things did not turn out in the end as he planned.

  21

  When I come round from sleep this time, Jim is holding my hand.

  He says, “You’ve been out for an entire day, you know.”

  He says I’ve been crying in my sleep.

  I sit up. “Where’s Winnie?”

  He laughs. “You’re not going to believe this, but I found her coming down from the fort.”

  I sigh. This is all too much—first me, then the cat. I guess the witch hunters had this much right, that the black cats were in cahoots. I know from my research that the witch hunters tortured and strung up black cats just as they did the women, but no historical records hold their names dear.

  Jim gets up. “Let me make you some porridge. I’ll pour some milk on for extra strength.”

  After he’s gone off to the kitchen, I lie back down. My tears run into my ears, picturing Fergus and that goat he was pretending to know how to milk. I succeeded only because I’d seen it on television once. Squeeze and pull, that’s what they said, and no one was more surprised than me when it worked. No one, except Fergus. He made me jump the way he called out, and then every face was turned to him as though he had been bitten. I conjure over and over that quick embarrassed smile while I listen to Jim bubble up the oats and come back along the hall to the bedroom with my serving in a willow-patterned bowl.

  He sits on the bed and hands it to me. “I heated the milk.”

  “You’re a jewel,” I say, and then smirk as though I might not have meant it.

  He throws my pills between my knees. “I thought you might need those.”

  When I pick them up and turn them over in my hand, they rattle in their plastic container, little yellow pills with a very loud voice. Every time I open the top they shout out their question: Which life is it going to be, Maggie—this one with Graeme, with the thesis and a PhD, maybe a teaching job and a move to a house in Edinburgh, where life can begin again? Or do you want your life with Fergus on the run from the Picts, with Illa?