by Susan King
That would be simple enough, if he made it down safely, Even thought. He peered at the rock nearest his nose. The rock wall was a mix of black gneiss and white crystal, striped like a wild zebra—and treacherous as the devil with a coating of verglas, a thin transparent layer of ice. He pulled a small ice pick out of the canvas knapsack on his back. Hacking into the verglas, he improved his next fingerhold and moved upward.
Perhaps he really should go downward now, he thought.
Thinking of the comforts of a hearth fire and a glass of whisky only made him more aware of the chill invading his feet and hands, and the hunger twisting in his belly. He could not blame Arthur for giving up adventure for a hot toddy and warm toes by the fire.
Evan liked a little danger now and then. But the afternoon's challenge had a little more sting in it than he had expected.
Looking around, he felt the isolation keenly. He clung to the shoulder of the ancient stone mountain like Jack on the sleeping giant. There was no quick or safe way down or up from here.
He had returned to settle some estate matters and to try himself against the mountain that he remembered so well from boyhood. Having scrambled in the Alps and climbed in various parts of Scotland, he had found nothing to compare to climbing the Torridon Mountains of northwest Scotland. Of lesser height than towering Alpine peaks, lacking that pristine fantasy beauty, the Highland slopes had a dark, ancient, powerful majesty that humbled the climber. The raw, primeval strength of these hills seemed to have erupted from the heart of the earth itself.
Blowing on his cold, bare fingers, for he preferred to climb without gloves, he stared into the vat of milky fog around him. Groping, he found another hold, pulled up. He had the security of a rope around his waist, its upper end knotted to an iron claw hooked over a rock above him. Easier to go up, he knew, than down just now. At least he could see a little ahead, while the visibility below was obliterated. Once he found a safe perch, he would rest and wait for the mist to clear, then climb down.
Grim, determined, he ascended by increments. This section was difficult with or without mist and slippery surfaces. The lower climb had been a steep but simple hike. Had he known that sleety rain, deep fog, and cold temperatures would sweep in so quickly, he would not have come up so high, scaling the rock wall that led toward the split upper peaks of the rocky mountain.
He tugged on the rope, feeling the secure pull of the iron claw above him, and inched upward. He plunged his fingers into snow, found a new grip. Focusing on the next hold, the next upward surge, he moved.
The sleet came fast now, pattering the rock, making each hold slick. He could see the mountain top now, towering above. Far to the left, he glimpsed rugged snowy slopes. He had climbed higher than he had realized in the mist.
The wind shoved at him, knocking him against stone. He lost his hold and slid downward, but the rope held. Finding niches for hands and feet, he moved upward again.
Reaching the wedged claw, he yanked it out and tossed it higher, where it snagged on a shelf. He tested it, moved upward, then felt the claw slip. He grabbed. The ice was honeycombed here, rotten with rain.
His support collapsed, the claw sprang free, and he slid violently downward. The rock had just enough incline that he was able to grab rock, tufts of grass, and somehow stay with the incline as his body made a rough and undulating path in the snow like the tracks of a sled.
Bumping, bouncing, he descended helplessly, unable to stop his downward hurtle. Soon he expected to careen wildly out into the misty air and plummet straight down.
When the instant came and he sailed, he felt panic—then a strange peacefulness as he surrendered to the fall.
Then he slammed hard against a ledge and sank into its support and into darkness.
* * *
"You've a long walk down to Glen Shee, Catriona. You may not reach home before the storm hits," Morag MacLeod said, gathering her plaid shawl over her rounded shoulders and gray hair against the cold drizzle. Standing on the hillside, she peered at the misted glen below. "Sstay the night in our little house and wait out the weather. My husband and I like your company, too."
"Thank you, Morag, but a little rain will do me no harm." Catriona drew her own plaid higher over her head. "My father and brother are waiting supper for me. I'd best hurry."
"Let your aunt, that old witch, take care of them for once. Your father has a cook, too, in that big house. The reverend's sister has made you into no more than a servant, Catriona Mhor, and it is not right. Plain Girl, she called you once—tcha!" Morag shook her head. "The one who takes care of the others in her family all her life and sets aside her own life for their comfort—it does not suit you. Nor are you plain." She peered close at Catriona, brown eyes gleaming.
