Night Visitor

by Melanie Jackson

  He was obviously distressed from his time in captivity, Taffy could see, but though thin, he was not grievously damaged or even burned like the ruined building which had held him.

  “There now,” Taffy said, gently running her hands over the animal’s singed coat. “You’re safe. Good doggie.”

  Malcolm grunted as he rubbed his dirtied hands over his plaid and then came to kneel beside her.

  “He’s one of the Campbell’s hounds, a mialchoin,” he said. But obviously that didn’t weigh with him for he, too, reached out a helping hand to the abused beast. “And how are ye, cu? No’ so badly all things considered.”

  The hound wagged a hesitant tail.

  “He must be thirsty,” Taffy said.

  “Well, we’ve water aplenty,” Malcolm pointed out as the rain had finally begun to penetrate the leaves above them and was sprinkling its cold tears upon their bare heads. “This storm willnae dwine ‘til the morrow, I think. Best we be finding some shelter away from here before the water overflows the burn.”

  “Is there shelter?” Taffy asked hopefully.

  “Aye. There’s a cave a distance on. I would have preferred tae stay here in the glen, but we’ve no choice now. Come along, cu,” he said to the hound as he helped Taffy to her feet and again took up his burden. “I doubt your poor life would be worth even a copper coin an ye return to yer bloody mistress now.”

  “It’s getting warm again,” Taffy commented as they pushed deeper into the wood. The rescued hound paced silently at her side, seeming to prefer her company to Malcolm’s. Or perhaps he simply liked the comforting hand she rested upon his singed head.

  “Aye, it’ll be smooring warm once the sun is out.”

  “But,” she began, only to notice that the dawn was indeed beginning to force itself into the storm clouds. “Is it morning already? How can that be? Surely we didn’t walk all night.”

  Malcolm stopped by a low, flat stone that had a convenient depression filled with water where the hound could drink.

  “Aye, we did.”

  “But,” she objected again, blinking at the rain that ran into her eyes. “We couldn’t have walked all night. I’m not at all tired.”

  “Lass, ye’ve been touched wi’ the still-folk’s magic now. Yer—” he searched for a word. “Yer filled with magic. It was in the water ye drank and the food ye ate and—”

  “And what happened on the altar,” she finished, feeling her face stain as she mentioned her fall from grace.

  Malcolm nodded.

  “That too,” he said matter-of-factly. “Now ye can see at night. Find yer way in the woods. Avoid the worst of the storm’s rain and wind. Go long periods without eating of human food. And ye may e’en befriend some o’ the savage beasties in the forest.”

  “Savage beasties?” Taffy looked down at the hound as he lapped up the last drops of precious water. He was, she had to admit, rather large and possessed a commanding pair of jaws.

  “Aye. Anyone else who tried to pat the beastie there would likely have been dead by now. Campbells donnae keep lap-dogs, Taffy lass. These hounds are for hunting wolves and deer, but people mostly.”

  “Dear Heaven.” In spite of the rising temperature, Taffy shivered. “I knew that, of course. Had read it, but I just didn’t believe it. Not in my heart. Such cruelty doesn’t seem possible.”

  “We must away now, Taffy lass,” Malcolm said kindly, unable to offer her any comfort about the horror they faced, and choosing not to lie to her lest she be lulled into a false belief of their safety. “We dare no’ tarry here wi’ the sun on the rise.”

  “But where are we going—ultimately? Kilmartin? But what is there? Is it safe? Is anywhere safe?” she asked, growing frustrated and a little frightened.

  “I shall keep ye safe, lass. Never doubt it,” he said sternly.

  With that, Malcolm turned from her and resumed his walk down the path—a path, Taffy suspected, that would not be readily visible to anyone who had not had a brush with faerie magic.

  “We go tae Caislean na Nor,” he said softly. “I cannae think where else tae take ye. We shall seek Thomas Rimer and ask him for advice.”

  Chapter Seven

  Taffy spoke to Malcolm and the hound in an undertone while they pushed on through the rain. As the sun crept closer to the eastern horizon shading the night from black to gray, she told a fascinated Malcolm about her velocipede, life in London, her stay in America, and her aspirations to become a renowned photographer.

