Laird of the Mist
Foery MacDonell
Moongypsy Press Las Vegas, Nevada Laird of the Mist Copyright © 2009 by Foery MacDonell l
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are,either the products of the author‘s
imagination, or are used fictitiously.
ISBN: 978-0-615-32480-7 (ebk) ISBN: X978-1449538754
EAN-13: 978-1449538750.
Cover artist Janet Elizabeth Jones
4th Printing, September, 2011
Printed in the United States of America Moongypsy Press, Las Vegas, Nevada
Glossary
Arisaidh A Highland cloak worn by women. Banned in the Act of Proscription of 1745
Bairn Child
Ben or Beinn Mountain
Beinn FhithichBen Ee-heech Raven Mountain
Buidseach BWID-shook, Witch
Burn Creek or stream
Crag Rock
mo brèagha Bree-ah My lovely
Mo cridhe Mow-cry- uh My heart
Mo leannan Mow-lawn en My lover
Sasunnach Sas-uh-nak Derogatory term for the English in Scotland
Taigh MacHendrie Tai MacHendrie House MacHendrie
Triubhas Trewes trousers
Dedication
To Kevin, who came back into my life when all was lost and showed me the way. You are my real-life Celtic warrior and primarily responsiblefor Carrick saying to Cat, “Ye will listen this time.” You are my first, last, and always.
Acknowledgements
There are so many who are, in some part, responsible for this book, I can‘t possibly remember you all. If I have forgotten anyone, please forgive me.
First, to my wonderful daughter, Tierney de la Lama, British Association of Teachers of Dance
–Member, and United Kingdom Alliance. Your insistence on taking Highland dance lessons at age eight threw me into the Scottish world and caused me to revisit my heritage and family history. You gave me a new appreciation for what our ancestors lived and built for us. Thank you, also, for educating me on Highland dance and culture as we traveled to all those Highland games and competitions through the years, as well as your companionship and friendship. Thank you for your expertise with the Highland dance scenes in this book. Laird would never have been written without you.
Thanks to Mary Beth Klein, BATD and SDTA, of Highland X press and a two-time World Champion Highland dancer. Your wit, especially the way you re-wrote the waterfall scene that no one will ever see—ahem— kept me laughing and excited. (Note from Mary Beth upon reading this: (―Literally. Ask Kevin.‖)
Thank you to Fred DeMarse of the San Jose School of Highland Dance in California, Fellow of the BATD, and the U K Alliance, Scottish Official Board of Highland Dancing (SOBHD) World-Wide Judging Panel, Certificated Teacher of the Royal Scottish County Dance Society. And to Alan Twhigg, Certificated Teacher of the Royal Scottish County Dance Society. Hearty thank yous for your help in constructing the country dance sequences. You gave me the means I needed for Cat to remember Carrick.
A huge thank you to Anne MacDonald of the Glengarry Castle Hotel for your friendship and wonderful hospitality every time I visit. You always make me feel welcome and at home. It is truly a magical place and you are part of that special Highland magic. Besides, you laugh at my silly jokes!
To my dear OES sisters for their love and support. You are true sisters!
Heartfelt gratitude and love to my dearest friends, critters, and sister-authors: Diana Rubino, Tabitha Shay, Kari Thomas, and AC Katt. You are the greatest! Big thanks to Janet Elizabeth Jones, an amazing artist and web mistress. You accommodated every crazy idea and change with grace and style!
Now read the story!!
PROLOGUE
While ye visit here at Invergarry, listen carefully and ye may hear the legend of a particular brave Laird. It isna an ancient legend, being only 250-years-old, but‗tis a fascinatin‘ one, and willna be put to rest.
The Laird of Beinn Fhithich, so the story goes, fought well at Culloden Moor in the ‗75. He watched the Sasunnach murder his wife and clan. Wi‘ the help of a witch, and when the mists were high, he traveled through time to find his Jenny in the future; for she had reincarnated in a new life. The legend says he brought her home to Beinn Fhithich, and together they helped their people survive the Clearances.
