Paul smiled nervously. ‘Sorry Sean, but Ginny’s not come in and we were wondering if we should start turning the horses out?’
Sean looked at his wrist, but his watch wasn’t there. ‘What time is it?’
‘Six thirty.’
Shit. ‘Sorry, I must have overslept.’ He stepped out of the door, banged it behind him and set off for the yard. His fuzzy mind cleared a little as he went. Two things were clear. Ginny was pissed and hadn’t turned up. And Megan was gone. Double whammy. Thank God it was Sunday. Official day off for both staff and horses. They’d manage without Ginny. Still, he’d have to find a replacement, quick sticks.
Soon he fell into the familiar routine, leading rugged horses out to the turnout paddocks. The Count plunged and danced at the end of his rope, keen for a run and a roll. For a while Sean paused to watch the black horse drop to the ground with a groan and stretch out on the green grass. The sun was out and a clear sky promised a rare fine day.
Back in the yard he started mucking out, his body working independently of his brain. There was a lot to think about. But mainly Sean found himself preoccupied with Megan. He found himself looking out the open stable door half expecting her to walk across the concrete. Still, it was early yet. He made a mental note to phone her at breakfast, but then realised he didn’t have her number. And, if he recalled correctly, he still didn’t know where she lived.
As if on cue his mobile vibrated and rang stridently in his back pocket. His heart leapt, suddenly sure it would be Megan. On examination his hopes were crushed at the sight of Callum Campbell’s number. ‘Hi, Callum,’ he said.
‘Morning, Sean. Just wanted to see how The Count was shaping up.’
Sean smiled, pleased to be the bearer of good tidings. ‘Actually Callum, I was going to call you. I had a great workout on him yesterday. I think we can seriously think about entering him in his maiden race.’
‘That’s great! Can I come watch him tomorrow morning?’
‘Sure, six o’clock suit?’
‘Sure. Thanks Sean, bye.’
‘Bye.’ Sean closed the phone thoughtfully and wondered if Ginny was related to Callum. They had the same surname. Still, Campbell was a pretty popular name in these parts. No point in worrying.
It was nearly nine by the time he headed back to the house. The lads would all go home until the afternoon. Sean looked forward to a quiet day. He might go completely mental and do some bookwork.
It was only as he sat down to a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea that he remembered his other uninvited guests, Lydia and Nancy. He grimaced. What the hell had that been all about? Nuttier than squirrel poo, the pair of them.
He looked at the bare patch on his wrist where his watch should have been. Perhaps he should go down to the river meadow and see if he could find it. Then he recalled their threat to pay him a morning visit. Thank God they hadn’t kept that particular promise. He wasn’t sure how he’d handle them.
Still, he consoled himself, forewarned was forearmed. He felt confident they’d pose no threat in the bright light of the day. And, they were friends of Sarah’s. Or so they professed. The cat Salem certainly seemed familiar with them. Which was a bit odd.
He finished his food and drink and put the dirty dishes in the sink. Through the open window the scent of basil and lavender drifted in.
Restless, he went up the stairs and opened Sarah’s bedroom door. His eyes roved around the room and finally rested on the quilt. At the rows of leafless trees painstakingly sewn onto the green background.
His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer and sank to his knees as vertigo swept through him. And he realised that the trees weren’t trees at all.
Chapter 35
The branches of the trees were inscribed with words. Not in letters but in lines etched in the bare branches. Each row of lines depicting the letter of an ancient alphabet. The letter A from Alder. The letter B from Beech. Twenty letters all taken from the first letter of a tree. It was one of those moments when something hidden becomes clear and a person can’t believe they haven’t seen it before.
As Sean’s eyes skipped over the old quilt cover he took in an involuntary breath. His brain felt like it would explode. His world went all wobbly.
For a moment he struggled to contain the overload of information set loose in his head. He closed his eyes, opened them and looked once more. And then he read the words out loud. ‘I lie at the feet of a foot.’ Once more he read the script. The words dripped off his tongue like butter off a crumpet. They were both familiar and strange. And then a song popped into his head. Music and lyrics he had heard only recently. And he smiled. Well, well, he was going to have quite a conversation when he next encountered Megan MacGregor. She wasn’t the only one who could speak Gaelic.
