Sound of the Heart

by Genevieve Graham

  Don’t look back. It’s all gone.

  “Mother?” he whispered in his dream.

  Gone.

  Consciousness cut through the murk like a talon on the soft underbelly of a rabbit. He fought it, needing to hold the dream just a moment longer, needing to hear more. But, like everything else, it was gone.

  He forced himself to sit up, groaning as his body reminded him of his recent adventure. Glancing across to the river, he noticed the water was calmer here, settling in from the runoff of the falls. Weak beams of setting sun played off the water, painting red gold arcs and shadows. Glenna would have loved it. Would have been in awe of the colours. Would have tucked her arm into his and nuzzled against his side. Beautiful, isn’t it, Dougal?

  He frowned up at the cliff on the far side of the river. He had no memory of going over, so he must have been unconscious at the time then managed to float downstream. He gave a weak snort, imagining himself drifting face up, sprawled like a star. Some sort of feeble joke God had played on him, keeping him alive. Why bother?

  A bat flitted over the surface of the stream, followed by two more dancing shadows dipping and teasing the water, searching the early spring night for an evening meal. Dougal was hungry, too, and shivering from the cold, which led to thoughts of the deer they had slain. The shaggy carcass was probably slung over the shoulders of one of the soldiers, sorry head lolling behind the man’s back. And behind that followed Glenna, prisoner again.

  If she yet lived, where would they take her? Where was the closest prison? Maybe Stirling?

  She would hate it. She would need air and open spaces, finches and scrawny deer. She would need his snoring to wake her in the middle of the night and the pathetic meals he served when he attempted to cook. Only he knew how she liked the back of her neck scratched and that she preferred honey in her oats.

  How could he exist without her?

  CHAPTER 22

  Finding the Road

  Dougal awoke in the morning, smothered by fog, his muscles cramped into near paralysis. The tiny fire by his feet had long since gone out, leaving only a pile of charred twigs and stones as evidence of his passing. He had eventually curled within the negligible shelter of a rotted-out tree trunk, which had provided no heat and even less comfort. Though it was a mild one, it was still February, and he knew he was in danger of never moving again. He was freezing and starving, he hurt all over, and he was thoroughly miserable.

  Glenna. She was the first thought in every one of his days—why should today be any different? Where was she? Was she alive? Had they harmed her? The thought made his hollow stomach clench. He saw again the panic in her pale blue eyes and hated himself for it. She shouldn’t have been there, hunting alongside him. She should have been at home, doing something a woman normally did. Cooking. Cleaning. Then she would have been safe, would have—

  That was ridiculous. Glenna wasn’t that kind of woman. That was one of the reasons he loved her with all his heart.

  He had to find her. He struggled to brace his feet underneath him, but his legs seemed unwilling to cooperate. Still sitting, he straightened his knees and yowled as the muscles cramped, then scrubbed his fists furiously over his thighs, carefully avoiding the bruised patches, until eventually the muscles loosened. His chest bore a long gash from the boulder in the river, the rock that had offered safety then ripped it away. The blood had dried the night before, along with numerous other ugly cuts, though a few opened up in his hands when he moved them. From gripping at the passing rocks, he realised. The bruises on his knuckles would have come from when he’d broken that soldier’s jaw. How had he not broken his own head on the way over?

  Leaning heavily against the slimy log at his back, he groaned and stood, slowly uncurling his back one vertebra at a time, then reached his arms toward the sky and looked up into the gray. Every muscle felt as if it had been pounded over and over by a smithy’s hammer. Flexing his fingers brought nothing but pain, but it was a familiar pain and didn’t bother him much.

  He needed food. That was imperative. Without something in his belly, he’d never heal enough to follow her. He staggered toward the river, squatted, and sank his hands into the freezing water, then drank long and deep, trying to temporarily fill those empty spaces inside his belly with water. Then, because he needed something to awaken him from his daze, he splashed his face and hair. He shivered convulsively, then stood and shook purposefully, like a dog.