Ye dinna believe in reincarnation? Ye dinna think a body can travel in time? Weel, my friend, I do. For I ha‘ met the Laird and his Lady wife. They visit here to this verra day, when there is need upon their people. He never evicted a single family, nor did he force mass immigration to the colonies, as did many of the cruel and brutish Lairds. There are yet crofts in the glen and life at Beinn Fhithich thanks to the Laird of the Mist. I ha‘ seen it all wi‘ my own eyes and lifted a pint or two with the noble gentleman.
So, while ye ‘re stayin‘ wi‘ us, keep yer eyes open for a braw Scot, the like ye dinna see today. He is a warrior long past, and he is even still for his family and clan. But I warn ye, mind yer words if ye speak to him, for he doesna suffer fools; nor should he, given all he has seen.
I welcome ye to Invergarry, then - the place where legends are born.
Nigel MacDonell Innkeeper
Chapter One
Invergarry, Scotland - May 1746
Laird Carrick MacDonell had stood at the edge of the clearing for over an hour waiting for the mist of dawn to clear. He had been debating whether or not what little courage he had left would bring him to knock on the door of the little stone cottage at the other side. Covered in moss due to the density of the forest, the cottage appeared neat, with a well-tended herb garden to one side. Smoke from a fire curled its way upward as if in welcome, and the door stood slightly ajar to allow the enormous orange tabby its entrance or exit.
Carrick had come, determined in purpose, to the home of Morag, the witch of Invergarry. Odd how all the destruction and sorrows of the last months were nothing compared to what he felt standing before the witch‘s home. Doubt that she would help him, hope that she would. For he needed mending in spirit and soul, and it was possible that only God could provide it, and at that, only through death. It was unlikely Carrick would ever see peace again while living.
With slow steps and a deep breath for comfort, Carrick approached the door of the home with caution. Morag had healed his wounds and brought him back from near death, something he would not thank her for. He had come to ask a final favor of the witch, one for which he would be grateful.
He raised his powerful fist to knock on the oaken door, but a tiny, gnarled face haloed in silver peeked round the side of it and her eyes widened in acknowledgment.
―Aye, I ken ye‘d come soon enough, Carrick. And here ye be, just as the omens foretold.‖ She opened the door wider and put her spiny hand upon his arm.―Come in wi‘ ye now and sit. I‘ll make ye some brew and ye can tell me yer reason for comin‘.‖
Without a word, Carrick bent to pass under the low beam and enter the clean, warm home—redolent with the fragrance of herbs and dried flowers. It was a one room affair with a cozy stone hearth over which Morag had hung a pot of water to boil. Carrick sat silently as Morag meticulously mixed herbs from several roughly sewn sacks into cups that seemed as ancient as she.
―So, m‘ laird, it has been near a week gone since these old eyes ha‘ set upon ye. And here ye are, healed and braw. I see the darkness
of mourning on ye still. I s‘pose ‗tis why ye‘re here in the now and wantin‘ me help. Ye were always runnin‘ to ole Morag ever as a bairn, and here ye are again.‖
Carrick accepted the strange tea with a shaking hand and nodded in reply.
―Aye, Morag.‗Tis true. I am here for a purpose I am sure ye ken too well.‖ He nodded toward a linen sack filled with stones that sat on the shelf over the hearth.―I imagine my mother and the runes ha‘ spoken to ye of my troubles and I need no tell the story to ye.‖
―Ah, Carrick,‖ Morag soothed him as she stroked his auburn hair.―Ye ken the runes ha‘ rarely failed me. And poor Molly is worried sick for ye.‗Tis true I ken the tale of yer loss and yer sorrows. Now ye come to see if I can ease yer pain as I did when ye were young and I was nanny to ye all.‖
She gestured toward the sack of stones.―Aye, the runes ha‘ spoken to me, and I ken it well. How ye fought at Culloden Moor and saved many of yer clan. How the Sasunnach butchered ye all and gave no quarter. And how ye lost yer Jenny at their hands.‖
Morag sat next to Carrick and reached a gentle hand to his.―I am told ye sleep no more, but walk the hills all night. Ye haunt the forests in search of yerself and a meaning to yer life. Still ye find no relief for the loss of yer love. All this ‗tis true, is it no?‖
With a sigh that could have broken him, Carrick nodded and, taking his hand from hers, dropped his head into his hands.
