Gavin

by Hazel Hunter

  He was going to break her heart without even trying, Catriona thought. She covered his hand with hers briefly, then took it in a firm clasp.

  “Then we shall be friends,” she told him briskly. “I will show you the island when I am come here, and you will look out for my friends when I’m away.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Tomorrow morn, we hunt mushrooms and angelica and scurvy leaf, and I shall show you a place you cannae find on your own.”

  His brows arched. “Scurvy leaf?”

  “’Tis spicy and hot, like white radish, and very good stuffing for any fish. Sailors chew the leaves to keep from falling sick on long voyages.” She prodded his shoulder. “And you a fisherman.”

  “My thanks, lass,” he said, sounding almost depressed.

  “Fair night, neighbor.”

  She kept up her smile as she stepped through the barrier, and then blinked until the sting in her eyes abated. Of course she wanted a man who couldnae feel the same for her. Of course. She was as much a ghost as her kin.

  Chapter Nine

  ALTHOUGH SHE HAD planned to return home, Catriona sent a messenger bird through the portal to Ennis and Senga that she would be remaining on the island. She felt a twinge of guilt when she added no explanation as to why, but she often extended her stays, so the delay would not trouble them. Hiding Gavin’s presence on the island seemed wiser than giving her family a new reason to worry.

  It also gave Catriona a sense of having him all to herself, like a wonderful secret.

  The day after the meal he’d cooked for her it rained from sunrise to dusk, but she took some cording to Gavin’s cottage to show him how to knot a base for the bed he would build. He in turn made a pottage with fish, brown crab and scallops, flavored with garlic and sorrel, to go with the herbed bannocks and smoked silver darlings she’d brought for him.

  “No, I’ll surely burst,” she told him when he tried to refill her bowl.

  “Seeing you eat well makes me feel less a glutton.” Reluctantly he added the last from the pot to his bowl. “Tell me, when do you leave for home?”

  “As it happens I sent word to my family that I’d be staying a wee bit longer.” Feeling a little shy now, she nibbled on the last piece of her bannock until she thought of his work. “You’ll be for Hrossey on the morrow.”

  “Aye. We’re for a far run this trip, so I’ll no’ return for two or threeday.” He eyed her. “I ken ’tis your island, Cat, but I cannae like leaving you alone here.”

  Catriona chuckled. “I’ve been so twenty years, Gavin. I’ll come to no harm. ’Tis more likely you will when I go back.”

  Her joke made him fall silent as he finished his pottage, but Catriona felt a tingle of pleasure. Gavin didn’t care for the prospect of her leaving the island. That was not the sentiment of a man who wished to be left alone.

  But the next day, as he’d said, Gavin left on the dawn ferry for Hrossey. The prospect of threeday waiting for him did not please her, but neither did visiting Ennis and Senga so short a time. As she’d done before she busied herself, but this time with the garden. Nothing helped to lift a gloomy spirit more than spending time among the blooms and digging her fingers into the rich soil. Even so, she couldn’t help but look to the horizon. And to her delight, he returned that evening before dusk. When she saw him walking from the dock, she scooped up the angelica she had cut by the spring. She all but skipped down the path to meet him.

  “Were there no fish to catch today?” she teased.

  “No boat from which to fish. The Mollers sailed to Shetland to settle a family dispute. I’ve no work but here until midweek next.” He shouldered his pack and nodded at her gathering basket. “Is that hogweed?”

  She shook her head. “Angelica. They look much alike, but you’ll no’ want to be eating the other. I’m making jam of these for my oatcakes. There’s still light enough to go foraging, if you’d want.”

  “I’d want.” His moonstone eyes shifted over her. “Will you meet me at the forest trail?”

  Catriona agreed, and they parted ways. Once she returned to her village and put the angelica to soak in cool water, she changed into her oldest gown, and retrieved her hand wraps and foraging sacks. She felt all aflutter with excitement that Gavin had returned early, and would not have to leave again for four or fiveday.

