Owen smiled, well satisfied.
The very next day, Owen, Peter, and Peter’s wife, Ivy, were enjoying a rare day of sunshine. Ivy was mending, while Owen and Peter smoked.
The youngest of the Bateson children, Moira, came running, gasping, so eager to share her news that she tripped over a half-buried stone and nearly fell.
“Evie said her mam’s been other people. So has her da!”
Ivy Bateson’s needle paused above her mending. “What?” She turned a puzzled gaze on her daughter.
Peter Bateson, sitting and smoking on the edge of a washtub, snorted. Owen merely lit his pipe and waited for what might come next.
“What does that mean?” Ivy’s forehead creased.
Solemnly, Moira said, “She told me her mam and da don’t die, or they die but then get new bodies, and different names. She said her mam was a queen once. I think that’s what she said. She kept using words I didn’t understand.”
“She was making up one of her faery tales, then.”
“No, she said it’s true because she heard them talking about it and they didn’t know she was there.”
Ivy frowned awhile. Then she said the very thing Owen hoped she would say. “That sounds blasphemous to me. Folk live and die at God’s command. After death they go to heaven, hell, or purgatory. You know this, Moira Bateson. Any mortal, man or woman, who could break that rule would be of the devil’s making— a witch or some other evil. I don’t want you seeing that child anymore. D’you hear? She’s lying. She’s trying to fool you and make you believe in unnatural things.”
“Aye, Mam,” Moira said, frightened and chastised.
Ivy went back to her mending with a darkly spoken, “Those weans are changelings, through and through. I’ve always said so.”
Owen turned his gaze to Peter, who was staring back at him, his face rigid with horrified suspicion. Lifting his hands, Owen slowly shook his head to indicate his own shock.
How easy it was to direct the fates of others, even when they were watched over by a goddess.
* * * *
November provided a good day, here and there, with watery sunshine and sharp breezes that stimulated the mind. Lilith loved the bite of winter as much as the mildness of summer, and never wasted fine weather. Believing that fresh sea air was good for the health and appetite of all children, she took them to play along the bluffs overlooking the sea. Faith often went along, though she wasn’t one to play or dance. Instead, she preferred to find a flat rock and gaze at the water. Lilith often wondered if she was thinking of Stuart, but she never asked, not wanting to dredge up sad memories.
The first time they took Romy to the coast, the child was mesmerized by it, as she had been on the Channel crossing, and the boat ride from the mainland to Barra. Like Faith, she loved sitting and watching its ceaseless movement and changing color.
“She looks like a faery,” Faith said. “I expect to see wings sprout from her shoulders.”
“Aye,” Lilith agreed. “Or a nymph. She’s our mountain child, an oread. Aodhàn’s been teaching me the myths from Greece.”
“She seems happy.”
“I think she is, now that we’re starting to understand each other.”
“They learn fast at that age.”
“Claire and Romy prattle away without any trouble.”
“But Evie.”
“Aye,” Lilith said, laughing. “Now there’s a mishmash.”
Romhilde knew a good amount of Gaelic by now, and some English. Claire had no trouble learning German. But when Evie grew excited, her speech emerged in a jumble of three different languages, which confused Faith, Greyson, and even Lilith at times.
Bringing home an orphan from Europe only worsened the factor’s reputation. Why hadn’t he taken in some hungry Barra child if he wanted to adopt? Why was a foreigner singled out for rescue? It proved he had nothing but contempt for the people he’d lived among for so long.
“I think of her kin,” Faith said. “Did Aodhàn really try to find them?”
“Aye, he went throughout the region, asking. But gypsies travel long distances. She could’ve come from anywhere, really. I suppose, after a week, I didn’t really want him to find anyone. We love her.”
“You’ve always taken in lost, injured creatures. She’s no different.”
“She is different. She’s a girl.”
Faith shrugged. “You’re happy as well, aren’t you?”
“I am.” Lilith was surprised. It was uncharacteristic for Faith to show concern for something as ephemeral as “happiness.” The way she stumbled over the question betrayed how uncomfortable she was asking it.
“What of you, Mam? Are you happy?”
Her mother pulled up a fistful of wind-bent grass and shrugged. “I’ve never had a notion what happiness is. I want you to know something. I saw how Aodhàn looked at you, even when you were children. I conspired with him, almost from the first. Mind when I sent you back to Bishop House for my mending?”
“Oh, Mam. I know all this.”
Faith scowled as she met Lilith’s amused gaze. “It’s true I hoped you would end up his wife. But I had nothing to do with what happened to Daniel. You don’t think that, do you?”
“I never thought that. It was the miasma.”
Faith turned back toward the sea and for some time, she said nothing. Her face was like stone, sharply etched and blank. Then, after biting her lip, she said, “I suppose I should tell you that going off like you did, and coming home with another child, made them hate you even more.”
“They decided to hate me the moment I wed Aodhàn. Sometimes I think they decided to hate me the instant I was born. No one ever cared about Daniel until he died, and I fell in love with the factor’s son. Then, of course, they were all Daniel’s comrades, and I was the whore who betrayed him. There’s nothing I could ever do to change it. I don’t care and never have.”