―‗Tis true, all of it,‖ he whispered.―And more. I fought at Culloden, aye. I fought well, but no well enough. I saved no enough of the clan. And in the end, Jenny was taken by the Sasunnach and rudely used. She came to the moor to tend my wounds after the battle. The grass was no to be seen for the blood that day, and the stench of it thick in my throat. The filthy foul bastards took her by force as I lay in the mud nearly dead, watching them.‖
His jaw tightened at the memory.―I could do nothing to stop it-nothing. The cut in my shoulder was too deep and I couldna move. When they finished wi‘ her, they held her by the hair and put a knife across her chest. I lay helpless, watching the life flow from her.‖ Carrick took a deep breath recalling how, at the last, Jenny had managed to put her gold wedding ring—a circle of celtic knots— into his palm and close his fingers around it. He still had the ring. He kept it safe with him always. It comforted him and kept her close.
―Her last words were‗Please, forget me never,‘‖ he said at last.―I watched the shine of her eyes turn dull. I could bear no more and the good Lord let me pass into sleep for days on end. They brought me home and ye saved me. I didna wish to be saved. I wished to die with‘ Jenny on the moor. And I wish to die now.‖
His voice dropped to a near-whisper.―They never found her body. Buried in the mass graves, they think. No even a proper grave...‖ he trailed away. A single tear flowed down his cheek and onto his tattered kilt; he could not go on without his wife. He wanted to die, end it all, for days now. Had he been a more courageous man, he would have given himself the coup de grace by his own hand. Instead, he had wandered aimlessly around the estates, leaving the management of them to his younger brother, Ian.
He should have been a real laird to those left of the clan, but the pain was too unbearable. He could not think, he could not eat, he could not sleep. He was turning into nothing, and it suited him fine.
―Aw, Carrick, ye blame yerself fer the loss, lad, and it isna so.‖ Morag petted his head.―Ye couldna help, yerself sae injured and near to death. Ye did what ye could to save yer clan and that was fine; ye saved many that day. So, lad, what brings ye to Morag this day?‖
Carrick ran his long, broad fingers through his thick hair; hair that fell loose on his back and had not been cared for in some time. He took a final sip from the cup and set it on the table, then rose and turned to the one window in the room.
―I thank ye, Morag, for yer generous words. Yer kindness is more than I deserve.‖ He turned slightly to face her. ―The truth is that I didna do enough for any of them. Yer words canna change it. It is true. I wish to die, Morag.‗Tis best for the clan if Ian is made laird by my death. He is nearly laird now. I am a coward and so I come to ye to ask for one favor. Ye raised me and loved me well, Morag. Ye can grant me one last wish—to mix a potion and let me join my Jenny. I canna go on without her. I simply canna.‖
The wizened witch stretched out her twisted hand and laid it tenderly on Carrick‘s arm.
―Nay, me lad,‖ she softly said.―‗Tisna the answer. Ye ken ‗tis sin to take yer life by yer own hand. I willna be party to such; I never ha‘ and I never will. There is an answer to yer pain, lad. Strange it may sound, but ‗tis true.‗Tis possible ye may be one o‘ the lucky ones who can do it. For I ken yer Jenny yet lives and ye needna die to be wi‘ her.‖
―Morag, ye were ever the wise one, and a fair healer ye are. I ha‘ always trusted ye in such things. All of us have,‖ Carrick said gently. ―How can ye be sure of such a thing? How can it be possible? God knows, I want to believe ye, I do. But for all yer magic, a person canna live again after death.‖
―Aye, they can and do, Carrick,‖ she replied with a tender smile.―The one who made us all made us to live yet again and again until we ha‘ finished wi‘ what He meant to teach us. Believe me when I tell ye that she is reborn in a future time and place. Trust this one small thing, for what ha‘ ye to lose?‖
―Morag, dear Morag.‖ Carrick humored her. ―Ye‘re of an age and I fear for yer mind. Ye canna truly believe this? That Jenny lives in future times? If this is true as ye say,‖ he challenged her,―then tell me where she lives. How do I go to her?‖
―Carrick, lad, I am no addled. I saw this morning.‖ She turned away and picked up the bag of Runes. ―The Runes spoke to me and I saw again in the pool, ye ken the seeing pool? I saw yer Jenny alive and fit, and it may be possible for ye to go to her.‖
―What did ye see Morag?‖ Carrick wanted to believe his old nursemaid. Heaven knew her magic had always been potent, always healing and more. Could he believe her now, or was she just losing her wits to her age? On the chance that she could still be as powerful as she once was, Carrick sighed and said, ―Tell me now what ye ken. No more of yer riddles! Tell me all and tell me now.‖
―Aye, I‘ll tell ye, but ye may no like the tellin‘ of it.‖ Morag set the bag back on its shelf.