  She would not push herself on him, of course. He wanted his healing time, and she had to respect that. She hoped by showing him the island’s many treasures it would help him forget the sorrows that had driven him here. Everbay had always done so for her.

  Once he was happy again, then perhaps they might become more than friendly neighbors.

  Catriona hurried along the barrier toward the forest, where she saw Gavin already standing in wait for her. He’d changed into older garments as well, and the soft old linen tunic clung to his broad shoulders like a second skin. The sun poured over him like liquid amber, making him seem almost god-like. For a moment she stood behind the barrier so she could admire him without his notice, and felt her body warm and soften as she did.

  Gods, but he drew her like a bee to a bloom. Would he ever see her as the woman she was?

  “I can feel you there,” he said, startling her. “Is something amiss?”

  Her head, Catriona thought as she stepped through the spell wall. “I was thinking on where I might take you. To forage,” she added quickly as she handed him a sack and some of the wraps.

  “I’d like mushrooms to stuff my next fish,” he said, watching her wind the strips of hemp weave around her palms. He did the same, but had difficulty folding in the ends.

  “Dinnae scowl, for you’ll want these when we find nettle.” Catriona secured the wraps for him. “Even the young ones sting.”

  He grunted. “Then why gather them?”

  “Soaking them removes the bane. With their flowers they make a fine morning brew.” She stepped back to inspect him. “The fibers can too be retted and woven into cloth, if you’ve a loom.”

  “A weaver I’m no’,” he admitted.

  She laughed. “’Tis less work to make the tea.”

  From there she led him along the older, partially-overgrown path to the sunnier side of his forest, where the rowans and willows hemmed each side of the burbling stream. There she showed him how to search fallen limbs and logs for the morels, goldies and other fungi that were safe to eat.

  “Where you find pink millers, you should also see ceps,” she told him, pointing to the two different growths. “Ceps like to hide, but they peep a bit of white underside, so you must kneel to spot them.”

  He learned quickly, and noticed that goldies favored growing on birch trunks while ceps preferred to sprout in the rotting leaf beds carpeting the trees’ roots. He knew enough not to pick every mushroom, leaving plenty behind to shed their spores. He was also quick to spot which poisonous growths closely resembled those safe to eat.

  “If you cannae tell, dinnae take it,” Catriona said once they had collected enough to eat and dry without waste. “Or bring it to me. I ken everything that grows here.” The shift in his expression made her frown. “I dinnae boast, Gavin. I’ve roamed the forests and slopes and shores all of my life.”

  “But to come here, alone, as just a wee lass.” He shook his head. “You might have fallen from a cliff, or drowned in the spring.”

  Catriona smiled a little as she recalled some of the scrapes she’d gotten herself into, those first years. “Each time I visited, the island taught me a new way to look after myself. ’Twas no’ always pleasant, but those lessons made me stronger, and smarter.”

  “Your family shouldnae have allowed it,” Gavin said, his tone stern. “’Tis unforgiveable.”

  Unforgiveable? If only he knew.

  Run to the falls, Catriona. Dinnae let your uncle see you. Hurry, lass.

  He saw her reaction and frowned. “I spoke without thought. My people protect the young from harm.”

  The memory of her mother’s final words made bile rise in her thr
oat. “So did my family.” She pushed back the sick feeling and regarded him. “Come, and I’ll show you where you will find more goldies than you may eat in a year.”

  Chapter Ten

  AS HE ROSE from his silk-strewn bed Daimh Haral felt again the weight of his years. Old age pains had begun attacking the joints of his knees and shoulders, which had grown so stiff now he often had to partake of more poppy juice than was wise. As he glanced down at the white satin of his pillow, he saw a cluster of thin, silver and red hairs that had fallen out of his scalp. At this rate he would be bald within the year. With an angry jerk he covered the self-indulgence of his bed linens with a plain, woven coverlet and hobbled out into his front room.

