by L. L. Muir
A fine kettle of fish.
He bit his lip to curb his ire. It would be blasphemy to question what God had intended by putting him in cupid’s path only after he’d been dead for so long. Ungrateful of him to wonder why some charming woman hadn’t stumbled across his path while he’d been a mortal young man. And it would be downright sinful of him to pursue sweet Catherine’s affections while in his reanimated state. What good would it serve to woo her only to leave her in another day’s time?
No. He had a duty to perform. He had a reward to collect. And he had an eternity to worry over the lass. Or not.
“Soncerae,” he bellowed to the ceiling, hoping she could hear him. It was no concern of his what the coffee patrons thought of his antics. He only needed a bit of direction so he would know just where he was meant to go.
A gust of wind blew past the souls holding the door open in order to keep their place in line. It swirled around Seoc and nudged his duffle bag against his knees. In its wake, a single, fuzzy blossom from a tree twirled around his head. He half expected it to land on the floor and turn into his beloved wee witch.
“Soni?” he whispered.
The blossom twirled again, then bobbed for the open doorway, unnoticed by those who simply watched to see what the foreigner would do next. And Seoc was a fool if he allowed it to leave without him.
Outside, it took a moment to locate the fluff again. It danced around the top of a tree while it waited for him to catch up. He nodded to it, and thankfully, the teasing bit moved on. North again. Back the way he’d come. At least he hadn’t been too far amiss when he’d followed the trio of thugs the night before.
Had it been so recently? Less than a day since he’d met the lass over a gleaming silver counter? Only a day since she’d taken such consideration not to shout his family name and embarrass him?
Half a day since he’d chatted with Alonzo and learned how near the man was to his last breath? And now that he knew Catherine better, he’d understood that her grandfather only fought death with such passion because he worried about leaving the lass.
But what could Seoc do for the sorry pair? Nothing at all. He could neither heal the grandfather, nor ease the burden of the granddaughter. So, rather than flounder in futility, his precious last day would be better spent searching for a truly heroic act that would signal Soni to collect him.
The blasted bit of fuzz continued north.
Folks on the street stopped and followed his gaze, but none seemed to see the will o’ the wisp but him. Was it only his imagination then?
He slowed and stopped, stretched his head from side to side, and looked about him. A flurry of bicycles passed, the riders all wearing numbers on their backs. No one in need of help. No one glancing his way.
Finally, he looked up again. The fuzzy blossom hovered just overhead, barely out of his reach. It bobbed, as if it would speak to him, then headed along the footpath again. It did not wait for him to catch up this time, nor did it dance about with the air stirring along the street. The little blossom seemed to mean business.
So like Soncerae.
Seoc passed intersection after intersection. His wee guide made nary a turn from the path he’d followed the night before. After a while, he knew with a certainty where it was taking him, so he wondered why Soni bothered to continue.
He nearly stepped out in front of a moving car he was so intent on retracing his steps. The driver hit her brakes but did not honk at him. She was simply content that he wasn’t harmed and waved for him to cross the street with her blessing.
He worried she was too shaken to continue on…until she whistled at him.
The blossom waited for him near the door of Catherine’s apartment building, just as he’d expected. When he was half a dozen steps away, the fuzz became a large dark blur that spun and twisted into the figure of a man. His form was still undefined when he locked gazes with Seoc.
“Macbeth.”
“Aye.”
The man grinned. “You are, in coffee, stepped in so far that, should you wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.”
The twisted lines of Macbeth, the play.
“You mock me.”
The man rolled his eyes. “You understand full well what I mean.”
“And who are you? I summoned Soncerae.”
“I am Wickham. Soni, my niece, prepares for the long night ahead of her. So I’ve come in her stead.”
Seoc folded his arms defiantly. “She wouldn’t have mocked me. She would have told me where my quest lay.”
The fellow pointed up, his finger angled slightly toward the front west corner of the building. “You are, in coffee—”
“Cease yer nonsense. What ye meant to tell me is that I’ve gone too far to turn back now.”
“You kissed her.”
He lowered his head and narrowed his eyes, feeling much like an offended bull. “You watch me?”
“No. I see it on yer mind at this very moment.” Wickham stopped smiling. “Go to her. Help her. Prepare her for the long night ahead of her.”
For the long night ahead of her…
From the mouth of a Muir. Alonzo wouldn’t last the night, then. No matter what, the old man would find his immortal rest, and the lass would learn to deal with her loss. Seoc wouldn’t be mortal long enough to see her through it. Funerals took days now.
He shrugged. “I cannot help her. And false hope is the cruelest offering.” He ignored the twist in his gut when he said it.
“Who else but you?” Wickham’s brow puckered dramatically, then cleared as if inspiration had struck him. “Never mind, Macbeth. I’m certain that Spencer chap can offer a shoulder—”
“Go on with ye!”
The man laughed. “I’ll come for ye by morning.” He turned his head and the whole of him was suddenly naught more than a swirling black fog that spun itself into nothing.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A stooped old woman hobbled toward the glass and pushed the door open an inch, then two. Seoc grabbed the handle and pulled the thing wide, then offered the woman a hand down the steps, all the while holding fast to the door. After a smile and a wave, the woman toddled down the sidewalk and he slipped inside the building.
