Ghosts of Culloden Moor 10 - Macbeth

by L. L. Muir

  He took a step to the side of the table and something pressing demanded her attention at the opposite counter. Since she would need to return to the stove at some point, he moved closer to it.

  A timer rang and she reluctantly stepped closer to him. “Excuse me.” She tried to go around him but he blocked her path.

  “Let’s no’ fight, shall we?”

  She rolled her eyes, feinted to her left, then scooted around to the right. When her hand stopped the ringing timer, she grinned like she’d won some race.

  He so loved that grin.

  She sobered quickly and opened the oven to lift out a pan of fresh rolls. He breathed in the smell of them and her eyes narrowed. “Surely Death doesn’t need actual food.” Then she waved the pan about, knowing the scent swirled around the room when she did so. “Too bad.”

  He bit his bottom lip to keep it from sticking it out like a petulant lad. He’d tasted fine things in the past day and a half. If he never tasted another, he would not feel cheated.

  He was almost sure of it.

  She pulled out two dishes and ladled two heaping scoops into both.

  “I think yer grandfather would prefer only the broth, lass,” he said, then realized he should have gone on biting his lip.

  “He needs to eat something,” she argued. “And this is the most nutritious thing I can make for him.” The bowl grew too hot and she quickly set it on the table.

  He held up his hands and backed away, hoping she’d forget he’d said anything.

  “Oh, no.” She put her hands on her hips. “Let’s hear it, Doctor. Whatever it is, I’ll need to know it when you’re gone.”

  The look in her eye reminded him of that moment when she’d deemed him worthy of tasing. And if not for that, he might have been able to control himself. But alas…

  He swiftly closed the distance between them and took hold of her arms, ensuring she could not elude him again. Then he whispered, “Yer grandfather’s body is done for, Catherine. Nothing more can go in because nothing can come out, do ye ken? His digestive system has ceased functioning, among other things. He doesn’t look well because he is a bit yellow. The toxins in his system have nowhere to go.”

  Horror rose behind her eyes as understanding dawned, and it made him physically ill to know that he was the one to put it there. But at least he hadn’t given her false hope. Never that.

  He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight as much to comfort her as to hide from that look on her face.

  No hope. No way to run. The heartless bastards were advancing with their bayonets at the ready.

  “Sometimes,” he whispered, “sadness will come, lass, whether we choose it or no.”

  There was movement by the hallway and they turned in unison to see the old man leaning with one hand against the wall. In his other hand, he held the yellow taser the lass had plugged in to gather a charge. His finger was on the trigger and the dangerous end tipped carelessly to the side.

  “Grandpa. You need to put that down. It’s charged.”

  Seoc could tell by the way her fists bit into his skin that her casual tone belied true alarm. So he gently pushed her aside and took a step toward Alonzo.

  “Would ye mind if I took a look? I’ve only seen the dangerous end of it m’self, aye?”

  The dangerous end suddenly came to attention and pointed at Seoc’s chest. The man was much more alert than he seemed.

  “I want to know what you two have been fighting about all night,” he said.

  “Grandpa, please. At least sit down. The soup is ready and the rolls are hot.”

  Alonzo nodded, then moved to the end of the table and pulled out a chair. The thin clear oxygen hose was missing from his face. His breaths were careful and constant, but shallow. In another few minutes, he might well lose consciousness.

  “I’m not hungry, sweety,” he said. “But you two go on.” He panted a few times. “And while you eat, you can tell me what you’ve been fighting about.”

  She put her hands on her hips again. “I’m not going to sit at the table with a loaded—” She gasped when the weapon turned and pointed at the bearer’s chest. “Grandpa, please!”

  Seoc stayed calm. “Ye’re scaring the lass.”

  The man chuckled. “I’m a little scared too. I’m…pretty sure this would finish me off, but what I want to know is how bad it would hurt.”

  Seoc shook his head but was careful not to make any threatening moves. “I’ll tell ye the truth of it, Alonzo. Having been on the hot end of the stick, I don’t know that I could find it in my heart to shoot it at the devil himself if he were standing right behind you.” He lowered his head and his voice. “I canna imagine a meaner way to leave this world.”

  The old man was surprised. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Bummer.” He straightened his wrist and set the weapon on the table, but his finger was still on the trigger. “You were about to tell me about this fight…”

  After a silent argument between himself and the lass, using nothing but their eyes, Seoc finally spoke. “Yer daughter is having difficulty accepting the fact that ye’re dying, sir.”

  Alonzo nodded. “I know. Dying is the D word, and the D word is not allowed. But he’s right, Catherine. I’m dying, and I’m fading fast.”

  Seoc held out his hand and looked pointedly at the taser. The old man took his finger off the trigger and scooted it his way.

  “The truth of the matter,” he said, “is that ye will not last the night. And perhaps it is best that the pair of ye have the chance to say goodbye.”

  Catherine’s head shook rapidly. “No,” she said, “no. You can’t know that.”

  Alonzo sighed. “It feels true.”

  The lass ran around to her grandfather’s side and wrapped her arms around his neck and sobbed. Tears poured out of the old man’s eyes as well, but he seemed relieved of the burden of putting on a strong show for the lass.

