Before she could decide whether she agreed with this or not, he added, “I’ve sealed my fate, but I don’t care. Trust me, Morrigan. Believe me. Can you?”
“Aye,” she said.
Later, when she was alone, without those intoxicating eyes and storyteller’s voice… that’s when the questions would come.
* * * *
In a moment, after she finished a reviving bite or two of cold mutton, Mackinnon would put out the fire and take her to Taigh na Gaoithe. It wasn’t yet dawn, but dawn was close.
“That ring you gave me,” she said. “It was my wedding ring?”
“Aye.” He rubbed his eyes wearily.
“What does the inscription mean? I was afraid to ask.”
“You know Gaelic. It was your first language. If you think about it, it will come to you.”
She smiled and took a deep breath. “It said Gaol mo chridhe. Love is gaol. Mo is my.”
He nodded, offering no assistance.
“So… my love.” She pondered as he rolled up the sheepskins and put them in the trunk. “Chridhe,” she said again, listening, looking inside for the answer. “Heart.”
He turned from the trunk, watching her.
“Love of my heart,” she said.
He smiled and returned, going down on one knee. “I have something else of yours.” Digging once more into his coat pocket, he brought out the delicate chain and pendant, and placed it over his fingertips so it was illuminated in the firelight. There was the dark blue stone, the crescent moons and wavy lines.
“You were wearing this when you had the fever,” she said.
He traced the engraving. “The moon, waxing and waning, with the holy star between them, means hope for paradise. The lines speak of the labyrinth, the center of things, where truth is found and love, reborn. Will you take it? Keep it against your skin to remind you of this night?”
She hesitated. Was he suggesting this was all they would ever have?
Not trusting her voice, she nodded, and he fastened it around her neck. For a moment the reddish-orange color appeared around him, and the ornament seemed to respond with emanating warmth.
He tilted his head and smiled, then rose and kicked the fire out. They left the bothy and walked down the hill, holding hands, until Taigh na Gaoithe loomed before them.
The moon dangled low in the west. Their one night, their bold fortune, was nearly over.
The air was sharp and clear. Stars glittered, so close Morrigan thought she could reach up and pluck one. The wind sang in the grass, a nearby burn bubbled in accompaniment, and one solitary tern made a heartbreaking entreaty.
Anything could happen on such an enchanted night. The earth waited with her, holding its breath. Perhaps Aodhàn was really a god from Greek Olympus. If so, he’d be Dionysos, with the power to transform her blood to wine.
Closing her eyes, she felt herself revolve, round and round in perfect harmony with the earth. She placed a hand over her stomach, wanting to sense the new child. She would go to Olivia. She wanted to hold her baby as dawn saturated the heavens.
Rustling disturbed the brush. Aodhàn’s head turned and she heard the scraich of a cat close in the darkness, followed by a squeal.
Did he change in some subtle way? For an instant she believed the primal challenge had come from his throat. Would he shake his head and revert to true form? Would he devour her here in this wild, windswept place? The illusion vanished into the dour, somber, familiar Mackinnon, though the likeness to a feral beast remained in the alert angle of his head.
“There’s your cottage,” he said. He gazed down at her, his eyes suffused with moonlight.
She glanced at the house but was far more intrigued by the way the light carved patterns over his face, changing him from ordinary man to something supernatural— again she thought of the daoine sìth. After so many strange visions, how could she know for certain what was real? Any second, he might give a crazed laugh and vanish, leaving her alone with the unhappy tern and the ever-soughing sea, or she might wake alone in her bed, victim of yet another bodiless dream.
“Go home to Glenelg,” she said. “I need to think, and when I’m with you, I can’t. Whatever I do, from now on, I mean to do with a clear head.”
He put his hands on her waist. She felt he knew, in the fearsome way they had, every queer thought running through her brain.
“Should I… should I go and visit that woman… Faith?” she asked. “She was Lilith’s mother.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Don’t. She wouldn’t understand or believe you. She has grown accustomed to her loss now. It would reawaken her suffering. You can’t go back in time, only forward.”