  The movement stung, and he looked down at his chest to see a fresh red bloom of blood spreading under his shredded tunic. With a grimace, he tugged at his shirt, but it had fastened to the healing wound overnight. He gently peeled it away, thread by thread, revealing an ugly, fairly deep gash that would need mending before he could go any farther. He looked at his palms and saw the cuts on the insides of his fingers, red and swollen. Yes, his injuries would need attention.

  Naked spring branches stretched over his head. Bearing them, protruding from the winter-killed earth, were the silver white trunks of birch. Their papery bark, stippled and striped by the elements, was patched by clumps of black and gray that resembled poorly healed sores. Dougal stumbled through the trees, bracing his hands against the damp wood, then searched the lower sections until he found what he needed. Using his dirk, he carved soft, fat lumps of white fungus from the birch, and laid them on the forest floor. He cut the top of each one into a square, then peeled back the top layer and gently spread them across the gash on his chest, and the one on his left thigh. The fungus clung to his skin, offering a cool respite from the burn.

  He stayed within the shelter of the trees, seeking whatever meagre protection he could find from the breeze off the river, and stopped beside the sturdy trunk of a willow, already beginning to spread light green shoots off its branches. Dougal cut one of the shoots and stuck the cut end into his mouth, chewing on it. The bitter liquid made his mouth flood with saliva, and he swallowed it all down, knowing the plant would give him some small bit of pain relief.

  If the shore hadn’t sloped downward, it might have been difficult to see in which direction he should head. The river had carried him far from his landing place, wherever that had been, so he had no landmarks with which to judge his location. He stepped gingerly over algae-coated logs, using his bare feet like claws as he moved away from the rocky shore. When at last he reached the grass, he scouted for a deer trail and found it, meandering vaguely through the winter-stripped trees.

  He would find better food soon, but for now he had to make do. He squatted beside a clump of juniper and plucked some fat blue berries from between the needles. They were bitter when he squashed them in his back teeth, but they were something. A little farther on in his travels he found a series of rosebushes and chewed on a few of the hips. The energy they gave him outweighed the bland taste. He tucked as many as he could find inside his shirt for later.

  The woods along the river were quiet, the only sound coming from the soft crunching of his feet when they sank into melting patches of snow. He walked without thinking, his plan simply to follow the line of the water until he found someplace recognisable. The constant walking kept the circulation flowing in his legs and feet, but he had to stop occasionally when the pain from his injuries overtook him. At the end of a day, and sometimes midday if the pain was too bad, he lit a small fire to warm and partially dry himself, then set off again.

  It was three days before he found any sign of another human being, and that was in the form of a splintered wagon wheel, half submerged in a slushy puddle. The rough path on which it had met its demise eventually led to a kind of road, stretches of thin brown interspersed with rocks and early spring green. Dougal stepped from within the protection of the trees and gazed down the road, looking . . . for what? If he’d expected Glenna to emerge, to run down the road with her distinctive spring, he would be waiting an eternity. There was no movement as far as he could see; only the slight tremble of branches in the breeze gave away the fact that the panorama wasn’t simply a
painting. Far beyond the trees, farther than the road dared stretch, were the misted mountains of the Highlands. Dougal felt a twist in his gut when he realised he might never see them again. He’d felt the same regret when he and his family had set off to war. Even now the mountains were only shadows. Maybe they were nothing more than a trick of light through the clouds.

  Maybe he would come back one day. With Glenna.

  He took a deep breath, then let it out, turning to his right and setting his path toward what he hoped was Stirling. He didn’t think it would be far now, since the road was better travelled here.His feet were worn and tired, but the skin was tough as deer hide, so he barely felt the pebbles as he came across them. A drink of something other than river water would be welcome, he thought, swallowing reflexively.

  About an hour later, Dougal met up with the first person he’d seen in days. Before he laid eyes on the man, however, Dougal heard him. The fool threw himself onto Dougal from the side of the road, wheezing with exertion. Sidestepping neatly, Dougal turned and felled the man with a solid blow to his gut. The man moaned, crumpled to his knees, and Dougal knelt beside him.