Claire called to her then. Lilith smiled reassuringly at Faith and went off to see what her daughter had found.
Falling from Grace
* * * *
November, 1853
XXIII.
Lilith loved the time she spent on the coastline, but since Aodhàn had told her the fantastic tale of their past lives, she couldn’t get enough of him, and wanted to be with him all the time. It was incredible, enticing, the idea that they’d returned from death, and that he had only ever wanted and loved her, of all the women he must have known through the centuries.
They found every out-of-the-way nook at Bishop House, and once even made love in the secret passageway. Later, when Evie complained of hearing ghosts moaning in the walls, Lilith was both amused and mortified, and refused to repeat that adventure for fear of causing her children emotional harm.
She asked for more stories from their other lives, hoping at some point she would remember them herself. Sometimes flashes came to her, as they always had, but now they made sense, these piecemeal remnants. They were moments from a real, lost past, strong enough to remain in her mind, but not quite strong enough to clarify into definable memories.
But Aodhàn didn’t like talking about the past. His reluctance was obvious. She didn’t understand it, when everything he’d told her was beautiful and pleasant, but for the one calamity of the volcanic eruption, which left her scarred, and, apparently, nearly without hair. Yet, as he told it, she recovered, went on to live many more years, and led her people back to comfort and plenty.
“Why are we born, again and again?” she asked. “Does it happen to everyone? Why do you remember, and I don’t?”
He became noticeably uncomfortable at those questions, and would only say he didn’t know. Sometimes she wondered if he was deliberately withholding details from her.
Every now and then, she would ask, narrow-eyed, “Are you making this all up? Because I will slice off your balls, Aodhàn Mackinnon, if you are,” which always made him laugh.
“What did I look like? What did you look like? How did we
meet?”
He didn’t mind questions like that as much. His eyes acquired a haze of nostalgia as he described her, and her country, and the costumes the women wore, and her mother’s amazing arboretum, where she kept lions, and the delegations from Egypt, laden with wondrous gifts of linen, ivory, papyrus, and their rare beautiful wood that was good not only for sculpting and furniture, but also for treating fevers and women’s birthing pain.
She liked to wear the necklace he’d given her while they made love. It helped her envision the amazing island of Crete, Crete’s legendary queen, and the queen’s beloved prince. She had a superstitious hunch that the necklace possessed a kind of protective magic that would keep everyone she loved safe.
The opposite seemed to be true for Aodhàn, though. Since he’d told her his long-held secrets, he was clearly on edge and not sleeping well. She tried to give reassurance in her caresses.
I love you. I will always be here.
* * * *
Owen bought his comrades another round of whisky. He’d become quite popular over the last few months, as he always seemed to have enough coin to provide his friends a dram or two. He was being especially generous tonight.
“There will never be a good crop of potatoes until we cleanse Barra of pestilence,” Peter Bateson said. He’d already shared his daughter’s gossip about Evie and her kin. “’Tis a clear message, if you ask me. The potatoes turn to slime, year after year, just as Barra rots from the evil we allow.”
“Remember Daniel,” one of the other men said.
There was much nodding, muttering, and the sign of the cross being made.
Owen gestured to the barmaid to bring more whisky.
“It’s clear now why she never goes near a priest,” the barmaid said as she poured. “No doubt she’d burst into flames.”
“A witch,” whispered the other barmaid. “Here on Barra!”
“I heard Gordon rewarded him for the beatings and clearings at Balnabodach,” Peter said. “The factor’s a wealthy man now. Rich, in fact.”
“Mind you how she laughed at those poor souls that day?” Whoever spoke was slurring. The time has come, Owen thought, and stood. All eyes turned to him.
“Who’s with me, men?” he asked. “It’s time to bring Barra back into Heaven’s good graces. Are you tired of being hungry, of your wives and weans being sick and unhappy?”
“Aye,” the men said, lifting their glasses.
“But what can we do?” Peter asked.
“What has to be done. This must be the reason God drew me here. I can lead you! God requires brave warriors, not milksops. It’s long past time Barra was cleansed of evil… of witchcraft.”
There was that word. It flew from his lips and hissed over the room, skewering through each man like the blade of a flaming sword. They looked at each other then rose, roaring with drunken fervor.
* * * *
Lilith had suspected something for a long while. Now that she was sure, she made Aodhàn his favorite haddock soup, with cheese, fresh-baked oat bread, and a delicate sponge cake. Sending the girls away to play, she brought out a bottle of German wine, which caused him to raise a brow.
“I’m going to have a baby,” she said, holding back her elation until his own reaction was clear.
It was immediate. He leaped up and grabbed her, pulling her to her feet. Wrapping her in his arms, he held her head to his chest and laughed. The sound, though muffled, was exultant and delighted.
“You’re pleased?” She struggled to free her head so she could look into his face. When she did, she was a little surprised, for his eyes were fiercely incandescent. “Surely you’re tired of children by now,” she said, teasing.