  A hiss greeted him from the large, rope-bound basket by the hearth, which tipped side to side as its occupant stretched.

  “Wanting your breakfast, Anoup?” Daimh murmured as he went into the cold pantry and retrieved one of the dead mice he stored there. He carried it to the basket, releasing the ties and removing the lid. With a grin he dangled the rodent by the tail over the opening.

  Anoup reared its large head, flicking the air with its forked tongue. Daimh had paid dearly to have the viper smuggled from Francia to Scotland, but its venom had proven invaluable for certain rituals. He also considered the snake as the best of companions, as it was silent, mostly docile and needed to be fed only once every few weeks.

  Dark striations on its umber scales twisted as it reached for the mouse. Daimh amused himself by shifting the small carcass just out of the viper’s reach, until it hissed a warning.

  “Very well, have it.” He dropped the mouse on the snake’s head, and chuckled as Anoup struck and injected its venom. “Good lad.”

  He made sure to cover and secure the basket before putting his kettle to boil on the fire and returning to his room to dress. Living among another druid tribe had been a trial, but he had successfully concealed from them his ongoing work with exotic magics. Summoning dark forces had to be done away from the settlement, of course, but he had long ago created protected niches where he could cast as he pleased. The many attempts he had made to discover the reason for his single enormous failing, however, had yet to bear results. He could not permit his body to die before he found the answer, either.

  Under no circumstances could Daimh disincarnate and return to the well of stars. He would spend eternity in the kind of torment that made what he himself had done to his blood kin look like a thoughtful kindness.

  Daimh changed out of his nightshirt, despairing as he looked down at the densely-inked cyphers now fading on his age-spotted flesh and withering muscle. He had devoted himself to the study of ancient magics, and collected scrolls written by the remetch en Kermet, the People of the Black Land. From them he had distilled the designs of his skinwork, which he’d inked on himself in secret. The hundreds of centuries their priests had devoted to their all-consuming cult of the dead had produced a wealth of powerful magics and spells. Each time he used one of their rituals he felt the brush of energy so archaic and colossal it staggered him. To be the master of such power would enable him to rule over druid kind for all eternity.

  First he had to defeat Death itself.

  He slowly pulled on a clean robe, and took from his belt a vial of poppy juice to mix into his morning brew. His hand quivered until he clutched it tightly around the slender stone ampoule. Then came a jag of power from his house wards as they reacted to the presence of two approaching druids. Quickly he uncorked the vial, swallowed the bitter contents and then smoothed down his thinning hair. The smile he forced onto his mouth he had practiced for years. It aped a natural good humor that completely deceived his fellow druids. They would pick up nothing more from him, thanks to the arcane symbols inked on his body.

  Daimh quickly dispelled the house wards, opened his door, and hailed the two druids. “Fair morning, Master Flen. Ovate Lusk, you’re near full-grown now. Come in, come in.”

  He hustled the grave-faced men into his cottage, chattering as he did about the fine spring they were having and the promise of bountiful crops for the settlement. As expected his false cheer deepened the other men’s gloom, from which he took some silent satisfaction.

  “Sit, sit.” He fussed over them, bringing them mugs of brew as he nattered on about coming rituals and gatherings for which he cared nothing. “But enough of my gossip,” he said when the ovate began to fidget. “What brings you to me this fine day?”

  The old druid’s expression was that of a man kicked in the belly. “Daimh, we wouldnae disturb you with this, but as the last of the Harals, ’tis only right that you hear what we have learned.”

  He swallowed a sour laugh. He was the reason he was the last of the Harals. Slowly, he let his smile fade. “’Tis a daily struggle to go on, but I do my best, to honor my blood kin. What have you to tell me?”

  The younger druid told him of the breach of the protective barrier on Everbay, and the two intruders discovered as the cause. One, thought to be the twin brother of a member of the McDonnel clan, had been pursuing a young female through the boundary.

  “The lass is unknown to us,” Cailean added once he finished the tale. “But she has the look of your tribe.”