He frowned, suddenly unsure. Was it Gaelic? He didn’t really know that. He’d heard snatches of Gaelic over the years. A smattering at school years ago, and then some from frosty old men in smoky bars. Occasionally, on the radio. Never had he felt even an inkling of recognition for the language. But then, if it wasn’t Gaelic, what the hell was it? And how could he possibly know a new language all of a sudden. Just like that. It was mad.
For a long moment he stretched his brain. But came up with a big fat nothing. Mad still seemed the most likely possibility. Maybe he was hallucinating again. Or maybe it was the DTs. After all, he hadn’t touched a drop for nearly twenty-four hours. Long enough to push any well-balanced man over the edge.
His eyes slid back to the leafless trees. Yes, a wee dram seemed like the best plan. A nip of whisky would sort him out. With a sound plan he jumped up and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He couldn’t resist the eerie idea that the quilt may roll itself off the bed and slither down the stairs after him.
By contrast the kitchen seemed wonderfully sane. Everything in its rightful place. It was only twenty past nine.
Seconds later he had the cool smooth length of the whisky bottle in his hands. The lid unscrewed obligingly and the woody aroma filled his nostrils. He reached out for a clean glass. And cursed as a loud pounding on the front door interrupted him. For a moment he was motionless as he tried to decide whether or not to answer. Then he cursed softly and slammed the bottle and glass onto the table. Someone knocked again. Louder still.
‘Keep your wig on, I’m coming,’ he yelled. The door wasn’t locked and he pulled it impatiently open. His gaze fell on the smiling faces of two women. He groaned. ‘Saints preserve me!’
Nancy giggled. ‘Morning, Sean.’
‘Aren’t you going to let us in?’ said Lydia, peering over his shoulder into the house.
Sean glared at her. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve!’
Nancy nodded. ‘We do,’ she said cheerfully. Nancy tapped him gently on the arm. ‘There, there dear boy. Didn’t we sleep well? A bit of a grump are we, this morning?’
Sean was almost speechless, but pulled his outrage to the fore. ‘Grump? Grump! I’m bloody irate. You drug me, molest me and probably rape me and turn up looking for a warm welcome. If you don’t get off my property I’m going to call the police.’
Nancy tutted and exchanged a look with Lydia. She looked back at Sean. ‘Lydia said you’d probably be a bit out of sorts.’
Lydia stepped closer and peered into his eyes. ‘Tell me, Sean. What have you seen?’
His first instinct was to tell her to bog off. But something held his tongue. After all, it was a good question. What had he seen? There was no one he could think of that he could talk to about the quilt. And he really, really wanted to talk to someone. And, if he were nuts, these two weren’t far behind. What the hell! He stepped back. ‘Please, come in ladies.’
Chapter 36
For a long, uncomfortable moment Sean and his guests faced off around the table. No one seemed willing to speak. All three turned and looked as Salem jumped in through the window and leapt onto Sean’s lap. Which was a first.
Sean stroked the black cat’s smooth coat.
Salem dug his claws into his legs and jumped over onto Lydia’s knee.
‘Ingrate,’ Sean muttered.
Nancy smiled. ‘He misses Sarah. He’ll come around to you.’
Sean wanted to say that he really couldn’t care less, but he bit back his rudeness. And besides, it wasn’t quite the truth. Salem was a charismatic creature, in his offhand way. He wouldn’t mind being better acquainted.
Lydia stood up. ‘Shall I make tea?’
Sean nodded. Why not? Maybe he’d have a noggin of whisky in his.
Lydia moved easily around the kitchen and Sean realised that she must have known Sarah reasonably well, at least. He looked at Nancy, at her sensible grey bob and rosy cheeks, and found it difficult, in the light of day, to cast her in the role of a femme fatale.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what was in that drink you gave me the other night?’
Nancy smiled. ‘Let me think. Er…foxglove extract, essence of juniper berry, powdered batwing —’
‘Nancy!’
