Morrigan heard the words, but it was impossible to believe. “Aunt Beatrice… dead?” Dead. The woman who had raised her. She turned her face away to stare blankly at the setting moon. Dead by violence at Seaghan’s hand.
“One more of my family dead.”
“I am your family. I am your kin, and so is Eleanor.” Diorbhail embraced her, offering comfort, and Morrigan was comforted, but she noted that Diorbhail didn’t say Curran’s name. She must know there was no hope for kinship there, not now.
Mackinnon was dead. Curran was horribly injured, and Seaghan had murdered her aunt. Morrigan closed her eyes, inwardly tumbling, and wondered if things would have been better if she had killed herself.
Yesterday, she had wept for the first time in memory. She knew she should weep now— it seemed only right, a sign of respect to her aunt. Tears clogged her throat, but her eyes remained dry. Perhaps that brief ability had gone over the cliff with Mackinnon.
“Something changed in her while we were away,” Diorbhail said. “I felt the difference when we returned from London, and when I looked at her I saw a man’s face— a cruel face. She wanted to hurt Master Curran last night, and she did. But I know you loved her, and I’m sorry.”
“Where… where is she now?”
“We wrapped her in bedclothes while you took care of Master Curran. Ibby said that one of the housemaids is the undertaker’s daughter. She said she would send for him today.”
“I should see her,” Morrigan said, but reluctantly.
“I don’t advise it,” Diorbhail said. “Mind her as she was.”
Morrigan realized what she was saying. Beatrice had been throttled to death, and that would no doubt be evident. Seaghan… Seaghan would have to face the law.
“Seaghan murdered my aunt,” she said. “Seaghan… the gentlest man I think I’ve ever met.”
“There was long-standing hatred between them. From when your mother was alive. I felt it. I saw it.”
Morrigan rested her cheek on Diorbhail’s shoulder. “I should never have come to Glenelg. How I wish I could go back in time and undo it.”
“How could you have known?”
“Where is Seaghan? I just realized I haven’t seen him.”
“Ibby said he left the cottage last night, after… and he never returned.”
“He’s probably beside himself at what he’s done.”
“Maybe.” Diorbhail didn’t sound so sure about that. “Look, a charaid, it’s getting lighter.”
They walked along the edge, examining every speck as best they could, but they saw nothing. It was too far. There was too much spray, obscuring everything beneath it.
“It’s no use,” Morrigan said.
“Come,” Diorbhail said. “We’ll pay a fisherman to bring us round in his boat.”
“I suppose there’s nothing else we can do.”
They made their way down the incline and crossed to the rope ladder. Then Diorbhail said, “What’s that?” and pointed.
Off to the right the frayed end of another rope was whipping in the wind, and beside it was a square, faded flag.
They went over and discovered a manmade path. It descended, terrifyingly steep and narrow, as far as could be seen, the lower reaches hidden in spray mist. A rope was nailed into the rock, to use as a handhold when the wind blew, which it always did on Mingulay.
“I wager this leads to the water,” Morrigan said.
“What are you thinking?”
“We could go down, try to find him.”
Diorbhail eyed the threadlike, crumbling path. But she nodded. “Lead the way.”
They set out. Morrigan half-stumbled, half-slid along the path that in places was no wider than her foot, keeping such a tight grip on the rope that her hands cramped. She avoided looking over the drop to her right, or thinking how any misstep could send her plummeting. The uncertain pathway, little more than slippery rock covered with a thin layer of slimy mud, eventually broadened onto a shelf of rough sand. The sea boomed and echoed.
There was a dinghy, roped into an iron ring, rising and dipping in the morning swells, tugging against its restraining line. Morrigan shaded her eyes and examined the cliffs; she saw nothing, no body of a drowned man, but there were many recesses that could be hiding him.
Even as she wondered if this boat was Mackinnon’s, she saw the driftwood box on the center thwart.