She thought for a moment. “Promise me, promise,” she said, almost involuntarily.
“What, m’ eudail.”
“Promise nothing will come between us, no matter what happens.”
He paused. “This isn’t the first time you’ve demanded that vow of me. And I have kept it, for over three thousand years.”
The strangest words floated within as she gazed into his face.
Until the rise of Iakchos.
The number slowly sank in. “Three thousand years?”
He turned his face up and laughed, the sound full and joyous. “Fortune favors the bold,” he shouted, with no regard for secrecy, wrongdoing, or the sleeping inhabitants of Mingulay. Away in the grass, the cat hissed.
Could she allow him to see her worries, her fears? No. She’d be invincible, a moon goddess to his wine god.
“Why do I call you Mackinnon instead of Aodhàn?”
“Because I always kissed you when you called me Aodhàn.” He placed his thumb on her lower lip. “Always. Because of the shape your mouth makes when you say it. You had to call me Mackinnon so I wouldn’t make love to you at inopportune moments.”
“Aodhàn,” she said.
He rested his hand on her shoulder then let it trail down to her backside, where it pressed, drawing her inexorably closer. She raised her face and he kissed her for a long while before releasing her. “We’ll see if you can give me up,” he said.
She went down the hill, pausing at the door. There. A dark figure hidden in the shadows. Morrigan caught a quick flash of silver, like a star had fallen to the earth.
An ocean of rainbows filled her mouth, bursting with the flavor of strawberries.
With one last look at the deeper shadow in a world of shadows, she went indoors to dream of lost sisters, of the women she had been.
But now she felt them surrounding her. She even knew what one looked like, and they did not seem quite as lost.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CURRAN VISITED EVERY tavern in Mallaig, searching for Quinn. He checked every lodging house. He inquired at the pier of all the ferryboat captains and fishermen who hired out boats for a fee.
No one remembered seeing a dignified older Englishman with bushy steel-colored sideburns.
Throughout his search, Curran had to fight a constant urge to jump onto the next boat that would take him west. The itching anxiety, the need to find something, he knew not what, reappeared. During this last year with Morrigan he’d almost forgotten it. Morrigan had filled him to overflowing even as she’d driven him halfway down the road towards madness.
What was she doing? Was she safe? Was Olivia? Was Seaghan watching over them as he’d promised? He needed to be there, with them, not here, searching for a man who seemed to have vanished from the earth. He was furious with Quinn, for writing that letter and not mailing it, for not detailing what he’d discovered, for not being where he’d promised to be.
Finally, after making the circuit of Mallaig three times, Curran was forced to admit Quinn was not here, and may never have been.
He would sail up to Kilgarry. If Quinn wasn’t there, he would set off immediately for Mingulay.
* * * *
Morrigan sat on a blanket looking out at the Atlantic, listening to the thunder of the waves against the cliffs far, far
below. Olivia lay next to her, laughing joyously at a foraging grey-winged gull that seemed intent on entertaining her.
A village boy had delivered a note from Mackinnon this morning. Morrigan pulled it out of her pocket.
Nam chridhe gu bràth, it said. She’d worked it out, smiling at the challenge. In my heart forever. Below that, it read, Once more. Tonight. Dùn Mhiughalaigh.
He claimed she was his wife, reborn. It might sound outrageous, but she knew it was true, partly because of the dreams she’d had even before Curran introduced her to Aodhàn Mackinnon. Their disparate ages also fit.
You’re mine and I am yours, he’d stated. No matter what separates us.
She wasn’t a whore, or a weak woman recklessly succumbing to shallow passions. She wasn’t even an adulteress. It was her husband she’d spent the night with, a husband she’d shared a home and children with. She hadn’t left him. She’d been murdered. It changed everything.
