The Scent of Forever

by Julie Doherty

  Ireland?

  It was a strong setting, more clear and detailed than ever before. Stories set in Ireland were hot right now, but setting alone couldn’t carry a plot. She needed characters.

  Come on . . .

  She was about to give up and go for a cup of coffee when a man began to materialize.

  Who are you?

  His features came into focus. He was a splendid character of medium build, with piercing eyes, a nose that looked as if it had been broken many times, and fair hair waving in a gentle breeze.

  She concentrated on keeping him there.

  He began to fade away.

  No!

  She pursued him, and the setting changed. He led her to the stern of a galley, where he held an ornately carved tiller in his calloused hand. His saffron tunic suggested he was affluent—and from the Middle Ages—but he lacked the hose and shoes of a man at court.

  What century is this?

  She wanted to look around, but his penetrating gaze held hers and turned her insides to mush. She reeled him in a bit closer—close enough to faintly smell pine and smoke—but he snapped back to his original position at the stern.

  The phone rang, extinguishing the vision like a pinched candlewick.

  “Damn it!” Ann picked up her cordless phone to check the caller ID.

  A-Plus Electric.

  She slammed the handset onto its cradle.

  A freakin’ telemarketer.

  Who else would it be? Mike? Mike moved on. So should she. Everyone wanted her to. Hell, she wanted to. There was no joy in a loveless life. Doing everything alone sucked big time. Beautiful sunsets were meant to be shared. Nobody should have to pretend-read placemats in order to disguise the misery of dining alone. Mike wasn’t dining alone. Mike wasn’t doing anything alone. His life had meaning now, or so his Facebook status said. Isn’t that what all new parents said? That their lives have meaning now?

  She wanted that meaning, too—longed for it, actually—ever since that sultry evening about eight years ago. She’d been sitting alone in the cabin ruins listening to the chorus of night creatures when she felt a presence. It hovered near her heart like a tendril of fog, whispering assurances that he—she was sure it was male—would find her.

  I will come.

  That’s what he said.

  She tossed her birth control pills that night.

  Nothing happened.

  Two years and ten cousins’ baby showers later, she bought a basal thermometer to predict ovulation. When she failed to conceive in spite of her picture-perfect cycles, she consulted her gynecologist, who referred her to a reproductive endocrinologist, who said her fallopian tubes were blocked. After a laparoscopic procedure and another two long years, she still had no baby.

  Friends suggested she relax.

  The endocrinologist suggested they get aggressive.

  The soul still called to her. I will come.

  Then, on a sunny day, Mike promised to meet her at the clinic. He said he’d be late. He had an important lunch meeting.

  She stood and rubbed her forehead. Don’t go there. Going there would have her festering in bed for a week. Going there meant not changing her underpants or brushing her teeth. It meant no writing, no manuscript, no agent.

  No, don’t go there. Not today. Not anymore.

  She blew out the candle. The mood was gone. Even if she could conjure up the vision again, she was too angry now to write anything worth keeping. Her pen scored the pages of her notebook as she angrily jotted down a few notes. She lifted the torc off the desk. It was foolhardy to keep it in the house and even riskier to wear it. She decided to take it to the bank, then stop at the historical society.

  Anything to get out of this mausoleum.

  Abandoning all hope of writing, she logged on to TreasureFinders.com, where she found a shocking number of replies to her post. Most consisted of no more than, “I wish I’d find a torc in my garden!” A few accused her of lying to gain attention. Still fewer gave helpful opinions and encouraged her to lock it away someplace safe. Those in the know speculated the torc was Pictish or Hiberno-Norse in origin, which made it a rare find. Several suggested she contact Doctor George McFadden, head of the Scottish Antiquities Department, at the University of Edinburgh.

  He’s a member here. Posts regularly as Dr_Mac, but he’s on a lecture circuit for a few weeks, one member advised. He checks in when he has Wi-Fi, though.

  Ann looked up Dr_Mac’s profile. He was an eight-year veteran and administrator of the site. She fired off a private message to him, along with a photograph of the torc.

  She had two messages in her inbox, one welcoming her to TreasureFinders.com and the other from someone named Lynch_Mob, who offered to meet her and examine the torc. His membership was even newer than hers.

  Sure, buddy, I’m dumb enough to bring a gold torc to meet a total stranger.

  She ignored his message and shut down the computer.

  Chapter 7

  With the torc locked in her safe deposit box, Ann made her way to the historical society, which operated out of the library basement. The single room was damp and musty, with a desk located just inside the door. As she entered, a chronically stooped man swiveled in his rolling office chair to greet her.

  “Can I help you?” he asked. He smelled like analgesic heat rub.

  Ann smiled politely. “I’m researching my genealogy.”

  He tottered up from his vinyl chair seat, patched many times with duct tape.

  “How far back can you go?” he asked.

  “Earliest I have is 1849.”

  “Anything before that will probably be in Mifflin County. Juniata was formed from Mifflin in 1838.”