  “Hello, sir. Is there somethin’ ye’d be needin’?”

  The man growled through blackened teeth; the air around him stank of rot. Dougal recoiled and stepped away. He turned his back on the man and continued down the road, then called back over his shoulder.

  “If ye were lookin’ for coin, ye struck the wrong traveller. If ye were lookin’ for an easy kill, again, ye picked the wrong one. Mark yer prey better, man.” He paused and turned back, chuckling a bit. The man still sat despondently at the side of the road. “Or maybe ye should—”

  He didn’t hear the second attacker, or the third. So the first had been a decoy, and Dougal had fallen for it. The oldest trick there was, and he had swallowed the bait. Stupid, stupid, Dougal berated himself, struggling against the man who held his arms behind his back. The other man was short and wiry, and not appropriate for the task, which was to punch Dougal until he couldn’t fight back. He did land a few good punches, which saved the entire scene from being laughable. On the whole, Dougal seemed to be in less pain than his attacker.

  “Give us your money, mountain man,” the little pugilist demanded, panting between punches. He hit Dougal’s rib, and Dougal grunted.

  “Have I no’ just told yer mate that—ugh—I’ve nae money wi’ me? Oof. Here. Stop that.”

  Tiring of the game, Dougal lowered his chin to his chest and reared back until he felt the back of his head connect with his captor’s nose. The nose made a satisfying crunching sound, accompanied by a howl, and Dougal’s arms were suddenly released. Once free, Dougal took no time before returning the little man’s attack.

  “Damn Scotsman broke my nose,” the one behind him moaned, sounding distinctly nasal. “Kill him, Smit!”

  Smit made a noise that Dougal supposed was meant as agreement, but the threat was absurd. Dougal flicked one eyebrow sardonically at Smit then brought his fist in a perfect arc under the man’s chin. The narrow head snapped back and the wiry body flew a few feet backward.

  The stubborn man with the broken nose was back, and he came at Dougal, brandishing a long dirk in one hand.

  “Ye dinna want to fight me wi’ that,” Dougal muttered. “Silly sod.”

  “I’ll kill you!” the man cried.

  He was taller than Smit, and broader, but lacked a certain amount of coordination. It could have been the injury, but Dougal thought he had a weakness about him to begin with. A bit of a limp. The man lunged at Dougal with the knife and Dougal spun to the side, avoiding the thrust and gripping the man’s hand, clutched tight on the hilt. He squeezed the fingers in an iron grip until the man gasped, unable to hold on any longer. The knife dropped to the pebbled ground with a soft thud.

  Dougal glared at his attacker, now hunched over and panting, blood draining in viscous strings from his nose. The sunken eyes narrowed, then darted between Dougal and the fallen weapon.

  Dougal shook his head slowly. “Leave it there, man, an’ ye might live to rob another poor soul.”

  Dougal turned away again, but he already knew what was about to happen, and it made him angry. He heard a grunt and three footfalls as the bloodied man attacked from the rear. Dougal grabbed his own dirk, spun to face the man, and planted his dirk squarely under the man’s rib cage. There was a yowl of disbelief, then a pathetic snuffling noise, and the man fell in a lump at Dougal’s feet.

  “I said I’d nothin’ in my pocket, sir.” Dougal bent and yanked his dirk from the twitching body, then wiped the bloodied blade on his breeks and slid it back into his belt. He straightened. “What I’d forgot to mention is I’ve nothin’ to lose, either.”

  He glared at the other footpads, who were out of commission, rolling in misery farther down the road. Glancing one last time at the dead man, Dougal shook his head with disgust, then continued on his way.

  A little farther down the road, Dougal stiffened, hearing hoofbeats approach from behind. After so long hiding in the woods, the clopping hooves shot panic through his bloodstream. Two horses, he thought, and automatically stepped to the side, keeping his face turned from the road. But the horses stopped, reining in on either side of Dougal until he was trapped between them.

  “What the—”

  “What have you to say on the charge of murder, sir?” one of the horsemen asked. With a sinking heart, Dougal registered the English soldier’s cultured accent.

