by Ria Cantrell
Chapter 4
John O’Rourke watched Sinead MacDougal from the arched doorway of the acquisition library. She was so lost in her work that he almost didn’t have the heart to disturb her, but the wind had kicked up and the snow was falling more rapidly. The Long Island Railroad was already claiming limited service and if he wanted to get home, it was now or never. He knew that Sinead would not be happy about having to stop in the middle of her work, but there was not much he could do about it.
John had made a promise to Sinead’s parents long ago and though she did not know it, he would uphold that vow. It was a strange night, John could feel it prickling along his spine. The pull of the Solstice was upon them but Sinead showed no signs of following in her parents footsteps and though John had thought that maybe things would develop as the young woman matured, it seemed that his dear Sinead would not aspire to the Call. He almost believed it to be so, but today, for the briefest of moments, he saw a glimmer of possibility when he had spoken to her of the power of a Christmas wish at Solstice time. It was fleeting, aye, but it gave John hope that maybe, the girl would finally embrace her destiny. He had kept her parents’ secret for so long it seemed like it was almost part of his own soul, but a promise is a promise and John O’Rourke was never one to renege on a promise.
He thought back to the day he had met them. Well, met was not actually the right word for it. He had been sent to guide them. They were new to the Path, but as it was with the Ancient Gifts, once called, it cannot be denied. He had spent many of his years in his beloved Ireland but he was always happy to answer his call. He loved living in America and he loved his work. Something about dabbling in the antiquities kept him grounded. Originally John had thought that his project if you will, was the MacDougal couple but upon getting to know them, he realized that it would be their daughter, Sinead, that he would need to keep an eye on. After she had finished college, John had pulled some strings to get her placed with one of the top museums in New York City. It wasn’t very difficult, really. Her transcripts spoke for themselves. In getting to know Sinead, John was happy to learn she was a highly motivated young woman with a wonderfully intellectual mind. She was bookish, but she was not a shrinking violet; no far from it. She was tough and strong and opinionated and John mused many times at the dichotomy of the girl. She could have her nose buried in books and ledgers one minute and the next she was the star of a kickboxing class.
John never let her know how much he had observed her. If she knew, she would accuse him of being a stalker so he had to be very clever and resourceful when it came to keeping his eye on Sinead MacDougal. Tonight, he would have to return to his home and though she was no longer that green girl fresh out of college, John worried about her. Tonight was the night. John felt it most of the day. He had to let it play out as it would. Either she would embrace the Gift or John would know that it had skipped her. He hated to not be forthcoming to Sinead, but he had specific instructions not to meddle. No, his job was mostly to observe. Some of the Threads were set in place by his hand, but he could not push her to her destiny. If it was hers to take, they all would know soon enough.
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John called, “Love, I’ll be heading home early. The Long Island Railroad is still running and I don’t want to chance being stuck here. You may find comfort in your manuscripts and scrolls, but I would rather have a nice mug of some hot spirits to warm the blood. Don’t stay too late, Love.”
Looking up from the latest manuscript she was cataloging, Sinead smiled. The time had flown and although she was barely through the first one, she realized that John truly wanted to get out of there. She said, “I don’t mind a little snow, John. I rather find it invigorating. I’ll make sure everything is locked up.”
“Well, you know the museum will be armed shortly, so you can’t be trudging around else you’ll fire off the motion detectors. I’m afraid you will be confined to these libraries.”
“That’s okay. I had hoped to go out by the scenic view earlier, but already, I think it is blowing too hard out there to enjoy the spot. I am perfectly happy to stay here with my lovely books and prizes. What a find, John, what a find! It’s like having my Christmas presents all to myself and getting to open them early.”
John laughed and shook his head.
“How is it that such a beauty is such a geek?”
Sinead blushed at his offhanded compliment. “Hey, geeks are the new cool. Go on home. I’m sure Marianne is waiting with a good hot meal and some of that other stuff to warm the blood.”
“You’re sure, then?”
“Absolutely positive. I have all the codes to lock things up and I’ll make sure I go out the back way. I’ll get out before the park closes.”
“Yeah, I don’t want you walking through the woods late at night. I know the path will still be lit, but….”
“No, I’ll take the longer walk that goes straight to the A-Train. I promise.”
“Alright, Lassie. I hope I don’t find you curled up under the desk in the morning.” John hoped it more than Sinead could understand. Tonight would tell the tale, one way or the other. John grabbed his hat and wound his scarf around his neck. With a final wave, he set off for home and he prayed that Sinead would be safe, no matter what was to come of this night.
Chapter 5
Sinead stood and stretched. She had been logging in the manuscripts for quite a few hours. The museum had closed when John had gone, leaving her perfect quiet to get her work done. She had gotten a good deal of the precious shipment catalogued and she thought maybe it was time to call it a night. She had no idea how bad the weather had gotten, but she was pretty sure that she would be alright once she made it to the subway. She went to the break room located behind the libraries and tried to peer out of the single window on the right side of the kitchen. The pane was frosted over and Sinead had to rub some of it away with the sleeve of her sweater. She cleared enough away to look out and saw that the snow was still coming down quite rapidly. From what she could see, it was almost white-out conditions. Damn! Well no point in going out into a blizzard. It would have to let up eventually. May as well just hunker down and do so more work.