  Though Malcolm asked many questions of her, he did not reciprocate with any like confidences about his plans for the future or reminiscences of his past. An increasingly frustrated Taffy couldn’t decide if it was just a natural reserve on his part or if he did not, in fact, have any plans beyond living for another day. He had only once mentioned a desire to go to America, but she would have thought that simple politeness, except that his many questions regarding the people certainly suggested curiosity about her impressions of it.

  She wondered, uneasily, would he emigrate when the opportunity arose?

  The thought laid another worry over her heart. The American colonies in the early seventeenth century were barely civilized. So many died of disease and in conflicts with the natives. What might happen to Malcolm if he went there? It was not a pleasant notion for the faint of heart to contemplate—and lately, her heart had been fainter than most. The smallest of things seemed to disturb it!

  Still, Malcolm was undeniably special, gifted with some form of glamourie. That would likely protect him. Hadn’t the still-folk intervened once to save him? They wouldn’t let anything happen to him now. Not in America. Not in Scotland. Anywhere he went, Malcolm would be safe.

  She inwardly repeated that thought several more times, finding that the mental incantation helped her to remain calm, even though deep down inside she had doubts about the faeries’ ability to protect the piper once he passed beyond their realm and they were divided by a sea.

  A league on, they came to another black stream where the water glinted darkly beneath a thick growth of stunted shrubs. The ancient, knotted plants stooped in the stony soil, dropping their long, mossy beards into the murky swirling waters, which waved them to and fro.

  Though it left them exposed to the heavens and any eyes that might be watching, Taffy and Malcolm patiently waited at the stream’s side as the dog drank his fill. The hound lapped with a sort of noisy enthusiasm, snapping his jaws together after each swallow with a force that would have shattered human teeth.

  Neither Taffy nor Malcolm had a thirst for the black stream, but Taffy was pleased to rest on a nearby hummock while the hound partook. She was not exhausted but glad to give her feet a moment of weightlessness. Her hiking boots were sensible, but did not allow for a great deal of comfort.

  “Poor beast,” Taffy said softly, no longer bothered by the rain that fell upon them. She had reached a level of dampness where no further moisture mattered. “We’ll have to feed it soon.”

  Malcolm snorted. “The poor beastie is a ferocious hunter. He can feed himself an he wishes.”

  “But he’s tired and hurt.”

  “And we are not?”

  Taffy stared at Malcolm in the hazy light of newest day. He didn’t look tired. In fact, his body radiated with vitality that infected her spirits. She wondered idly if such strength was inherited, or if it had been acquired during their stay in the glen.

  Experience told her that she should be collapsed from exhaustion. Ladies did not hike through the night in raging storms and still feel like they could march a dozen leagues more.

  Still, she had always been strong of body. A characteristic she inherited from both father and mother. And there had never been any reason for her to test the limits of her endurance before this day, so perhaps her seemingly endless strength was not truly out of the ordinary for someone like herself.

  Malcolm turned from his close inspection of the unstable causeway where they had to cross the stream and smiled gently
at her.

  “Ye needn’t worry so. The cave is but a wee bit on. I doubt it’s been found by the Campbells or any other. Ye’ll be safe enough there,” he said encouragingly.

  “I’ll be safe enough?”

  “Aye. As ye pointed out, we’ll need food soon. I’ll do a bit of hunting before the sun is too high up.”

  “Is that safe?” Taffy asked, searching Malcolm’s eyes for the truth.

  He shrugged.

  “As safe as anything in this world, Taffy lass. Just remember that though we are no’ longer in the glen, still a certain magic creeps through these woods and forgotten dreams and power reside here. So guard yer thoughts and words whilst here. I shall be back afore too long.”

  Taffy looked about uneasily at the shadows weaving in the wind, casting the shade of fresh phantom worries over the wet ground. So keen was her new sight that even with darkness still clinging to the edges of the forest, she could discern shapes in the pale light as they passed along.

  “At least the rain is slowing. We’ll be dry soon,” she offered with forced cheer, though rather dismayed at the state of her muddied jean skirts.