Sean looked at Lydia, whose dark eyes had narrowed, her irritation at her friend quite evident. Lydia tutted loudly and addressed Sean. ‘Take no notice. It was a potion that I purchased online.’
Sean blinked. An online potion? Seriously? He rubbed his face tiredly. ‘You can buy potions online?’
Lydia nodded. ‘Sure. What can’t you buy online?’ She placed a steaming cup of tea before him. ‘I mean, who has time to make potions these days?’
Who indeed? Sean took a sip of tea, choking down the urge to laugh. ‘So, what kind of potion was it?’
Lydia sat down. ‘It was a simple draught that enables the brain to…well…expand.’
Sean was suspicious once more. ‘Expand? What, like…trip?’
Nancy giggled. ‘In a way. But of course, if there is no magic in you, at best you may have experienced pretty colours or fingers that grow.’
Then he did laugh. They’d bought LSD or something worse on the net. ‘Isn’t that illegal?’
Lydia shook her head. ‘Magic’s not illegal — well, not yet.’
Sean put his cup down with a crash. Tea slopped everywhere. ‘Stop with the magic crap! You are both way out of order.’
Nancy chewed her lip and glanced at Lydia who nodded. ‘All right Sean, maybe we are crazy. But tell us, what did you see?’
And Sean was caught out. He badly wanted to believe they were a pair of meddling nutters at best and escaped sociopaths at worst. Because if they weren’t, they were something else. Something…strange. ‘I saw words in the branches of trees sewn into a quilt.’ The words just popped out.
Lydia sat up tall and her dark eyes glowed. ‘Oh my god! Sarah’s quilt! That’s genius.’
Nancy leaned across the table a little. ‘Sean, what did it say?’
And he told them.
For a few moments they sat muttering the words out loud. Then Nancy spoke. ‘What does it mean?’
Sean felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. He had been positive that they would know the answer. He looked at Lydia who shrugged.
‘I’m not sure either, but I have a few ideas.’
‘What?’ said Sean and Nancy at the same time.
But Lydia shook her head. ‘I’ll have to do some research.’
Sean realised that the young woman would not be drawn further. He also realised that his revelation had changed the whole dynamic of his relationship with them. His suspicions had faded and a reluctant acceptance had taken its place.
It was time he found out what was going on. First things first. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Tell me…what kind of magic are we talking about, exactly?’
Chapter 37
It was Nancy who took up the challenge. ‘First of all, Sean,’ she said, ‘you have to understand that we’re not talking Hogwarts here. The days of structured education are long gone. Today the majority of witches and warlocks stumble on their gift by happy, or unhappy, mistake. Many only have a small gift. Some, like the handful of genuine psychics, are truly powerful and are possibly the most prominent magicians today.’
Sean was intrigued but not convinced. ‘Sounds unlikely.’
Lydia smiled. ‘Indeed it does. But even you must have heard of an occasion where the police have been helped to solve dark crimes with the aid of a psychic?’
Sean nodded. It was true.
Nancy picked up the thread. ‘Those who have a gift instinctively seek out others. Before Christian times we were revered and respected as Druids, Witches and Seers within the community. Each generation passed on The Craft to the next. But, over time, we have been submerged beneath the tidal wave of new beliefs. It would not be an exaggeration to say we’ve been persecuted almost to extinction. It is only over the last few hundred years that The Craft has re-emerged.’ Nancy paused and smiled. ‘Not that anyone takes us seriously.’
Lydia nodded. ‘It’s true and it has largely been a blessing. Our kind remains obscure. Not a bad thing.’
Sean was utterly transfixed. ‘Go on,’ he urged.
Nancy started up once more. ‘Now, while it is true that our kind became fragmented, there are still a few small pockets of continuity. Mainly on the fringes of society.’
Sean sucked in his breath, and he thought he knew what Nancy was going to say before she said it.