  “Shoot, that’s right.” She wasted a trip. “The lady at the courthouse mentioned that, and I forgot. Thank you anyway.” She turned to go.

  “Hold on now,” the old man said. “You young people are always in such a hurry.”

  Young people. I love you, old man.

  He tottered around the corner of his desk. “There still might be something here. We get a lot of letters from researchers looking for the same people, and we have a pretty good collection of books.” They passed rows of shabby, hardback books on mismatched shelves. “Over in those cabinets”—he pointed a gnarled finger at the far wall—“we file requests and contributions by surname. If you’re lucky, someone’s already done the work for you.”

  A hefty woman wearing dark-rimmed glasses sat at one of three tables pushed end to end in the center of the room. She looked up from her books and smiled.

  The old man led Ann to a regiment of Army green file cabinets. “What’s the surname?”

  “McConnell.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. Scots-Irish. Most people who come here are either looking for the Scots-Irish or the Germans.”

  “I thought McConnell was Irish.”

  “They probably considered themselves Irish, but they were Scottish in origin. Do you know their story?”

  Her look must have suggested she didn’t.

  “King James kicked the native Irish to the west and lured Lowland Scots to Northern Ireland with promises of fertile land and low rents. Most were Presbyterians, big believers in finding their Promised Land. They did all right for a generation or two, and then”—he opened a screeching drawer—“things went sour. Taxes, more taxes, tithes, rack renting, and the final insult—crop failure.”

  He stood to the side so she could see the file tabs. “Look at all of the Mc names, one after the other, and most with the same story.” He pulled out a file. “Here we go.”

  He withdrew the McConnell file, then carried it to a table. When he opened it, the scent of Alex’s cologne wafted up to Ann’s nose. Had he been here?

  She lo
oked around the room while the historian sifted through the file’s contents. Except for the woman at the next table, they were alone.

  “Looks like the first McConnells were Edward and Henry. They built the first hand-hewn log cabin in the area.”

  Ann’s attention snapped to the folder. “Did you say Henry?”

  “Yep.” He pointed to a photocopied page from an old book. “Says it was located along the Cocolamus Creek near the present-day village of Seven Stars.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “You know where it is?”

  “I think I own it.”

  “You live there now?”

  “Not in the cabin. It—or what’s left of it—sits down by the creek. My dad told me the farm’s been in our family since our ancestors immigrated, but nobody ever bothered to learn more about them. I never even knew their names.”

  “Now, you do.” Joy lit up the man’s eyes. He clearly got off on history.

  “Edward and Henry,” Ann whispered. She wondered who they were, what brought them here, and what they had looked like.

  “This article says they fled to Carlisle in 1763.”

  “Fled?” Perhaps, that’s why they buried the torc. “Does it say why?”

  “No, but in 1763, everybody fled the frontier. That’s when the Indian chief, Pontiac, declared war on the settlers. He and his warriors murdered their way across the settlements. Most folks escaped with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Your Edward and Henry survived, though. They took out a warrant for their land in 1767.”

  There were letters in the file, letters infused with the intoxicating scent of Alex and the man in her vision, but it was the McDonald file—brought by the historian to the table—that knocked Ann into a metal folding chair.

  “Forgive me, I feel a little faint.”

  “Can I get you some water?”

  She shook her head. “It will pass. I should have eaten breakfast.” She glanced at the file in front of her. It was stained and dog-eared from heavy use. “That says McDonald. My name’s McConnell.”

  “Yes, but it’s the same name in the mother country. The D is silent in Gaelic.” He pressed his finger below the label. “Say the name without the Ds.”

  “McConnell. Amazing. I never knew.”

  “Most don’t. I only know because my late wife was a McDougal, and because I have a lot of time to read. The English were the ones writing names on passenger lists and in the censuses. They spelled carelessly—and phonetically. Your McConnell was really MacDonald in Scotland. M-A-C-D-H-O-M-H-N-A-I-L-L, but they all came from the same man.” He slid a Clan Donald brochure out of the folder, refreshing the scent and worsening Ann’s vertigo.

  “What man?”

  A galley sketched atop the brochure matched the vessel from her vision.

  “Somerled, self-styled King of Argyll and the world’s second most common ancestor. Only Genghis Khan has him beat.”

  Ann slid her chair back from the table to distance herself from the fragrant file.

  “This should give you plenty to think about,” the old man said. “Take your time. Look through the files. I’ll be up front if you need anything.” He shuffled back to his desk.

  Ann compared the two files. The researchers thumbing through them—and leaving their aroma on the papers—had one thing in common: Somerled’s DNA.

  Was it possible she could distinguish Somerled’s descendants from others by their scent—his scent? It would explain the stronger smell on the McDonald folder, which had obviously been handled much more than the slender McConnell one. How did she recognize Somerled’s scent in the first place? Did she inherit that memory from one of her ancestors? If so, which one?

  Answering that would be as easy as finding the one responsible for her fiery hair. In any event, it would make a terrific plot.