He found the stairs, unwilling to ride in the elevator again. The scenes from the movies he’d watched combined with his last experience, after he’d left the lass, ensured that he would never trust the box to spit him out again if he risked stepping inside.
The doors hadn’t opened when he’d needed them to, and closed far too quickly. It lurched from floor to floor as if a demon possessed it and teased him. He was a nervous, quivering lad again before someone had stepped inside with him and got the box to open on the main floor. It had taken a full five minutes to calm his stomach.
Seoc trudged up the stairs with heavy feet. Even the knowledge that he was returning to see sweet Catherine again wasn’t enough to make him hurry. It was Culloden all over again. Only this time, he knew just how futile his efforts would be.
Alonzo was such a brave gentleman. If there was aught Seoc could do to ease his passing, he would do it.
He reached the fourth floor well out of breath. By the time he found Catherine’s door again, he had regained his composure, but then nearly lost it again when she answered his knock.
She’d been greetin’.
“Lass, what is it?” He pushed his way into the apartment and continued into the living room. Beneath the blankets at the end of the bed, Alonzo’s feet lay perfectly still. Seoc looked back at Catherine to silently ask if the old man yet lived.
She frowned and shushed him. “He’s still sleeping.” She waved him toward the kitchen, but then reconsidered and drew him down a hallway toward the rear. They passed her bedroom door, which she quickly pulled closed, then she led him into the water closet and shut them both inside.
He ignored the surroundings and took hold of her shoulders. “Ye’ve been weeping. Did ye not see my note?”
“Not
e?”
He huffed out a breath. “Aye. I left a note on the table, that I’d be back in the morning if I could.”
She shrugged. “It’s not morning.”
Her lower lip stuck out slightly, but it was sufficient to attract his attention. He tried to fix his gaze on her eyes instead.
“Auch, aye. The…appointment I had for today has been postponed until tomorrow, in the morning.” It was mostly true. “So I came back to help watch over Alonzo, if ye’ll accept my aid.”
She searched his eyes for a moment. Whatever she saw there brought her generous smile back. He’d nearly forgotten what an impact it had, like a well-swung targe to the chest. He caught his breath and held it, savoring the moment.
If only they weren’t standing in a water closet, it might have been even more memorable. But he wouldn’t have her looking back at a kiss from a Scotsman with a roll of toilet paper poking into his thigh.
“I’ll just wait in the hallway, shall I?”
She didn’t protest as he made his escape. And from the other side of the door, he heard the delicate roar of the lass blowing her nose. When she emerged, that smile was still in place, and he ignored the twinge of guilt in his gut. It was little comfort, that if he fell for the lass, or she for him, he could lay the blame at the feet of that Wickham fellow.
They leaned back against opposite walls and tucked their hands behind their backs. A bare two feet separated them.
“So.” She bit her bottom lip. Her right shoulder rose and fell. The sweatshirt she wore shrugged with her and promised to be soft to the touch. It was best his hands were trapped behind him.
“So,” he echoed. “Tell me, do ye always smile so? That is, when ye’re not weeping?”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t cry much. So I guess, when it all builds up, it comes out in a rush. Just emotional buildup in my body. That’s all. I’m good now. I was just tired, I think.”
He nodded like he understood when in truth he understood nothing. Except when someone weeps with joy, he was fair to certain all crying fell under the diagnosis of sadness. But he wasn’t about to point out the simplicity of his theory. It was clear the lass was still not prepared to speak about her grandfather dying, even if her body was already mourning his loss.
“And now you are not so tired?”
“Nope. I’m fine.” She smiled a little harder. Not quite as genuine as before.
She rocked nervously against the wall at her back for a moment while he took in the sight of her. Her jeans were frayed, whether by intent or not, he could not say. Her sweatshirt showed its wear in the stretched out holes created for her thumbs. Her hair was simply cut, long and sable. No fancy bleaching or coloring of her tresses, no elaborate designs on her fingernails, and he realized the lass would have little time to pamper herself with all her responsibilities, especially if she hardly had enough time to sleep.
A generous lass…who was staring at his chest.
Her head gave a subtle shake and her eyes dropped to the floor. Then her attention caught on the duffle bag he’d dropped at the end of the hall.
“Is your kilt in there?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“Ah,” she said, but he didn’t miss the slight wrinkle of her nose.
“Ye doona care for kilts today,” he teased, letting her know he was fully aware of how much she’d appreciated his traditional garments the day before.
She rolled her eyes. “Grandpa was teasing about that. I don’t like men in kilts. Not at all.” She grimaced when she realized the insult. “And it’s not kilts, really. It’s Scotland I don’t like.”
His surprise could not be hidden.
“Look. Grandpa’s a little obsessed about what little Scottish blood he has. And he started smoking a pipe because it was a Scottish thing to do—”
“And ye believe it is this pipe-smoking that invited his lung cancer.”
