“As I said, one of the soldiers pushed Hannah because she attacked him. She fell and landed on her stomach. Her water broke shortly after. The ferries took most of the villagers to the Bristol, and those of us left sought shelter in the forest. Hannah could hardly walk by then. I mind Beatrice saying that it looked to be a hard labor, and it was. It was so hard, it stole your mam’s life.”
For a few moments, nothing but the ticking of the clock broke the silence. Morrigan rubbed her eyes. She studied the sitting room, picturing Randall Benedict warming his hands at this fireplace, maybe on the same night Hannah perished.
Now the child she’d given birth to lived in his house.
“I’m ashamed to admit that while Hannah suffered, I fell asleep,” Ibby said.
“You were exhausted.”
“’Tis my only excuse. That’s when the dream came.”
Silence stretched into minutes. Morrigan resisted the urge to prod her.
“She was beautiful,” Ibby said. “Long black hair and a shining silver crown. The purest face. She asked me how I could sleep when a miracle was coming.”
“Me?”
“Aye. She said your name was the forgotten title of a Greek goddess, Goddess Athene. I didn’t understand that, since every child in Scotland over the age of two has heard of the Morrígan. She’s as Celtic as they come.”
“This dream told you my name?”
“Aye. That was strange, but stranger still was when she told me I once gave life to you.” Ibby smiled. “Truly, you’ve always felt more like a daughter to me than a niece.”
Morrigan returned her smile.
Sobering, Ibby added, “She said you came to save us, but that first you must suffer as her Mother’s children had suffered.”
Morrigan shook her head. “It was a dream, Auntie. A daft dream.”
“Your life’s hardly begun. I’ve always felt there was something special about you, Morrigan. Haven’t you?”
It was hard to speak such deep, private thoughts out loud, but she tried. “I’ve thought I had feelings and thoughts like no one else’s, except maybe… maybe Curran. And… a few others. I see things— hear things sometimes. But tell me the end of your story. What else happened that night?”
“Your mam gave birth to you and slipped away.” Ibby sat back in her chair and rubbed her forehead. “Douglas cleaned her face with a blanket. Everything was a struggle for them, but I believe Douglas did love Hannah, and longed for her to love him.” Pouring another cupful of cold tea, Ibby drank like she was uncommonly thirsty. “He wasn’t evil, not in those days.”
Morrigan bit down on the protest that rose inside.
“There was blood everywhere,” her aunt continued. “Blood, death, and sorrow because Randall Benedict wanted his land free of folk. Because he wanted to replace us with sheep.”
“What about the others? Why didn’t we all die?”
“Many did. We buried them as best we could. It was so cold, you can’t imagine. We used everything the soldiers left, even rebuilt a shack or two, but they came again and burned them. When we tried to shelter in the old barracks they called us trespassers and threatened us with prison. We had no guns. You would’ve starved for sure if Wynda Urquhart hadn’t agreed to nurse you along with her son. His name was Hearn. Oh, the men made traps to catch rabbits. Sometimes they did, but it seemed like when the folk left, so did the beasts. Hearn sickened and Wynda refused to share her milk any longer. She said she needed it for him. I couldn’t blame her. Her milk dried up soon enough. Beth Dunbar got frostbite. Her toes turned white and she couldn’t feel them. Later, they turned black. John, her father, stepped in a snowdrift. It collapsed and a boulder crushed his head. It was Logan who found him.”
“Logan. He doesn’t act like he endured such horror. He’s so—”
“Logan was a hero. Eight years old, yet he saved three children that day. He ran into their burning home and brought them out. When his da died, he took it hard. His spirit started to go. He’d sob for hours. It may not seem like it, but Logan remembers. I think it molded him into the man he is. Tess was two. She has no real memories, yet when she sings, I hear those days in her voice.”
“Her songs are always of pain and loss.”
“Father Drummond tried to help. His is a poor parish, so there wasn’t much, but he begged for money, which he used to buy food and material for tents. He took two ill women to his manse, and for that, they threatened to burn it down. He wrote many a letter demanding assistance, all of which Randall Benedict, who by then had moved to Edinburgh, ignored. Mam came down with lung fever. Soon she couldn’t breathe, and we’d no medicines, no knowledge of herbs or roots. With the ground frozen, we couldn’t bury her. Our blankets and clothing fell apart.”