  She returned the folders to the cabinet, and as she closed the drawer, she couldn’t help feeling like she was filing away her despair. She may not have a future, but her DNA tethered her to a proud and noble past.

  Enjoy your baby, Mike. You’re not the only one whose life has new meaning.

  Chapter 8

  Ann barely heard the doorbell over the bagpipe lament wailing through her speakers. She raced to the liquor cabinet to pour two glasses of scotch before answering the door.

  Maggie stepped inside. “Sounds like you’re boiling a bag of cats in here.”

  Ann handed her a glass.

  Maggie accepted it, then dropped her shoulder bag to the floor. “Uh, it’s ten a.m.?”

  “Have a seat.”

  “Oh, boy.” Maggie flopped into her usual chair. “If you offer me a plate of haggis, I’m calling an ambulance.” She sat up straight. “Wait a minute . . . you’re writing again, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, then, here’s to ya.” Maggie took a belt of scotch. “Holy cow, that burns. I don’t know how you can drink this rotgut.”

  “Do you taste the smokiness?”

  “You mean the aftertaste of a licked burn barrel?”

  “It tastes that way because they dry the barley over a peat fire.”

  Maggie screwed up her face. “Pete’s fire?”

  “No. Peat. P-E-A-T. Basically, it’s compressed vegetation found in bogs. It’s dried and used as fuel in places like Ireland and Scotland.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “That’s the smoky part of the scent I’ve been trying to describe.”

  “I see.”

  “There’s more.”

  “I figured.”

  “Okay, hear me out. I found out that my ancestors likely descend from a warrior king named Somerled, who lived in the twelfth century. What if that torc we found is his? Who else but a king would own such a thing?”

  “It’s not a bad theory so far. But how did it get here? Who buried it, and why?”

  “I’m still working on that part. Here’s the thing, though. I sniffed Alex’s card yesterday right before I meditated. I think I saw him.”

  “Alex?”

  “No, dummy, Somerled! And guess what? He’s the source of the scent.”

  “Okay, I’m back to thinking about calling that ambulance.”

  “Hear me out, Mags. I was meditating.”

  “Channeling.”

  “Meditating. I saw him on a wooden boat. That explains the gulls and the scent of sea air. He would have warmed himself by a peat fire. Thus, the smoke. Get it?”

  “Yeah, but you also said pine.”

  “Wooden boats are waterproofed using pine pitch.”

  “You sure you didn’t conjure him up because you were Googling him all day? I once dreamed I was a Rockette, but I still can’t dance.”

  “I didn’t know anything about him before I meditated. I only found out afterward. I’m telling you, I really think this might be some kind of weird inherited memory. When I saw him, I started to get emotional, like I’d come home after a long journey.”

  Maggie offered no reply.

  “You think I’m nuts.”

  “A little. But you’re my best friend, so I’m not gonna remind you of the time you swore a poltergeist watched you pee.”

  “Hey, I was drunk.”

  “Or the time you were certain you met your guardian angel on the train to New York.”

  “I turned that one into a bestseller. I’ll turn this one into another.”

  “So, this is part of your plot?”

  Ann nodded. “Anything else would be crazy, right? I mean, people can’t inherit memories.”

  Maggie set her empty glass down on a coaster.

  “Hey, Maggie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is your passport up to date?”

  “
Oh God, why?”

  “Because we’re going to Scotland.”

  “Can’t we just go to some Highland games?”

  “Nope. I need to do some research, walk in Somerled’s footsteps, trace his path.”

  “You can do that online, can’t you?”

  “Come on, you know how it works. I can’t write about something unless I experience it.”

  “And you need me for this?”

  “I could go alone, but weren’t you bellyaching last year about needing a vacation?”

  “I was thinking maybe Jamaica or Aruba, not a rain-soaked iceberg.”

  “Come on. Didn’t I go with you to that gay bar? And I seem to remember staking out an alley because you wanted to witness a real drug deal going down.”

  Maggie’s lips curled into a wry smile. “Yeah, you did.”

  “Think about it. A nice bed and breakfast with a roaring fire, maybe a refurbished castle. Men in kilts, for the love of—”

  “Wait. Men in kilts? When do we fly?”

  Chapter 9

  The Holiday Inn Express boasted accommodation in the heart of Glasgow’s city center, which wasn’t much use at 8:17 p.m. local time, when a patron might crave a glass of milk. The hotel sold pints of it alongside the alcoholic beverages lining a glass-front refrigerator in the lounge, a small detail that would have been good to know an hour ago, when Maggie left to find a store.

  If it hadn’t been milk, it would have been something else. Maggie wanted—perhaps needed—some time alone. She was growing irritable, and who could blame her? Old cemeteries and castle ruins weren’t her thing, but for the past three days, she’d trudged dutifully across the boggy soil and pretended to be interested. She was the best kind of friend, the kind that stands in a downpour at a cairn erected to commemorate a battle she didn’t give a shit about.