Sinead rummaged through the cabinets in the break room and found a canister of coffee. She also found some frozen dinners in the fridge that she could microwave. That would suit her because she was suddenly pretty hungry so she would take a break; have something to eat and get back to the manuscripts. They had turned out to be really interesting. They were dated back to the 1300’s and they recounted the history of those days almost as if someone had written them like a diary. While she had been working, she mostly was just logging the items in and she really wanted to try to read some of what had been penned in those beautiful ancient tomes with their gilded edges and illuminated texts. They also came with some modern translations and Sinead couldn’t think of a better way to spend a snowy evening than to read up on some of the treasures she had been given to guard and keep; if only for this night.
Once she had eaten her microwaved meal and grabbed a granola bar for a snack, Sinead headed back to her place in the library. She put on white gloves to handle the pages that were brittle and delicate from age. Time had worn upon them and Sinead knew she had to be utterly diligent and careful when opening them. It was one thing to log the leather bound tomes in, but it was a completely different challenge if she was going to leaf through the pages.
It had gotten a little colder and since all of the other employees had left, the heating was kept lower. It had to be cooler, too, to preserve the integrity of some of the priceless artifacts stored within the walls of the place. While she had been working, Sinead had removed her sweater, which covered a tank top over her slim jeans. Now, Sinead pulled her beautiful emerald green angora over her head and felt its warmth envelope her. That was sufficient for the moment and she could get back to the business of exploring the treasures.
She carefully turned the pages admiring the wonderfully hand-p
enned words and illuminations. Such care had gone into writing these words and though she knew she shouldn’t, Sinead took off one glove and gently ran the pad of her index finger over the gilded scripts upon the fragile page. She felt something akin to a charge race through her fingers and she shivered from the force of it. This was the past; the true past literally at her fingertips. Sinead was excited to be delving into the distant past and she tried to make out some of the middling English that was written upon the pages. When she had scanned through a few of the books, something caught her eye. The writing seemed easier for her to understand, almost as if it was written in modern vernacular. Upon the pages, there in the neatly penned words was the name MacDougal. Well it was the Gaelic form of her surname, MacDubhgall but she was familiar with that spelling, having researched her ancestry years ago. As she stared at the name for a few moments, it was as if the words on the page leapt out at her and she was able to understand what had been written so long ago. Or, maybe she suddenly developed a complete understanding of ancient writing.
The old clan had been at war with another clan in the Highlands of Scotland for many years. Everyone knew that. Heck, the clans were always at war with each other, but what struck Sinead was that this rival clan had been lead into a trap where the laird’s son was killed. It was to appear that the MacDougals had caused it and the practice of sheep raiding had turned deadly one wintery night. Raiding was part of life, but the murder of the Laird’s son would ensure that a blood feud would be declared. The lives of many more would have been lost as a result of such an action.
As Sinead read further, she learned that whoever had written these words wanted it stated clearly that it was not the MacDougal clan that brought murder and bloodshed to the clan MacCollum that night. It had been a ruse to raze MacDougal and cause untold retaliation that would forever haunt those left to survive the carnage.
Sinead’s eyes grew wide as the words penetrated her brain. Treachery by a mutual enemy of both clans sought to destroy them from within. With the loss of the heir to the lairdship, the succession would be in question. Both sides would be made to pay time and again for years to come. It was a ripple through history that would forever change the face of the Highlands and the two clans; MacDougal and MacCollum, would be hard pressed to sustain themselves after so much blood had been spilled.
Sinead flipped some of the pages back and she tried to find more about the laird of MacCollum’s son; the one who had been ambushed and murdered before the eyes of his brothers. Surely, there would be more about him! Sinead felt drawn to learning what had driven him out into the snowy hills, which ultimately brought death to his door. Who was he? Sinead felt compelled to find out. There was no point in reading history if the ones being memorialized were only given a few words. Sinead almost forgot her care when she turned the pages to the beginning of the story. She thought that perhaps she would learn nothing more, but just as she was about to give up, she saw his name as plain as her own and she knew it was the name of the murdered son of Clan MacCollum.
Jamie MacCollum. His name was Jamie MacCollum. He was the first born son of four other brothers and an unnamed sister. Sinead “hmphed”. Typical. Girls were unimportant, it seemed even when it came to historic battles and events. The clan was known throughout the Highlands for its fine wool but were also ruthless warriors. There had been clan division for decades, if not centuries, and though the MacDougals were considered a viable threat, they had not actually set out to foster a blood feud. Once that had been declared, there seemed to be no turning back. At the time of the raid that killed Jamie, there was a standing blood feud with two other clans, MacKenzie and Campbell, but it was actually the treachery of the MacKenzie that claimed the life of Jamie MacCollum all those years lost now.