  After a while, Catherine kissed his balding pate and fled to the water closet. And in her absence, the man sobbed as well. All Seoc could do was stand behind him and try to imbue him with a bit of his own strength through the hands he placed on the fellow’s shoulders.

  It was not much better than he’d been able to do on the moor that day. A bit of consolation for some. A bit of hope for others. But in the end, luck proved bad for them all.

  Catherine rejoined them at the table and she and her grandfather linked hands. She frowned up at Seoc suddenly. “His own doctors couldn’t predict how long he had left. They said weeks, maybe months. You say hours?”

  He sighed and walked around to the far side of the table and sat. “I’ve witnessed hundreds of final hours, lass. I ken the signs—”

  “I don’t think so. Try again.” She narrowed her eyes at him, assessing his honesty, recognizing that he was hiding something from them. The canny lass.

  “Ye wish to ken the truth.”

  “I do.”

  He looked then to Alonzo. “And you?”

  “I think the truth would be refreshing, son.”

  Seoc nodded, then suggested Catherine bring the old man some oxygen so he didn’t think he was hallucinating. Finally, when they were all settled in and the food cleared away, Seoc gave them the truth.

  He started with his name, where he’d been born, where he’d died, and the year. Catherine rolled her eyes but didn’t interrupt. Alonzo was mesmerized.

  Next, he told them about rising from his grave and haunting the battlefield for nearly three centuries. By the time he got to Soncerae’s story, they were both entranced. Leary, but entranced.

  “And I was sent to a coffee house in Portland, Oregon to fulfill my quest. The rest of it, you know.”

  “I don’t get it,” she said. “What heroic deed are you supposed to do here?”

  He shrugged and shook his head. “Maybe I fulfilled the bargain when I chased that trio of lads away. Perhaps when I was on hand to push a defective wheelchair halfway across th
e city.”

  “Maybe it was helping an old man say the D word again.” Alonzo winked at Catherine and gave her hand a hearty squeeze. “That doesn’t explain how you know that I won’t last the night.”

  “Ah, that.” Seoc shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, I wondered, after breakfast, if I might have been needed elsewhere, so I went back to the coffee shop. I demanded that Soni show me where I was to go, and she led me back here. Only it wasn’t Soni, it was her uncle who came to verify my duty. If a Muir witch says something is to be, you can bet it is to be.”

  Catherine was suddenly wide-eyed and quiet.

  “What is it, lass?”

  She shook her head. “Your appointment. It’s been moved—”

  “To tomorrow, aye. The uncle said he will be collecting me in the morning.”

  The regret in her eyes was gratifying, truly. But the pain in his chest was not. The soreness spread just beneath the spot where he’d been mortally wounded, and he recognized it. Though it was much stronger than it had been the last day, he knew it for what it was—hopelessness.

  Not false hope, but no hope at all.

  And, if he wasn’t mistaken, the lass was feeling it too. But all they could ever be to each other, now, was a memory.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Grandpa insisted that, since Seoc could not be around for his funeral, they would hold a wake then and there. He forbade anymore tears and ordered the Scot to carry him to his bed where he would play the part of the deceased. He admitted that was the only assignment he felt up to.

  As soon as Seoc lifted him out of the chair, Cat folded her arms on the table, pressed her face into them, and wept just as fast and hard as she could. Seoc cleared his throat and bellowed for her to turn on her computer and find some bagpipe music.

  “Bagpiping has been placed on the bucket list,” he said.

  She was never going to survive this! And she wasn’t sure, yet, if she was grateful, or furious that she’d been told the date she was going to be orphaned. And when she did decide which way she felt, both the Scot and her grandpa would be gone and there would be no one to thank or rail against. But at least she knew for sure she was going to feel cheated.

  The first bagpiping she found on line was horrible. Even Seoc agreed. But eventually, they found a station that didn’t sound like a drill going through her brain. The important thing was her grandpa loved it. And he tapped his toe in the air for a minute while Seoc danced her around the space next to his bed.

  When the mood threatened to falter, she produced a card table and a deck of cards. She taught Seoc how to play Canasta while Grandpa dosed on and off beside them. The Scot was atrocious at remembering the rules, and when he cheated at counting his points, they laughed so hard that tears leaked out of his eyes.

  He wiped at his face and stared at his wet fingers. “I don’t know as I’ve ever laughed so hard I cried before.”

  “Really?” Though she couldn’t name exactly when, she was sure she’d done it dozens of times.

  “Of course, there was little to laugh over on the moor,” he said. “And I canna remember laughing much in my life before Culloden. The first rising, in 1715, had come before I was born. Afterward, when I was old enough to mill around with my father, the only talk among men was of another rising. Rebellion was served with every supper. And rebellion was hardly a cheerful topic. Oh, there was hope of someday getting a Stuart back on the throne, but the subject hardly leant itself to cheerful fantasies for young lads.

  “Even younger, with a small wooden sword, I’d been soberly fighting back the wraiths of English soldiers. A shout or two for imagined victories, and other than a bit of holiday cheer, there had been little to smile about. Survival. Struggle. Rebellion. Hardly visions of sugar plums, aye?”