  “May the gods have answered my entreaties.” A Haral, yet alive. The dark gods had indeed shown him favor. Daimh tucked his hands in his sleeves before he clenched them to stop their shaking. “Describe her to me, please, Brother.”

  “She is tall, slender, and long-limbed,” the younger man said. “Her hair is a fiery brown, and her eyes blue-violet in color. She runs like a deer.”

  Now it came clear to him why the Anubis ritual had never bestowed on him physical immortality. He had made a terrible mistake with the sacrifice, but that could be corrected.

  “Could she be your kin?” Cailean asked, dragging him from his brooding thoughts.

  Now he would have to choose his words carefully, for both druids would sense a lie. “I cannae tell you, but I would be very glad to meet the lass in person.”

  “We shall travel to the island with Laird McDonnel and his lady wife at week’s end,” Bhaltair said gently. “As you ken the island better than any, we would ask you to join us.”

  Daimh let tears of relief fill his eyes. “Oh, Brother. If only you ken what this means to me.” He drew a kerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. “Forgive me, Brothers. I am growing old, and to return to the place where every one of my family were butchered…’twill require much preparation of the spirit.”

  The two druids exchanged a look before Bhaltair nodded. “Only ken that we must keep this journey a secret from all others. ’Tis much unknown about what we will find there.”

  He didn’t have to feign his happy smile this time. “Believe me, Brother, such secrets I can keep, very well.”

  Chapter Eleven

  SHOWING GAVIN ALL the treasures of the island occupied most of Catriona’s time while he was out of work, and becoming his teacher made her feel contented and happy. The highlander was not only a quick learner, but possessed the natural druid appreciation for nature and all its wonders. They worked together effortlessly, too, as if they had known each other all their lives.

  Once she felt sure he would not gather anything poisonous, she took him around the island’s shores to show him the best spots for fishing, collecting and swimming. They were wading through the shallows one day when a long, dark shadow appeared in the water, and Gavin grabbed her up in his arms.

  “There’s a shark’s fin,” he said, and turned to carry her back to the shore.

  “Aye, but it willnae attack us. Put me down.” When he did she pointed to the creature’s triangular snout and gaping, white-striated mouth. “He has teeth, but he doesnae used them for feeding. See how he gulps water as he swims? ’Tis a basker.”

  Catriona sent her thoughts to the big fish, making it clear that they meant no harm to it, and the massive creature swam deep, surfacing and propelling itself completely above the water before cras
hing down and splashing them with a huge wave.

  Gavin laughed as he wiped the sodden hair back from her face and then his. “Was that the fish’s way of saying ‘Fair day’ or something less polite?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “We’re muddying his water, I think.”

  That had been a fine day, and only when they parted at the barrier did Catriona feel a little melancholy. It became harder each time they separated not to seek some excuse to offer Gavin a kiss or an embrace, but she was determined to remain simply the friendly neighbor he wanted.

  She also felt sure they would not be only that for much longer. Often when he thought she didn’t notice he looked at her face and body with admiring eyes. He also constantly found reasons to take her hand or elbow, and sometimes even wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Every touch became a little torment, and when she finally sought her bed at night she would remember how it felt to have his hands on her.

  The unpredictable island weather often cut short their walks, but Gavin always invited her back to the cottage to have a hot brew or simple meal and talk. He made her laugh with his stories about his crewmates, and sigh when he described watching the sun rise over the sea from the deck of the fisher. He found peace in his work, she could tell that, but he seemed to still be yearning for something more.

  Catriona hoped, more than anything, that he felt the same need she did.

  She helped him find good, sturdy pines to use for his furnishings, and taught him to collect the resins and needles to use as cord coating and basket-making. His big hands were strong and dexterous, but he proved to be a poor basket-maker.

  “You’d do better to carve them from wood,” Catriona advised him when his latest attempt fell apart in her hands. She nodded at the fine bed frame he had just finished pegging together. “That will last a hundred years.”