Of course she wouldn’t meet him. All her instincts ordered her to tear up the note. Justifications aside, she was now married to a different man, a man who also deserved respect and honor. The way her bones seemed to vibrate at the mere thought of Aodhàn told her she could never resist him if she saw him again. He muddled her clarity. She had told him she would not meet him, and she must stand firm.
Hearing footsteps, she turned to find Seaghan approaching. He dropped onto the blanket and swooped up Olivia with a sound kiss. She giggled in a baby’s fresh, free-spirited way, unspoiled as yet by life’s inevitable humiliations and disappointments.
Morrigan returned the note to her pocket.
“Lass,” he said, “I have things I want to say.”
He’d been watching her, observing the nuances of every expression, for two days. She’d done her best to act as though nothing had changed, but she probably hadn’t succeeded.
“What things?” she asked.
“Aodhàn’s been my comrade and confidant for twenty years. Long ago, I might’ve killed myself if he hadn’t been there. I was so far from home. I didn’t know what had happened to Hannah.” He sighed. “I was grateful he was with me when I learned of her death.”
He gestured at the heaving Atlantic swells. “There’s something about the sea that tears at him. He goes coarse and moody and disappears. He’s suffered with something. You’d think it would have driven him mad to never find relief. To never speak of it, not to anyone, even me.” He paused. “Only those who understand the dark can hear the heartbeat of the night… of God, I like to think. Aodhàn understands the dark better than most.”
Seaghan waited until Morrigan stopped contemplating the ocean and faced him again. “Sometimes I think Aodhàn is mad,” he said. A frown deepened the creases around his mouth. “I know I’m stepping beyond my boundaries to say these things, but he’s married. I’ve never seen her, but no’ so long ago, the day after your wedding in fact, he claimed she’s alive. If that’s true, neither of you are free.”
She thought of the murders, and the secret Mackinnon had told her. “No, Seaghan,” she said. “His wife is dead.”
“You knew of it?”
She nodded, and his shoulders relaxed. “Be that as it may, I think you’re going to be hurt. Somehow this will end badly. Aodhàn’s no’ meant to love a lass. Not the way Curran can.”
Aching over his concern, she decided to be as honest as she could. “You speak of madness? I know it well, and Mackinnon understands that. He understands me in a way Curran can’t. As braw as Curran is, as much as he loves me, he can’t understand me. I know he would if he could, but Mackinnon… Mackinnon is the only one.” She rubbed her arm across her forehead. “I don’t want to hurt my husband. What’s he ever been but decent and good?” Her gaze turned to the granite precipice that fell away, sheer and implacable. She felt like she was sitting at the summit of Mount Olympus, in the company of all the great gods and goddesses, looking out over the world of mortals. “Curran and Olivia have taken over my heart,” she said softly. “Do I give up my heart, or my soul?”
“You’re no’ alone,” he said. “Not ever, my darling. I… I….”
She smiled and squeezed his hand. “You remind me of a man I saw once in Stranraer. He came out of a dress shop with his daughter; she’d near buried him under boxes and bags. They were laughing. He spoke to her. He listened like he was interested in everything she said. I followed them awhile, and went home in misery because of the way my papa hated me. I wished I had a father like that man. I wished it all the time. I think that old wish has been granted… in you. Oh, I know I sound like a spoiled child. I’m not saying I’d exchange Douglas Lawton. If I could have a moment with him right now, I’d thank him for all he did. Maybe he needed to hear me say it. Maybe he needed to believe I cared. But you’re my honorary father. If I could help it, I’d never do anything to shame you. I don’t think Mackinnon would either. But we’re dragged like leaves in a windstorm, aren’t we? Do we ever have as much control over events as we think we do?”
Seaghan pulled her head to his great chest and held her there, the slow beat of his powerful heart lending her brief hope that everything might yet turn out as it should.
* * * *
Fionna handed Curran a pile of letters after disappointing him with her reply that no, Quinn had not come to Kilgarry, not since Olivia had been christened. Then she pointed to the envelope on top. He saw it had been forwarded from the man’s law office in London.
Ripping it open, Curran went off to his study so he could read in private.