Ibby stopped, her face turning white. “The weans’ cries of hunger,” she said, “the way they begged for food, was more than I could… more than any of us… I wonder we didn’t all go mad as Wynda. I’ll hear those voices till the day I die.”
“Auntie,” Morrigan cried. “Stop! Don’t speak of it anymore.”
A knock startled them both. The door swung open and there stood her husband, dandling a squirming Olivia. “Am I interrupting?” He took in Ibby’s tear-stained cheeks.
“Of course not,” Ibby said. “Come in, dear.” She wiped her eyes. “I was telling Morrigan of the clearings. She wanted to know, and I thought she had the right.”
He stepped inside and closed the door. “The wee one misses her mama,” he said quietly, and gave their daughter to Morrigan. Then he straightened and held out his arms. Ibby entered them willingly.
Over the top of Ibby’s head, Curran frowned at his wife. She looked away.
“My recollections are confused after Mam died.” Ibby stepped back, brushing away fresh tears. “You tell her the rest.” She faced Morrigan. “He surely has better memories than I, though he was, oh I cannot mind. How old were you, Curran?”
“Seven.” Curran nodded. “I do remember. My father discussed it with me many times. It was important to him that I never forget. It made the greatest impression on him of anything in his life. I’d be glad to tell you what happened, if you like.” His tone was diffident, and he didn’t meet Morrigan’s gaze.
The image of Lily and Curran, kissing on the loveseat while Morrigan watched, materialized forcibly. Curran had not defended her. He’d allowed Lily to criticize her, to accuse her of reprehensible acts.
Morrigan had agonized over the intimacies she and Mackinnon had shared. She had separated herself from him, had vowed never to be alone with him again. She had cared about harming her marriage.
She wanted to strike out, to stamp her feet and scream. Mackinnon had made it clear, that night in the forest, that he loved her, that all she had to do was speak, and he would be hers. And she hadn’t! Instead she’d gone to see Father Drummond. She’d resisted with all her might, for Olivia’s sake, for Curran’s, only to be betrayed by him like she meant nothing, like Olivia meant nothing. “I do want to know,” she said, hearing her voice so rigidly controlled she hardly recognized it, “but I’m tired. Maybe tomorrow.”
Curran opened his mouth as if to speak, but, in the end, he only nodded. His jaw clenched. Then he left them, Ibby, his daughter, and his wife.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CURRAN LED HIS band of travelers from the pier to the MacNeil house. Impossible to miss, it squatted in the middle of Castlebay, a stone structure that seemed out of place among the smaller, ruder buildings. He felt the eyes of the locals observing this strange, and therefore suspicious, troop of foreigners with the squalling baby. He could hardly blame them, but at least, unlike Quinn, his companions were all Scots.
A tired-looking woman met them at the door. She didn’t smile or welcome them, or even seem surprised, but merely said, in heavily accented English, that yes, they could let the place, and that she was the housekeeper. Curran tried to put her at ease by replying in Gaelic, but she didn’t seem impressed.
; They soon determined that with only three bedrooms, Ibby and Beatrice would have to sleep together, as would Curran and Seaghan. Morrigan, Diorbhail, and Olivia would take the third room. The housekeeper, who reluctantly told them her name was Faith Kelso, and only after being asked twice, produced an ancient cradle from somewhere.
Curran waited until the women were busy unpacking before going in search of Mrs. Kelso. He found her making tea in the kitchen. “Has an Englishman stayed here recently?” he asked.
He’d never seen a face so unreadable. “Aye,” she said.
“What happened to him, d’you know?”
This question merely made one of her brows lift.
“He’s a friend,” Curran said impatiently. “I expected to hear from him, but I haven’t. He’s disappeared.”
“He left.”
“Was he in good health?”
“As far as I know.” She stopped speaking, and Curran’s jaw clenched with the effort to keep from grabbing her and shaking her to forcibly loosen her tongue.
“The night before he left,” she said, “he was writing something. He was always writing. He cursed Barraigh. Said he could reach London faster than his letter. He left the next morning.”