  He frowned. “I say it is an unpleasant thing.”

  He was rewarded with a tight grimace Dougal thought was meant to be a smile. “And what have you to say on the charge that you murdered a man, just up the road?”

  “I have naught to say. The man died while I defended myself.”

  “That’s not what his mates had to say.”

  “Well, o’ course they wouldna say that. But—”

  “You are coming with us,” the second soldier said from his perch, then slid off the saddle. “Hands in front, please.”

  Dougal was too surprised to argue. Staring in disbelief, he lifted his hands until they were held prayer-like in front of his chest. The soldier wrapped a length of rope around Dougal’s wrists and tugged tight.

  “What evidence have ye?” Dougal asked. “The word of a couple of footpads?”

  The soldier gave him a wry grin. “Aye. Theirs over yours. And I’d rather arrest you than bother with both of them. At least you can walk. Don’t worry. You’ll get your trial.”

  The soldier mounted and leaned his legs into the animal’s sides. The horse walked obediently, tugging Dougal along behind. He called out, demanding they stop, but they paid no attention. He yanked on the rope, but the horse pulled back, and it was stronger. In the end, all Dougal could do was try to keep up, and hope their destination was nearby.

  It was, in fact, a very long hour away, one consisting of awkward falls and slips, moments when Dougal couldn’t maintain his footing and was dragged until he could regain it. He was bruised and battered when they finally arrived at a small fort where he was to be incarcerated, and his wrists were rubbed raw. The horses stopped in front of a dark building and the soldiers dismounted. Without a word, they half carried Dougal into the building and dropped him on the floor of a cell.

  It had been a very long time since Dougal had been in a prison of any type, other than his own self-inflicted one. He rested on his knees for a moment, staring at the four stone walls, letting his eyes travel from the muck at his feet to the ancient rafters overhead. The air smelled of mildew and worse, and the stink seemed to be closing in on him. There was no cot, only a blanket tossed in the corner, and a chamber pot.

  He staggered to his feet and paced from one end of his cell to the other, counting three steps each way. When he could bear the pain and exhaustion no more, he slid down the cold, damp wall. He sat on the blanket while a hint of sunlight from the front room slowly faded to black. Then he laid his elbows over his knees, sank his head int
o his arms, and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 23

  A Dead Man’s Suggestion

  In what he assumed was morning, Dougal awoke to the jingle of keys in the door and it creaked open a sliver. It was hard to tell in the dark, but from the size and speed of the form, he thought it was a boy, crouched low. Whoever it was slid a plate of dark liquid into Dougal’s cell, then vanished. The plate’s contents smelled like something long dead, and a few lonely lumps within hinted at meat. Dougal was hungry, so he ate.

  The cell door opened again later on, and by the flicker of an oil lantern he saw the shadowed features of one of the arresting soldiers along with two others, and a man dressed in an officer’s uniform. They regarded the prisoner without saying a word, then turned inward to discuss something Dougal couldn’t hear. He considered asking what was happening, but decided, on a rare whim, to keep his mouth shut. Nor did he try to hear the men’s thoughts, as he knew he could have. He was too tired to bother. He would learn the outcome soon enough. The lesser men listened and gave slight bows of assent to their leader before all four turned to stare at Dougal again. After a moment, the cell door creaked closed and he heard no more.

  Dougal was captive within the darkness. He had become accustomed to the dank smell and the heavy, unmoving air, but couldn’t relax within the sensation of those stone walls closing in on him. From where he sat, on a blanket at the end of the cell, he could easily reach the opposing walls, and decided he felt safer when he braced his hands against them. As if he could prevent them from squeezing further. So he shoved his palms against the stone for as long as his arms could bear it.

  He wasn’t a man known for patience. He tired of holding up the walls. He paced like a wild beast in a cage, then sat, tugging at the frayed threads of his coat for want of something to do. He called out a few times, demanding attention, but his voice fell short in the blackness, and he heard nothing but a cold, deep silence in reply. He wondered if they might have forgotten him.