  “A poem,” her grandpa said. His voice was weak, but she pretended not to notice.

  “You have a poem in mind?” She took the improvised bucket list from him and tried to make out the writing, which she did. “Oh, no, grandpa. Not this one.”

  “It’s a wake, isn’t it?”

  She sighed and begrudgingly walked to the end of his bed, where his gnarly finger pointed. There was just no getting out of it.

  “Stop All the Clocks, by W.H. Auden,” she said. If she recited it quickly, maybe she could get through it all without falling to pieces. It had been her grandma’s favorite, and to Cat, it seemed like she’d known the words all her life.

  She took a deep breath and dug in.

  “Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

  Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

  Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

  Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.”

  That was it. That was all she could do. Tears filled her throat and made it impossible for another word to get out. So she covered her mouth and shook her head, hoping the old man would take pity on her.

  Seoc suddenly stood and faced the bed.

  “Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

  Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

  Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

  Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

  He was my North, my South, my East and West,

  My working week and my Sunday rest,

  My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

  I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

  The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

  Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

  Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

  For nothing now can ever come to any good.”

  With tears in his eyes, Grandpa started clapping. His soft hands barely made a noise and fell back to his sides.

  Cat moved up next to him and started unwinding the tubing for the oxygen mask, but he waved for her to stop.

  “I’m fine. No need.” He was breathless. He was lying. But she wasn’t about to argue.

  It was late, but they left the curtains open so they could gaze at the stars. Seoc moved around the room and turned out the lamps so they could see them better. He left the small light on over the stove.

  She showed him how to stand close to the window and look off to the east, to see if Mt. Hood was visible. He pressed himself against the glass beside her and did as he was told. His hand rested on her shoulder and gave her a lingering squeeze. Tears rolled from her eyes across her smashed cheek and expanded against the fogged-up window.

  “Yes,” Seoc said quietly. “I can see it fine.”

  Together, they stayed that way for a long minute before she was finally able to get a grip and turn around. Grandpa hadn’t noticed. He was asleep. And without the oxygen mask on, he snored a little. The most reassuring sound in the world.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Seoc led the lass to the couch, stretched out, and bid her to lie beside him. He was sure she would never consent to going to her own room.

  The bubbler on the oxygen tank created a bit of white noise to go along with the snoring, for which he was grateful. At least, if the man stopped breathing, they wouldn’t be left with deafening silence.

  “I should hold his hand,” she whispered.

  “Nay, lass. He doesna want ye to. He said so while we played cards, aye? He needs ye to let go.”

  Her tears fell from her face and onto his arm. He never made a move to wipe them away. He felt privileged to have been available for the soaking. And to think, he’d walked away from them that morning…

  He hoped he’d helped. He had tried to, but in the end, all he’d done was make her cry a day before she would have. The only one who seemed to be gaining anything from his attendance was him, for he was able to hold the lass in his arms for a wee while.

  So much for brave deeds.

  “Oh, ye think so?” Wickham stood just inside the living room. Lit from behind by the stove light, his clothing appeared to be black as the devil’s. “Don’t be
so hard on yerself, young Macbeth. Ye’ve done a kind deed here, and kind is as good as brave, aye?”

  Seoc held perfectly still, waiting to see if the man was visible to her as well. Anything was possible if the uncle could materialize in the lass’s apartment without so much as a knock on the door.

  “Seoc?” She said. “Am I dreaming again?”

  He considered lying to her, but she’d realize the truth unless Soni’s uncle decided to disappear.

  The man snorted. “I’m going nowhere without ye, laddie.”

  Seoc nudged Catherine’s legs off the couch so he could sit upright. She rose with him and wrapped her arms around his middle, and thus entwined, they stood.

  “Please don’t take him,” she said sweetly. “I need him a little longer.”

  Wickham shook his head. “Sorry, lass. We must stand by the rules.”

  “And Soncerae? May I speak to her?” Seoc crossed his fingers and hoped like mad that his wee witch had the power to grant him a little more time. After all, it wasn’t yet morning.

  The devil flipped on the light and looked him straight in the eye. “It’s morning in Scotland, aye? And besides, Soni can change nothing. Two days were paid for, and dearly. Two days have been spent. Mortality must end again, Seoc Macbeth. Bid the lass goodbye.”

  “I am Seoc Macbeth.” The declaration from Alonzo was followed by a weak cough. “Come and tell me goodbye,” he said after he caught his breath. “Give me a squeeze, Catherine, so I can go with this gentleman.” He stepped around Seoc’s open duffle bag and stood half-bent at the end of the bed. The thin, long nightshirt he slept in was covered with a sash of plaid. The rest of the material was wrapped a number of times around his waist in the poorest attempt at kilting Seoc had ever seen.

  And it touched him more than he could have imagined. The old man was willing to take his place, no doubt so his granddaughter wouldn’t be left alone. But Alonzo couldn’t imagine what he was dealing with. Soni was indeed a witch, and likely her uncle was a male version of the same, but their powers obviously were limited. His brave gesture couldn’t work.