“Please show me where he wrote his letters.”
She led him to a cramped, unremarkable study and pointed to the writing desk.
Curran thanked her and sent her away before he began rummaging. His own letter to Quinn was inside the drawer. There was nothing else but a few sheets of blank stationery, a blotter, and a couple of scraps with unintelligible notes. Only after he slammed the drawer closed did he notice a crumpled ball of paper on the floor under the desk, almost invisible in the shadows. He retrieved it and smoothed it out, his gut churning with worry at what he read.
I have disturbing information I do not want to trust to a letter. When you get to Mallaig stay there. I’ll come over on the first of August and meet you at the Scythe and Swan. Do not come here— it’s too dangerous.
“Curran?”
“Seaghan.” Curran waved in the fisherman. “Look what I’ve found.” He explained briefly about Quinn and read the letter out loud.
“What will you do?” Seaghan asked.
Curran rubbed his eyes, feeling as weary as he could ever remember. “I wonder if he was at the Scythe and Swan? If only I had known. But how could I, since he never mailed this? Nor did he come to London that I know of, though the housekeeper says that’s what he intended.”
“Why don’t you go and see if you can find him. If his information is that important, surely he’ll go up to Kilgarry since he missed you in Mallaig. I’m here, I’ll watch over the lasses. You need to know what the man discovered, I think.”
“But the letter says it’s dangerous here. We should go home.”
“That isn’t necessary. Besides, your wife told me she wants to visit the isle of Mingulay. She said your London friends offered you a cottage there. Why don’t I escort the ladies to this island while you find Quinn? We’ll all be gone from Barra, and whatever danger he was speaking of.”
“Well….”
“D’you really think anyone can get through me to harm Morrigan or your wean?”
Curran laughed. “I don’t know what Morrigan would do to me if I forced her to go home, and I can’t tell her I sent Quinn here to investigate Aodhàn. She’d never forgive it.”
“I won’t tell her. Come; let’s walk down to the pier while the women are doing their female things. We’ll see about finding a willing captain to ferry you to the mainland and the rest of us to the southern isles.”
* * * *
Curran left early in the morning, and while waiting for the fisherman who had agreed to transport them to Mingulay, Morrigan decided to walk around the village. Diorbhail wanted to go with her, so they left Olivia with Ibby and Beatrice.
“’Tis odd, Master Ramsay leaving again,” Diorbhail said as they paused to admire the medieval castle in the bay.
“Aye.” Morrigan kept her relief to herself. Since the moment Barra had come into view, she’d had a peculiar sense that she’d been here before. With Curran gone, she didn’t feel as guilty or angry, and it was nice to not sense his gaze always upon her, as though he’d like to peel away her skin and bones and tear into her brain. “Something to do with his shipping company. I’m no’ going to fret about it. Do you think you could beat me to the top of that mountain? The housekeeper called it Sheabhal.”
“Let’s see what being a lady of leisure has done to you.”
They spent the next two hours panting and laughing their way to the summit of the hill behind the village, and when they got there, fought the wind to keep standing, and stuffed themselves with cheese and bread.
“Which one of those islands d’you think is Mingulay?” asked Diorbhail.
Morrigan shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said, but her gaze locked on the western one, half shrouded in clouds. Could that be it? She felt it was, but didn’t know why.
“You dreamed of it, did you not, a long while ago? Do you remember asking me if I knew what it was?”
“I have so many dreams, I can hardly remember.” Diorbhail was looking at her searchingly, obviously hoping Morrigan would say more, but Morrigan knew better. Diorbhail might well go off and shoot or stab the man she considered such a threat to her beloved Curran.
Diorbhail said nothing for a moment. She just looked at Morrigan in that way she had, making Morrigan feel like her secrets were displayed on her forehead.
“Maybe you lived there once, in another body,” she said finally, “and that’s why you want to go there.”
“I promised Lily and Richard that we would check on their cottage, that’s all,” Morrigan said. “What’s on that hill over there? A ruin? Let’s go see.”
* * * *
“I don’t like this place,” Diorbhail said, low.
Morrigan felt too ill to reply, and could only shake her head.