She pulled on the line to draw the boat nearer, and stepped onto a ledge beneath the water’s surface. Icy seawater foamed over her ankles and drenched through her shoes. The boat tipped precariously as she climbed in, then recovered its balance.
She opened the box. The ring was there, winking in the sunlight. Mackinnon’s presence surrounded her. Her hands shook as she closed the box and put it in her pocket.
“What is it?” Diorbhail asked.
“Mackinnon’s boat,” Morrigan said.
Again, methodically, she examined the cliffs and sea. As her gaze traveled to the south, she discerned what looked like a large cave, carved into the side of Dùn Mhiughalaigh, near the water line. Her heartbeat sped up, thinking she saw a person standing there, but it never moved, and she decided it must be a tall rock, or maybe a standing stone.
There was a threatening roar amongst these cliffs. The swell was powerful. But the need to search was more urgent.
“The tide is ebbing,” she said. “If we hurry, we can make use of it before it gets too strong.”
“It’ll pull us out,” Diorbhail said, “but I’ve rowed in worse.” She climbed into the boat, untied it, and pushed off with one of the oars. Immediately the current swept them away towards open sea. They both grabbed oars and fought to gain control. Slowly, laboriously, they reversed course.
“We must hurry,” Diorbhail warned.
The water calmed a bit as they rowed between a ring of rock monoliths and along the cliffs as close as they dared, but still they saw nothing, no glimpse of a corpse, only a few dead fish and bird carcasses.
Morrigan gazed up at the towering stacks. Impassive, invisible eyes seemed to return her stare from within these primordial observers to uncounted eons of history. Water surged and retreated, making eerie sounds— pock-whaup, pock-whaup— like smithies hammering with rubber mallets, or fingers drumming hollow wood. The sun, showering upon the summit above, could send no more than a few misty rays into this elemental spot.
They reached the cave. Diorbhail rowed hard onto a sliver of wet shingle. Morrigan jumped over the side, dragged the prow farther up on the sand, and tied the rope to a stone.
The tall form was a cairn, constructed from smooth, rounded rocks, a marvel, each stone placed to give those around it strength.
Had Mackinnon made it? Had he known this enigmatic place? He and Lilith had spent time on Mingulay, long enough to build Taigh na Gaoithe and conceive their children. If Agnes Campbell were here, she would claim he used this spot to rejoin his seal kin, and there was, indeed, evidence of footprints around the cairn.
At the rear there was a crate. Inside were blankets, a coat, and flint.
“He must have lived here,” Diorbhail said. “It’s barely above tide level. In a storm, I’d wager it floods.” She perused the echoing space. “I would not want to be here then.”
“Look,” Morrigan said. She picked up a skull from the sand beside the crate. “A seal?”
“No,” Diorbhail said. “That’s a lamb’s skull.”
“I wonder why it’s here.”
They returned to the edge. Morrigan saw more caves, hollows, and arches along the cliffs. He could have washed into any of them, or out to sea, or into a trough.
Diorbhail took off her shoes and waded along the lip. “It reminds me of Durness,” she said.
Morrigan sat on a rock, arms around her knees. Light filtered in a soft, golden haze, creeping further and further then vanishing as the sun rose higher. The cavern turned chilly.
Diorbhail stopped. She stood still, staring.
Morrigan foll
owed her gaze. A short distance away a seal watched them, nothing visible but the top of its smooth head, wet black nose, and fluid eyes.
As though it knew it had been spotted, it barked and ducked underwater, revealing itself again farther out towards the open sea, its bullet-shaped head a silhouette against glassy waves. Striking its right flipper against the water with a resounding slap, it disappeared.
She looked at Diorbhail. Diorbhail returned her gaze, brows lifted.
“He has sunk, or been carried out,” Diorbhail said. “And we’d best get back to the path.”
Morrigan approached the ledge where land gave way to sea. She removed the driftwood box from her pocket, opened it, and took out the ring.
Gaol mo chridhe, it said. Love of my heart.