  Malcolm chuckled as he reached down to help her to her feet. As ever, his hands were immediate givers of warmth and comfort.

  “Yer no’ so neat and tidy now, lass,” he teased. “Ye’d do better to wear yer skirts endwise like a Scotsman would and keep them out of the dirt and water. Still, yer a grand enough dower in yerself. I suppose I shall keep ye in spite o’ yer muddied clothes.”

  “Actually,” she said, feeling just a touch breathless at the teasing words, “I have quite a grand dowry. It was left to me by a maiden aunt. She was sister to my grandmother, and had an income derived from shipping.”

  “Do ye then? Well, ‘tis a fortunate man I am,” he said lightly, handing her the rifle and then taking her other hand.

  “You are?” she asked, suddenly very short of breath as Malcolm leaned over her to grab a pack. Her grip on the rifle was unnecessarily tight and didn’t lessen as he turned away.

  “Aye. It’s not every man who flees for his life wi’ a bonnie lass who has a fearsome weapon and silver in her pockets.” The careless answer didn’t stop the pounding of her heart.

  Feeling the sudden racing of her pulse beneath his fingers, Malcolm turned back around for a quick peek at her face. Unable to stop herself, Taffy colored and looked away.

  “I think I’d best be getting ye into that cave and finding some breakfast for ye. We can risk a fire an we are quick about it.”

  “That would be wonderful.” she answered, looking back at their hound with exaggerated concern so she wouldn’t have to face Malcolm with hope shining in her eyes. The thought of marrying this man from another time, perhaps having a future with him…it was too much. “You know, I can’t go on calling him dog. He needs a proper name. Something appropriate.”

  “Watch yer step now, lass, or ye’ll be getting a cold bath,” Malcolm cautioned as they crossed the stream, stepping carefully from broken stone to even worse broken stone. “And what sort of name would ye be giving the beastie? Beelzebub, perhaps?”

  “I think I’ll call him Smokey.” Taffy found herself sure-footed, even on the slippery, submerged rocks. Which was good, as the stones were barely visible with the stream swollen as it was.

  “Aye? Well, he’ll like that, no doubt.” Malcolm sounded amused. “ ’Tis a fine dignified name for a fierce hunter after all. And he’ll be pleased tae be reminded of his time in the smokehouse where the kindly Campbells left him tae die.”

  “Well, he isn’t very fierce,” Taffy defended. “Though he is quite dignified, I must say. Even if he smells like a chimney.”

  Malcolm snorted. It was an uneuphonious sound, but Taffy was growing extremely fond of the expression of mirth. Doubtless, Malcolm could make gargling sound like the sweetest music, so wonderful was his voice.

  “Come along, Smokey. The water isn’t deep,” Taffy urged, patting her leg.

  As if to make Malcolm’s point about his abilities, Smokey leaped the stream in a single bound and took up what was becoming his accustomed place beside Taffy. The corner of the hound’s wide mouth turned up and he seemed to be grinning with pride at his prowess.

  “I pray ye never have cause to think otherwise o’ him, lass. Ah!” Malcolm shouldered his way through a shrub wall and stepped into a thicket on the far side of the stream. When Taffy hesitated, he reached out and pulled her in after him.

  Even with her newly empowered sight, the way seemed tangled and obscure, but a few paces on a narrow opening, similar to the mouth of the underground tombs at Kilmartin, presented itself to them. Taffy eyed the trysting stones that flanked the entrance. It was just barely possible that they were naturally placed thus, but she didn’t think so. She felt sure that these were the work of human—or some sentient being’s—will.

  “In wi’ ye, lass” Malcolm said.

  Taffy eyed the opening in the strengthening light, checking it for cobwebs or objectionable droppings. It seemed blessedly free of spiders and other inhabitants, but even had it been filthy with chitin she would have entered, for suddenly she was overcome with a wave of exhaustion that began behind her eyes and passed down her body like a spill of ocean water.

  “There’s tinder inside. Build a small fire near the rear o’ the cave,” Malcolm instructed, standing back so that the dog might precede them into the cavern. “I’ll be back afore ye may twice blink yer blue eyes, and then we’ll have some food and a long rest.”