Stones were scattered around the hilltop haphazardly, many still blackened with old soot stains. The wind sounded like soft, mournful wailing.
Both jumped when someone behind them spoke. “What are you doing?” It was their housekeeper, staring at them coldly. “None come here, unless they prefer the company of ghosts to men.”
“Ghosts?” Morrigan asked.
“Here, where the murders took place.” Faith wore an odd, satisfied expression, but there was something else there, as well. “My daughter was butchered, and my grandchildren.”
Morrigan felt more than heard Diorbhail’s gasp. With each passing moment, she felt more nauseated, and had to resist the urge to rub her throat, which had begun to itch and burn. Sparkles burst before her eyes and she felt the ground rush towards her face. Diorbhail seized her arms and supported her.
“Aye,” Faith said, narrow-eyed. “My youngest grandchild was but four.”
“Don’t… don’t,” Morrigan whispered.
Ignoring her, the woman said, “They burned the house. This is all that’s left. Go away. This place is no’ for outsiders. You defile it by coming here.”
Diorbhail pulled Morrigan off that sad, awful hill. Morrigan looked back once, and saw Faith swipe at her eyes.
* * * *
Seaghan lectured Morrigan as the boat passed the castle in the bay and headed into open water. “Your husband left you in my care,” he said. “I’ll thank you to no’ make my work harder.” When she said nothing, he put his hand on her forearm. “D’you understand? You will tell me where you’re going from now on.”
“Aye, Seaghan.”
Their captain, Mr. Cameron, spoke only Gaelic, so Seaghan had to translate. Apparently the man seldom saw such calm seas around Mingulay, and said the Virgin Mary must be blessing their visit. He suggested a boat tour of the island, promising they would never forget the western cliffs.
Up and up and up Morrigan stared, transfixed. Mr. Cameron laughed, quite gratified. Bual na Creige, he called the rock face, sheer, black, omin
ous, like something from myth. Only the kittiwakes and guillemots dared touch it. The water was so soft he decided to venture into the sharp cleft slicing into the island; they dropped into deep, cold shadow beneath the towering ebony wall.
“I want to stand on the summit and look down,” she said.
The grizzled old man laughed again, and uttered something.
“He says to make certain you haven’t been drinking,” Seaghan told her. “He hates to think how many have fallen off.”
Their guide carried them past several towering sea stacks: Lianamuil, with its mysterious yawning caves, and Arnamuil, and through the chilly narrow arch separating the island from another stack he called Gunamuil.
She imagined being in a small boat like this when the waters were not calm. No doubt the boat and its passengers would be shattered to bits against the rock and sucked into fathomless graves. Tales abounded of lighthouse keepers and fishermen, lost mysteriously, leaving no clues as to what might have happened.
Mr. Cameron dropped his dinghy on the east side and they put to shore without incident beside a white sandy beach. They asked him to point out the Donaghue house and he did, with the stem of his pipe. It was hard to miss, a multicolored fieldstone cottage with a slate roof, perched in solitary magnificence above the humble village, halfway up a steep hill where green beach grass and sea holly turned to moorland scrub and peat.
When he mentioned it was locally called Taigh na Gaoithe, “Windy House,” a sharp shock coursed through Morrigan, causing her breath to catch. She saw again the woman smashing a bottle of champagne against those stones and wiping her wet, sticky hands on Aodhàn Mackinnon’s face.
Her vision degenerated into wildly bursting spots of color; her ears hummed so loudly she hardly heard Mr. Cameron telling them they would have no trouble finding women to clean and cook.
Two village lasses, eager to earn extra coin, led the group up the hill to their new home and went about dusting and digging out the teapot and cups. It was as Lily had described, a pleasant cottage with four bedrooms, two parlors, and a well-equipped kitchen, the whole drawing in light from large casement windows. Stuffed couches, chairs, and loveseats were preserved beneath sheets, which the hired women whisked away. Ibby and Beatrice took the east bedroom, Diorbhail chose one in the middle for herself and Olivia, and Seaghan the next, leaving Morrigan and Curran the largest, with the biggest bed, at the west end. A fire was soon burning cheerily in the west parlor, chasing away the chill that lingered from being shut up and empty for so long.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 71