Quickly, before weakness could stop her, she threw the ring towards the spot where the seal had been. It arced outward, glittering, hit the water soundlessly, and vanished.
“Gus am faic mi a-rithist thu,” she said.
Until I see you again.
* * * *
Curran was sitting outside in the sun, a blanket over his legs. Olivia played with a set of wooden blocks on the ground beside his wicker chair.
He asked the question without speaking.
No. Morrigan shook her head.
“Sit with me.” He held out his hand.
Diorbhail went inside, leaving them alone.
“How are you?” She bent over him to inspect the stitches.
“I slept.”
The bruises had turned blackish purple and the swelling was worse, but there was no new bleeding or streaks of infection.
“Don’t fuss.” He pulled away from her examination, so she sat on the ground at his feet and picked up Olivia.
“All my life I’ve lived with pain,” he said after a few moments. “No, a hole, like something was missing. I was always searching, even when I wasn’t thinking about it, every new face; places, too. I never escaped that feeling until the day on the moor when you and I made Olivia.” He turned a meditative stare to her. “It disappeared like that—” he snapped his fingers. “I had my first experience of peace. It felt like coming home after war, seeing your wife running to meet you. Your weans shouting Papa! It was a feeling like some old illness was finally done.”
She could only gaze at him. The faint smile on his face told her he saw all she had no words to express.
Olivia cooed and patted her mother’s cheek.
Morrigan thought she glimpsed the aura that Jamini had spoken of. On their wedding day, it had showed itself as a mingling of blue and violet. She saw those again, but now interspersed with a sparkle of gold.
“Let’s walk,” he said. “I cannot abide this idleness.”
She paused. He wants to get me away from the others, so he can tell me I’m to leave. But she said only, “Should you?”
“It might help the stiffness. And I have this cane Ibby found.” He brandished it with a rueful smile.
They left Olivia with Diorbhail and walked into the village, then past it to the roaring sea.
Several women near the water were weaving creels and cleaning fish. They stared at the two outsiders and spoke among themselves. By now, of course, they would know about Beatrice.
Curran grasped her hand, drawing her attention from the gossips. “Shall we walk along the beach?” He nodded the opposite direction from the women. “It looks as though it continues on past the headland.”
Once they’d passed the crag, they were out of sight and alone. His walk was slower now, his breathing noticeable. “That was a fair labor, I admit,” he said. “I’ve a mind to cool off.” He threw down the cane. “Sit here and wait for me?”
She nodded, unable to speak for the dread churning inside. She sat on sand so fine it could rise in the air and dance, and put her knees against her chest.
He removed his coat, his shirt, and his boots, and waded in, splashing water over his shoulders. The discoloration on his ribs had expanded overnight, and he still favored his left arm. It worried her, but she knew he didn’t want her to speak of it.
She watched him, thinking back over their time together. She’d convinced herself she had chosen the easier path when her womb quickened and Curran wanted to marry her.
Now she knew better. Love was capable of ripping one’s heart out, exposing it to all manner of injury. Love was the most dangerous path of all.
He seemed more ancient myth than mere man as he came up out of the sea and crossed to her. Swift sailing clouds illuminated him in silver and dark-gold, streaming shadows and planes of pearl. He shook water from his hair and put his shirt on, not bothering to button it. Reaching into a pocket in his coat, he brought out a cigarette and lit it. Then he sat beside her.
They watched the sea; it was as trance-inducing as Eleanor’s hypnotism, and Morrigan almost forgot to fear what was coming. Green, black, and purple, the water wore a veil yet at the same time could blind… like people, the surface an illusion, hiding what lay beneath, speaking in that not-quite-understood language. No matter what small humans suffered, the sea, always changing, stayed the same.
Who assigns women their place? Louis had asked. What happens to you, to your daughters, if you allow it?
For a moment she had believed Penthesilea was directing her. She’d run forward on that rock, resolved to save Curran. Would she have stabbed Mackinnon if the blade hadn’t been knocked from her hand?