  “All right,” she answered, refusing to again express her concern for Malcolm’s safety. They had to have food. If he could face the risks unflinching, she would not show him a pallid countenance as he left.

  “Good lass,” Malcolm ducked his head and bussed her quickly, his lips warm on her chilled skin. He spoke softly into her hair: “Dry yer clothes. We’ll want them for a pallet.”

  Then he disappeared into the silent gray-green of the new morning.

  Smokey took up a sentry watch at the mouth of the small cave, his heavy head resting on forepaws as he faced out into the wind and dying rain.

  Taffy found the dried grass and wood stored at the back of the cavern. The scorch marks on the floor and walls showed her where previous fires had been built. Obviously, there was some form of natural chimney at the back of the cavern, for there was little griming on the smooth, vaulted roof just overhead.

  Suddenly aware of being very damp and cold, Taffy opened the pack that Malcolm had left and extracted her lantern. Once the lantern was lit, she was able to light grass twists and steadily feed the twig fire until it was blazing on its own.

  The same pack revealed her borrowed flask, which still had a generous measure of whisky. Taffy was tempted, but decided to save the liquor for a true emergency. Instead, she drank a little of the water that Malcolm had brought from the glen in his sheepskin bag. It tasted peculiar but was still refreshing, and it killed the thirst that parched her tongue as no whisky could do.

  Not feeling inclined to sit about naked while she waited for Malcolm’s return, Taffy nevertheless did her best to spread her skirts where she sat at the edge of the fire so that they might dry as Malcolm had instructed.

  Though not particularly uneasy of mind, Taffy also kept her rifle close at hand as she rested her head upon her drawn-up knees and considered the events that had overtaken her. She was too weary to fully relive the fear, delight, and passion of the last days, but they were remembered. Her gun was close, her heart—foolish thing!—was somehow quite happy, and the rest of her…Taffy shivered and moved closer to the fire. The rest of her was still very aware of where Malcolm had bestowed her with kisses and caresses and laid his weight upon her.

  For a long while, there was no sound in the cavern to distract her, except the snapping of twigs consumed in the flames and the soft fall of slowing rain, but presently Smokey dropped into a noisy sleep, which had him whining as his paws twitched and small shivers worked their way
down his spine.

  Did the dog weep for his sins under the mastery of the Campbells? she wondered. Or was he lonely and dreaming of a familiar hearth or stable where his canine friends waited?

  It didn’t matter, she decided. The high sound was troubling and likely to give them away to any passersby in the wood.

  “Smokey—cu,” she called softly, using Malcolm’s name for the dog.

  The hound’s ears pricked at once and he turned to look at her with intelligent brown eyes.

  “Come here, boy.” Taffy patted the ground beside her in invitation. The hound turned for a last look at the dripping green outside the cave, sniffed deeply of the wet air, and then came to join her by the fire. Once laid down with her hand upon his brow, Smokey gave a heavy sigh and returned to his sleep. This time it was an easy slumber, unbroken by shivers or lonely sighs.

  Unable to resist the pull of bone-deep exhaustion, Taffy slumped over against the hound and slept, too. She dreamt uneasily of being chased by a giant-tusked boar.

  Malcolm returned only a while later, bearing a skinned hare. Though weary to the bone, he still had to smile at the picture that greeted him inside the cave. His golden lass was a right mess—mud-spattered and bedraggled—but she was still pretty as the innocent dawn, curled up asleep with her American firearm and her adopted Campbell hell-hound.

  She had done a good job of building a smokeless fire, too. The few curls that headed for the roof’s vent were nearly invisible and it burned with even brightness.

  Wasting no time, Malcolm spitted the rabbit carcass, and arranging some stones, set the meat to cooking. His sodden plaid was quickly doffed and spread out on the floor to dry. He did not grease his woolen as some crofters did and therefore it easily took on the dampness from outdoors.

  The pleasant smell of roasting meat soon had Taffy stirring. A rumble deep in her belly was loud enough to wake her and she opened her eyes upon the pleasant sight of a half-naked Malcolm, turning their breakfast so it wouldn’t singe in the fire.