―Like it or no isna the issue, Morag.‖ His blue eyes crackled with fire.―I will ha‘ the story and ha‘ it all. Then we will see if ye‘re addled or no.‖
Morag looked down at her aged hands and up again to meet Carrick‘s gaze, steel for steel.
―She lives in another time and place. In what ye would call the future. She is reborn there—she lives there—and it may be wi‘ the help of the stones and something of Jenny‘s, ye can travel to her there.‖
―Again wi‘ the future?‖ Carrick laughed.―Ye crone, ye dear old crone, ye‘re too old. Surely ye‘re confused in this seeing.‗Tis impossible to do as ye say. Ye gave me false hope for a time and it was for naught. Be kind to me, Morag, and fix the potion so that I may leave this earth and join Jenny in death.‖
―Fool ‗tis what ye are, ― Morag retorted angrily.―Ye‘re a bloody fool. Ye dinna believe me? Come ye then to the pool and see fer yerself, ye silly man. Ye ha‘ no understanding of the way the power works. All ye understand is battle and brawn, ye thick-headed sot. Come ye to the pool and see for yerself then.‖
Carrick drew himself to his full height and smiled for the first time since Jenny‘s death.―Fine then, old woman. Let‘s on to the pool, where I am certain we shall see nothing but water from the spring.‖
―Aw, ye were ever a foolish lad.‖ Morag laughed as she wrapped her shawl about her shoulders and walked through the door.―Come ye, lad. For if ye can see the meanings in the pool, ye shall be able to travel to yer Jenny.‖
Having nothing to lose and only more to gain, Carrick followed the witch to a small, crystal-still pond in a tiny, well-hidden clearing. It almost appeared to be dusk,
so thickly surrounded by trees as it was.
Morag approached the pool reverently and slowly, then knelt upon the mossy bank and dipped a finger into it, causing a ripple to ride away toward the other side.
―Life is a circle, Carrick,‖ she mused.―We make these ripples and they meet wi‘ each and the other. They never end. Kneel and look, lad. Look deeply and ye shall see yer beloved.‖
Carrick did as he was told and sat for a time gazing into the pool.―I see nothing, crone. Ye make a fool of me.‖ He sighed and began to rise on one leg.
―Sit ye down now!‖ Morag cried out to him.―Laird or no, do as I say in this, for ye shall suffer all the more if ye dinna. Now sit ye down and gaze—look wi‘ yer heart and no yer bloody eyes!‖
With a sullen demeanor, Carrick settled back down onto the moss and stared deeply into the pool.
―That‘s the way, lad,‖ Morag encouraged.―Still ye that mess of yer brain and think of yer Jenny. Feel yer love for her wi‘ yer heart and feel it deep as ye look. Keep ye lookin‘ now, and dinna stop.‖
Carrick sat silently and as still as he could. He tried desperately to erase his thoughts; the very thoughts that had haunted him and turned him into the ghost of Invergarry, rather than its laird.
Memories of battle screams, heard above even the skirl of the great Highland pipes, overwhelmed him. Watching in frustration as clan after clan was massacred on the moor; blood soaking his kilt and boots, dripping from his hair, his chin, and nose. Tired and starving, the clans fought on and became no match for the English.
He remembered being cut by sword again and yet again, and falling into the mud and filth, unable to rise. And Jenny, sweet Jenny, who had insisted on being near to nurse the wounded. Her hand stroking his face, smiling encouragement into his eyes, telling him he would be well, that he must live, for she was with child. Memories of her silken hair falling onto his face mixing with blood, her tears and her touch, until the Sasunnach dragged her from him and...
"Carrick," Morag whispered. "D‘ye see? She is there! In the pool! Look ye now."
Laird of the Mist Page 1