Sinead read the passage again. Something about this story called to her from the past. Though he was in his mid-twenties, Jamie remained unmarried. It stated that he was a strong warrior, but his love of the land and the tending of sheep was more to his calling. He had developed a process that carded the wool so that it could be spun into the softest yarns used to weave the finest textiles from it. Sinead wondered if some of what this Jamie had done was still part of the process used to this day. It seemed like such a pity that his life had been cut short when all he really wanted to do was farm the land and tend to his animals. Sinead sighed. Life was certainly hard in medieval Scotland. It made her thankful that she had been born in a century where she did not have to fight for her survival. She almost wondered if her life had come down to that, could she have done it?
There was not much more about Jamie, but something about his plight pulled at Sinead’s heart. “Ahh Jamie. I am sorry you did not get to live the life you chose. I wish it had not been so. What were you like? Were you a wild Highlander or were you a gentle farmer caught up in the snares of war? Why weren’t you married?” Sinead spoke the words out loud, knowing no one would hear them. She laughed to herself when she thought of someone eavesdropping on her private conversation with a man who had been killed nearly 700 years ago.
Despite her momentary amusement, something about Jamie’s story really did not sit well with Sinead. Why would it matter now? The clans had mostly sunk into obscurity and there were no more blood feuds any more. But, without reason, it did matter. It mattered to Sinead. It mattered to Jamie, who had lost his life protecting what he held dear. It mattered that the MacDougals got the blame for it and were not behind the treachery. It mattered for the countless other victims that had lost their lives as a result of the blood feud that had ensued.
Sinead turned the pages and after the telling of the battle, there was nothing more mentioned about Jamie MacCollum. There was a little mentioned about the numerous battles that came to pass thereafter, but even that was almost of little note. The person who had written this information down was clearly telling the tale as he had heard it. It was more about the mentioning of the MacKenzies than of the other players involved in the plot.
“No, there has to be more,” Sinead mumbled in frustration. So she went back to the beginning and read the pages again. She savored each word and she imagined what Jamie was like. Her sense of romance told her he was strong and fiercely protective. And hot-headed like many of her ancestors were known to be. Was he like the man she had dreamed of on her morning ride to work today? Jamie’s story was oddly similar to that dream that had really left her quite shaken. Sinead closed her eyes and tried to conjure an image of the man that had gotten only a cursory note about his life. History wasn’t supposed to be that way. Clearly, he had merit and purpose. He deserved more than a few pages penned as a mere mention and nothing more. Sinead tried to visualize what his life had been like prior to his death.
Obviously, there were people who loved him else the blood feud with the MacDougals would not have happened. What about the sister that was mentioned but not given a name? Surely she must have loved her brother. The laird of the clan must have mourned for his son; perhaps for the remainder of his life. There had to be more. Sinead felt tears welling in her eyes for the lack of worth given to the man who had died fighting to protect his family. She knew it was silly of her, for many had died throughout history without so much of a mention so she did not understand why this man, who had been noted; albeit minutely, mattered more than so many others. As a slow tear made its way free of her eyes and spattered upon the ancient page, Sinead heard herself saying, “I wish it wasn’t so, Jamie MacCollum. It wasn’t your rivals the MacDougals…it was the MacKenzies…and you died, thinking we are all monsters.”
Sinead did not realize she had put herself within the medieval clan of her heritage, but somehow that was important. She realized that a tear had marred the fragile parchment of the page and she swiped at her eyes and chided herself for being so foolish. With another sigh, Sinead spoke again and said, “Jamie MacCollum, how I wish I could learn your story because I promise I would make sure it was read and told. How I wish I could have met you.” And somewhere in the quiet
room, she remembered the words of her colleague, John O’Rourke. Legend says if you make a Christmas wish on the Solstice, it’s more than likely to come true.
It was the last conscious thought that Sinead had as an overwhelming feeling of being sucked out of the room came upon her. She was falling endlessly to a bottomless chasm and then, thankfully, there was darkness; sweet darkness of oblivion. As the blackness enveloped her, Sinead was unaware how grateful she was that she would not feel the impact as she hit the ground.
Chapter 6
When Jamie heard the war cry above him, he knew that they had been led into a trap. Those blasted MacDougals were hell bent on murder; not just raiding some of their precious sheep. Ruiri was right. Jamie was the oldest and he should have known better, but he let his anger misguide him. He pulled the sword from its scabbard and let go a war cry of his own. He spurred his horse toward the clearing, knowing it was dangerous because he could be an easy target for a bowman to pick off.
What had started as a few flurries quickly was becoming a true snow fall and Jamie only hoped that it would hinder the fray enough for them to get their lead. He had no idea how many more men they would be fighting against, but clearly, the handful of his men and his brothers were grossly outnumbered. As Jamie swiped at the snow that had landed in his eyes he was amazed how quickly the weather had worsened. It was as if the Guardians were on his side after all, because the air was blanketed with white, and the density of it nearly blotted his men from view. In fact, Jamie was having a hard time seeing his brothers. Bloody hell! He could be riding straight into the path of a broadsword.
The snow swirled around him and the wind howled in warning and Jamie could barely see his hand in front of him. As he urged his horse onward, he heard the calls of his brothers and they sounded so distant in the thick fog of snow.