I do hope to see you soon, but I mail this letter in case something prevents it.
You were right to be concerned. With the help of shillings, whisky, and a lonely old man’s love of sad tales, I at last have the information you sent me here to discover.
This entire island was sold to a Colonel Gordon in the thirties. He apparently had no real interest in the place, and sent a factor, Kenneth Mackinnon, to see to his interests. Kenneth, a widower, had one child, a son, Aodhàn, who was twelve when his father brought him here.
Aodhàn was sent away to Eton soon after, with the assumption he would go on to Oxford, but his father’s worsening consumption forced him back to Barra when he was nineteen, and he took up with a local girl. The old man only remembers her Christian name: Lilith. There was apparently another man who was interested in the same girl. I mention it because he may have been murdered. My informant says one of Kenneth Mackinnon’s servants was likely the perpetrator, but no one was ever arrested as evidence could not be found, and the official cause of death was cholera.
Aodhàn Mackinnon married this girl and Aodhàn’s father died not long after their first child was born. Aodhàn assumed the factor’s duties and was hated every bit as much by the natives as his sire. His wife gave birth to a daughter in 1846, and another in 1849. In 1851, Gordon ordered the clearing of most of Barra’s populace, and this was carried out, according to my informant, with heartless brutality. Some time after this, Aodhàn Mackinnon and his wife adopted a European child, an abandoned orphan girl named Romhilde.
In 1853, there was some kind of scandal. The old man did not know the details, and could only tell me the gossip he’d heard, that the youngest Mackinnon child had revealed to someone that her mother and father worshipped the Devil, and that her mother was a witch. The rumors claimed she had the power of never ending life, which she had gained by selling her soul.
It took much more whisky to coax the man into sharing what happened next, and he wept as he told it. Twelve men broke into the Mackinnon house. They murdered Aodhàn’s wife and daughters before his eyes. They threw him into the ocean, from where, if I have the story right, Seaghan MacAnaugh dredged him. I say that because I heard it from you. The old Barra man of course did not know that part.
I hope you received my first letter, where I mentioned the latest murders: twelve men killed by some wolf-like creature or ghost. It turns out those murdered men were the very ones who broke into the Mackinnon home and
killed Mistress Mackinnon and her daughters. The slayings occurred during the two months you told me Aodhàn Mackinnon disappeared from Glenelg, in October of last year, after, as you said, his lost memories were restored to him.
It is my belief that your Aodhàn Mackinnon came here and killed those men. It may not be Christian of me to say so, but I hardly blame him.
Here are the bare facts: he was married, but his wife is long dead, as are his offspring, all but the adopted girl. I understand she survived the attack and was sent back to her homeland.
I would be most happy to sit down with you and discuss what you want to do next, my friend. I hope to meet with you in Mallaig
— Quinn
Curran stared at the letter a long while as he imagined the horror of what Aodhàn had suffered. Then he raced to the kitchen tell Fionna he was leaving immediately.
* * * *
“I’m sorry, m’lord, but there will be no landing today.” The wizened fisherman tapped the bowl of his pipe against the boat rail. “It would be suicide.”
“I have to land.” Every muscle in Curran’s body clenched. “We’re here. The shore’s right there in front of us. It’s urgent.”
“D’you see that?” The fisherman pointed, a bit too patiently, at the way the heavy swell climbed up then dipped into a fathomless trough, over and over. “D’you see how the waves are hitting the rocks? They’re moving too fast. You cannot race them and win, no’ to mention the dinghy would be swamped as soon as we put her in the water. Is landing so important you’re ready to drown, or have your head bashed in? Now, I’m willing to wait awhile. Things could calm down after sunset.”
“No.” Curran knew the old sailor was right. There was nothing to be done, no way to get to Morrigan, not with these waves. But everything within him shouted that he must reach her, no matter the cost. He could hardly breathe through the compulsion.
Before the captain could discern what this young fool meant to do and grab him, Curran seized the rail and leaped overboard.
* * * *
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 74