Since leaving London, she’d thought, again and again, of those ladies in Lily’s drawing room, and their leader, Josephine Butler. One of the last things she had done before they left was to slip out of the townhouse and find one of the rallies where Josephine was speaking. She’d listened, enraptured, to her stirring call for justice.
Here, on a remote Scottish island in the Atlantic, far from civilization and politics, she still saw that impassioned face, heard the fervent words. Brave and determined, Josephine and her compatriots flouted society’s rules and restrictions. Her empathy was inspiring. How easily she could have reviled the fallen women as most did, or simply ignored their plight. Instead, Josephine and her partners worked to help those they had never met, women with no voice.
Women helping women. Decent women helping prostitutes.
On her wedding day, Morrigan had tried to banish the old desire for freedom. She’d told herself it was an impossible wish; she must settle and conform to the role of proper wife and mother.
Josephine Butler, that devout and delicate woman, was also a wife and mother. Yet she had pulled herself out of the kitchen and thrown off the expectations. She still lived and breathed. She walked the streets of London, made speeches, confronted Parliament and whoever else stood in her way.
She hadn’t been branded or tossed in gaol. Certainly, she was ostracized, but she didn’t seem to care.
Such was the power of boldness, of devotion to something beyond oneself.
Morrigan wondered if she could return to London and join those women in their fight. Maybe they wouldn’t reject her. Maybe she could find a small garret somewhere.
She shivered. This was the great lesson of her life. Everything had built to it, especially having a child… a daughter. If women went on allowing themselves to be tethered, then nothing would change. If they made themselves blind to the bars around them because of mollifying words spoken by husbands and lawmakers, if they were frightened into compliance because of what they saw awaiting them if they dared rebel, then no doors would open. Change would only come when those who were numbed and fettered were willing to fight. And if Josephine Butler could fight, then so could Morrigan Ramsay.
She might fail, or be laughed at. She could even be harmed. Maybe it didn’t matter. Perhaps the fight was what mattered, and if she was harmed, others might rise up in her place.
“Morrigan?”
She turned to Curran, seeing both that embittered dark warrior and the young, golden god.
He rose and stepped behind her. He untied her hair and drew it o
ver her shoulders, combing through it gently. “Whistler was right,” he said. “It is true russet.”
She looked up at him and so caught the grief clouding his face. Mackinnon, she thought. He’ll miss the friend he had, and his happy life before I came along.
He rubbed his eyes and his shoulders slumped. Coming around, he knelt before her and placed his hands on her knees. “I loved Aodhàn. I know he cared for me too, in his way. And we both loved you.”
She heard the past tense and knew what it meant. “I understand,” she said. “I don’t blame you, Curran. No one blames you. I’ve killed what could have been. You must hate me, who wouldn’t?”
“I don’t hate you.”
“But… what I’ve done—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She must have gone mad, to hear him say such a thing. “I’ve hurt you and disappointed you, again and again. In the worst ways.”
“No.” Curran shook his head. “And there’s part of me that knows, sure as I know my own hand, it was the same for Aodhàn. You’re a wild, free spirit, a child of Artemis, who belongs to the seas and mountains.” He raised a lock of her hair and let it run off his palm. “I thought I had to turn you into a tame lady, a drawing room figurine. I thought that was my obligation as a man. It shames me to admit I wanted to cage you, or, as you put it, bind you at the bottom of the sea. I won’t ever try to break you or change you again, my Morrigan.”
Why was she surprised? Long ago she’d realized Curran Ramsay wasn’t like other men. She touched his temple, where the bright hair sprang as it dried, feeling his acceptance wash over her.
His understanding.
She almost laughed. She’d had it all along. She’d had it from the moment she looked up into that train car in Stranraer. Canny, selfish Mackinnon hadn’t wanted her to see it. He’d almost convinced her he was the only one who could accept and understand her.
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 81