She sighed. “Yes. I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”
“No worries, lass. I assure ye, Scotland and its inhabitants wouldn’t begrudge yer bias.”
Her smile was real again. “Thank you.”
Immediately, he remembered the way he’d thanked her for breakfast, just around the corner in the kitchen, and the memory drew his attention to her lips. She caught her breath, but didn’t move.
He wondered if it was part of his duty to distract the lass, to lure her thoughts to something other than her grandfather’s condition.
He pushed off the wall and took a step. Her attention fell back to his chest again and he had to resist the urge to flex his muscles for her. When her gaze lifted again, it only made it so far as his lips, and it was the last bit of encouragement he needed.
“As soon as you two are done dancing in the hallway, I’d like to go down to the waterfront.” Alonzo stood at the end of wall pretending he wasn’t hanging onto it for dear life.
The moment was lost.
“I’ll get your chair,” Catherine chirped and ran into her bedroom.
Seoc hurried around behind Alonzo to give him a little support until his wheeled chariot arrived. The man didn’t seem the least repentant for the interruption.
Soec murmured, “Ye have poor timing, Grandpa.”
The old man chuckled. “Do you think? Here I was thinking I was a little late to the party.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“He hasn’t felt up to coming down here for a few weeks,” Catherine whispered while her grandfather exchanged greetings with the old woman returning to the building as they were leaving it. The lass’s tone implied she was heartened by the new development. She believed she had a reprieve, but Seoc knew better.
This trip to the waterfront was a last hurrah.
The morning of the battle, Seoc had realized that without some miracle, it was likely he would not live through the day. So many details combined to doom the Highlanders that every man on that field should have recognized them. And while he’d stood there waiting for the Jacobite leaders to make their decisions, he’d thought of a dozen things he wished he could do with what time was left to him.
He would have jumped in a loch and enjoyed the cold kiss of Scotland in springtime flowing over his body and prickling his limbs. He would have indulged in warm scones and sweet honey and paid no heed to the mess as the heat-thinned honey poured over his fingers.
He would have hit his knees and bit a mouthful of grass just to make the taste of Scotland a sure and everlasting part of him. And he would have run to the lass he loved and made her part of him as well.
But there had been no such lass. It had only been a dream for a future never reached, a dream that had been lodged in his head for centuries. And if the dream continued to haunt him in the afterlife, at least there would now be a face and a name to it.
Catherine. In another life, she would have been his, he was sure of it. He’d have kept at her until she relented and promised to share her sweetest smile only with him.
He took a deep breath of city air and shook the pointless thoughts from his head. He had the remainder of the day to spend with her, and that was all. He would not squander it on futile wishes. He had a city to explore.
First, they boarded a transit train named MAX. There was a special area for wheelchairs and with few others in the car with them, there were, blessedly, few witnesses to his indignity.
He had seen all manner of travel on the telly. And he himself had travelled a quarter of the distance around the world in a heartbeat or two. But speeding so quickly from inside the train was like the disturbing episode in the elevator, only sideways. Though he expected the tracks to be clear, he couldn’t keep from grasping onto the hand rails and holding on for dear life, sure they would crash into something unforeseen and suffer horribly for it.
Catherine laughed at him. Even Alonzo was able to raise a chuckle or two, so Seoc gave them both a merry wink and pretended his antics had been for their amusement. However, the wobble in his walk, when they’d disembarked, was real indeed.
Their first stop was the Portland Saturday Market. White tents were set up and filled with all manner of food and colorful trinkets. There was a bridge nearby he would have liked to inspect more closely, but there was no time. Alonzo pointed, and there they would go.
A clever and gifted fellow by the name of Estefan stretched bread dough and fried it in a dangerous caldron of hot oil. When it had transformed into a veritable pillow, toasted and brown, he presented it on a paper plate and plopped a helping of honey butter in the center.
Alonzo declared he would have one and Catherine was only too happy to oblige. She purchased one for Seoc and another for herself as well.
“I suppose, since ye knew of my new affinity for Voodoo Donuts, it was an easy guess I would like this. What is it?”
“A scone.”
He choked on his next bite. “I’ll tell ye, lass. We’ve scones in Scotland, but they’re a tenth the size and four times the weight of these heavenly clouds.”
She grimaced.
He realized his mistake. She was against all things Scottish. It was a wonder she allowed him near at all, doctor or no.
“Where next?”
Alonzo pointed to the river. “Chess,” he said.
Catherine groaned. “That’s pretty far, Grandpa.”
The old man chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’m up for it.” He leaned back in his wheeled chair, closed his eyes, and looked as if he was preparing to take a nap.
“No worries,” Seoc assured her. “I’ll push him. Where do we go?”
~
It was a long walk and Catherine wished she would have refused to go. Despite her grandpa’s energy, his color still looked off. But Doctor Macbeth didn’t seem to think it was anything to worry about, so she went along with the plan. If the patient had a serious coughing attack halfway between the two bridges, though, they’d be in trouble. Sometimes the oxygen wasn’t enough to settle him down again, and if he passed out, she would prefer he was at home.