He clasped her cheeks and covered her with kisses before whispering, “I have never been so happy. Never. And that’s saying something.”
For a moment she saw his colors again, vibrant red, and the luxuriant orange of a sunset over the ocean, and she felt the singular sparking sensation race from his fingertips into her skin, lifting the hair on her scalp.
He pulled his head back from hers, saying, “There’s your colors. Gold and pale purple.”
“I see yours too. Does it mean something? Will this child be special?”
“Of course.” He grinned, and recovered his usual composure. “Have you forgotten the Mackinnon motto? ‘Fortune favors the bold.’ Tell me— dare I hope for a son?”
“You may dare,” she replied, “but don’t get yourself set on it.”
“You intend to smother me in girls,” he complained.
They took the bottle of wine into the drawing room. Aodhàn wanted to make love before the vivacious fire, but Lilith insisted he wait until the children were in bed.
“This is just the beginning,” she said. “Think of it, our weans, growing up, marrying, and having wee weans of their own.”
“We’ll be grandparents,” he said, as though the idea had never occurred to him before. He sounded quite amazed, which made her laugh.
“I want to leave this place,” she said. “Tell John Gordon of Cluny to hire another factor. I don’t want my children growing up here, Aodhàn, amongst all this hate. I’ve no more patience for the way they’ve been slighted and abused.”
Loud banging on the front door echoed through the house.
“Who could that be, so late?” Lilith asked, sitting up.
The children came running down the stairs to see who was there. Claire peered out the front window as Cora, the maid, went to open the door.
“Mam, there’s a great lot of men outside,” Claire said.
“What now?” Lilith sighed. “I was just going to put the girls to bed.”
“I’ll write Gordon tomorrow,” Aodhàn said. He drew up a handful of his wife’s dark hair, and rubbed his cheek on it. “You and I,” he said, low. “For as long as the pyramids stand in Egypt.”
The End
Historical Notes
Quote from Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë: When Wuthering Heights was first published in 1847, the author was listed as Ellis Bell: that’s why Lilith refers to the author as “he.”
Short quote from A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens.
The Mackinnon family, and the “factor of Barra,” is fictitious, my invention, and bears no resemblance to anyone, living or dead.
I also took a few liberties with the coastline and caves on Mingulay, although the cliffs there are quite impressive, and a popular rappelling destination.
“Bishop House,” on Barra, is my invention, as is the house on Mingulay.
Allt Easdail is the local name of an archaeological site on southern Barra, an area that appears to have been used and built upon since Neolithic times.
The less said the better about John Gordon of Cluny.
Available titles in The Child of the Erinyes series:
BOOK ONE: THE YEAR-GOD’S DAUGHTER
BOOK TWO: THE THINARA KING
BOOK THREE: IN THE MOON OF ASTERION
BOOK 3.5: THE MOON CASTS A SPELL (novella)
FORTHCOMING TITLES:
The Sixth Labyrinth (Book four)
When the Moon Whispers (Book five)
Swimming in the Rainbow (Book six)
Novellas:
The Moon Casts a Spell: Barra, 1839-1853
Untitled: Glenelg, 1821-1853
About the Author
While growing up, Rebecca Lochlann began envisioning an epic story, a new kind of myth, one built upon the foundation of the Greek classics and continuing through the centuries right up into the present and future.
This has become her life's work, though she didn't exactly intend it to be that way when she started.
The Child of the Erinyes series is historical mythic fantasy, “Loads of testosterone, slaughter, and crazy magic” (with a love story, of course.)
Even though the story is fiction-fantasy, it still took about fifteen years to research the Bronze Age segments of the series, and encompassed rare historical documents, mytholo
gy, archaeology, ancient religions, and volcanology.
The Year-god's Daughter is her debut novel: Book One of The Child of the Erinyes series. In the spring of 2013 it was utilized as a study guide in an American university, and later was named a B.R.A.G. Medallion honoree. Book Two, The Thinara King, (A 2013 Next Generation Indie Book Awards finalist,) continues the saga. Book Three, In the Moon of Asterion, wraps up the Bronze Age segment of the series and leads into Book Four (The Sixth Labyrinth), which is in the works.
Rebecca has always believed that certain rare individuals, either blessed or tortured, voluntarily or involuntarily, are woven by fate or the Immortals into the labyrinth of time, and that deities sometimes speak to us through dreams and visions, gently prompting us to tell their lost stories. Who knows? It could make a difference.
For bibliographies, details into the history, characters, research, the arc of the series, and much more information, visit Rebecca’s website: http://rebeccalochlann.com
Sign up to receive announcements for new releases: http://eepurl.com/ws_jf
Acknowledgements
To the Historical Fiction Authors Cooperative, without whom nothing would be possible.
To all the generous readers and reviewers who have enjoyed my efforts: they keep me at the computer, working on the next installments.
To K, for her endless patience, and Melissa Conway, an amazing author and graphic artist, and most of all to my husband.
The Moon Casts a Spell Page 10