‘Some small groups,’ said Nancy, ‘continue the traditions. Sarah was one such witch. She could trace her ancestry back to Amergin himself. But Sarah did not have any issue. When she discovered she was ill she was deeply distressed that she had been unable to pass on The Craft. She was a generous woman, and taught us all that was within our capacity. When you arrived she was elated. She sensed the power within you and so left the farm to you.’ Nancy paused and sniffed. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Sean, you truly were like a son to Sarah.’
Sean was rocked. Holy mackerel. There was a slice to swallow! How could it be possible? He thought of his family. His conservative, working-class background. And then his mother’s face shimmered in his mind.
‘That’s right, Sean,’ said Lydia softly.
Sean looked sharply at her. ‘What’s right?’
‘Your gift comes from your mother,’ she said.
Sean was spooked. ‘How did you know that?’
Lydia laughed. ‘It’s OK, I’m not a mind-reader. Wish I was! No, Sarah told us about your history. Remember Nancy mentioned there are small groups that still hold on to the traditional ways?’
Sean nodded.
Lydia continued. ‘Well, the travelling people, the gypsies, the tinkers, the fairground folk, are some of those few.’
And, in that moment, Sean knew that it was true. At some level he had always known but had suppressed it. With hard work. And booze.
His eyes shifted to the bench where the whisky bottle stood. A silent testament to his failings.
Nancy reached over and put a warm hand on top of his own. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, Sean. Many of our kind implode under the pressure. Many languish in psychiatric hospitals, dosshouses and prisons as a result of the terrible pressure of their untapped energies.’
Sean took a deep breath, held it, and let it out once more. ‘So,’ he said, ‘let’s say I accept everything that you are telling me. And, that being the case, what I don’t understand is why Sarah didn’t just tell me.’
Lydia nodded. ‘She talked about it. But she was scared that the knowledge would either drive you away or over the edge. It’s not something that can be forced. She sensed that you were close. That the magic was just below the surface. We were prepared. But then…Sarah died.’
Nancy sat up straighter in her chair. ‘And we had to carry on with the plan as best as we could without her.’
It was the truth. Sean could taste it in her words.
He looked out of the window. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he said.
Lydia looked alarmed. ‘Are you expecting someone?’
Sean hesitated, thinking about Megan. But then a strong presentiment filled him. ‘It’
s Callum Campbell.’
The two women leapt up. ‘Don’t let him in!’ they said.
Chapter 38
When Grandad woke her it was dark. She’d slept all through the day. Megan leapt out of bed, eager to go and find Sean. But Grandad proceeded to rope her into a series of unpleasant domestic tasks that normally she would have weaselled her way out of. Under the present circumstances she decided to put on her happy face and get on with it.
Time dragged like a snagged anchor as she cleaned and scrubbed the croft. At least she had the chance to go over the events of the last day. She had so much to do. With only two weeks to woo and win her love, she’d best get cracking. Two weeks. It seemed a terribly small window of time. But she swallowed her panic. She just didn’t have the time for it.
After a hasty dinner of toast and marmite and a glug of milk, Megan changed and set off. The night was cool with a hint of rain in the air. She set off cross-country, heading over the mountain and past the head of the loch. Ripples spread across the still water and she caught a brief glimpse of an otter watching her before it dived beneath the surface. Soon she headed up once more, into an ancient remnant of forest. Green spring leaves, fronds of fresh fern and a vast mat of moss glimmered in the moonlight.
Her senses stirred and she felt her heart rate slow as the moon’s kiss awoke her sixth sense. A bat flittered overhead and an owl screeched. And Megan was filled with optimism. She would soon have Sean Duncan eating out of her hand. And Grandad would have to humble himself and the Douglas men would have to quit smirking behind her back and pay her the respect she deserved. The picture pleased her and she broke into a run.
And then she paused, as a new sound echoed around the woodland. She waited, and there it was again. The long, vibrant note of a horn. A hunting horn. And the distinct, rhythmic sound of horses’ hooves. And the loud panting of a pack of dogs.
And a shiver ran through her. Surely, it was too early for the foxhunt? She loathed the hunt. The fox was sacred to her people. Practically a cousin. Family. A last remaining link to the wild since the wolf had been hunted to extinction. So, if not fox, what then?
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