"Plain enough," Catriona said, shifting the basket she carried. She and Morag had been walking through the hills, gathering knitting pieces from the Highland women living in hill crofts. The stockings, mittens, and blankets they collected would be donated to the Highland regiments. "Who would marry me? Tall as a man I am, with hair red as fire. I am content to run my father's household, though it is a bit lonely for me," she admitted. "I am not waiting for some man to take me for a wife. I help my father and my brother—you know Aunt Judith has only been with us since her widowing."
"She plans to stay, I think. Your contentment does not interest her. And she will criticize your lateness today," Morag grumbled. "Well, we'd best hurry—more than rain is in those clouds. My bones say we may have snow tonight." Walking beside Catriona, the older woman clutched her faded plaid. "Sing the new song I taught you today. Do you remember it?"
Catriona nodded and sang softly as they walked, feeling the cold mist and drizzling rain on her cheeks. The haunting melody was easy to remember, but she hesitated over some of the verses, the tale of a lost lover returning from a sea voyage.
"Oh-ho-ri-ri-o," Morag joined her in the refrain. "Oh-ho-ri." The old woman clapped out the rhythm, her strong, rough voice harmonizing with Catriona's higher golden tone. "Good," Morag approved. "Will you write down this song too in the way you learned at the Edinburgh school, with those symbols?"
"Musical notation? I have written down all the songs I have collected over the years—over a hundred and thirty songs now. I hope it will please old Flora MacLeod. Did you tell Mother Flora that I want to meet with her to learn some of her songs?"
"Ach, I told her. Crazy old woman," Morag muttered.
Catriona laughed. "She's your grandmother!"
"My husband's grandmother. She says she's over a hundred now, but she says anything she likes. I think she's a lunatic, with her talk of meeting the fairies when she was young and learning their songs from them."
"She has more songs in her head than you or I could ever learn, Morag. My mother learned songs from old Mother Flora, and I too would like to learn from her. I've gathered Gaelic tunes from every Highlander who would sing for me, trying to catch as many as I can before the songs and the people who sing them are gone. And some of the finest songs came from you. I am grateful to you," Catriona added, glancing at her friend.
"I've taught you what I know." Morag shrugged. "Mother Flora does have some rare old tunes that will be lost when she is gone. It is good work, Catriona MacConn, to save the old songs in the Gaelic."
"My mother began the work of collecting the tunes, and I continue it in her honor—and in honor of the culture that is fast disappearing from this glen."
"We'll go see Flora soon. We've tried to convince her to come down the mountain to live with us, but she refuses. So we bring her what she needs. And still she sends us away threatening to cast spells on us." Morag snorted.
"She may refuse to sing for me, then."
"She remembers your mother, and your voice would please the fairies themselves. You will please even Mother Flora. The old she goat," Morag muttered.
"We'll never get up there today." Catriona peered at the thick mist that ringed the mountaintop. "The clouds are thick and the rain
is turning to sleet."
Morag glanced up. "Perhaps you should stay with me and my John tonight. Our house is not far, and you will not have to cross the fairy bridge—it is not easy when the stones are slick."
"I'll be fine, dear. I like hillwalking and the rain. And I can leap that bridge like a goat if I must." Laughing, Catriona hugged her friend, tugging the older woman's shawl snug in a maternal way, though Morag was past seventy.
"Let me have the basket," Morag said. "I will keep the knitted things dry at my house." She took the bulky basket Catriona held. "Meet me Wednesday by the bridge and we will go to see Mother Flora. And by then... will your brother have good news for me?" She lifted her brows.
"About your kinfolk who left the glen?" Catriona shook her head. "I do not know, Morag. He tried to find them—even went to Glasgow to inquire—but he has had no success yet. Did you tell Mother Flora my brother is trying to locate her kin too?"
"Not yet. Ten years is a long time, and most of them went far away. Well, perhaps Finlay will have good news for our family someday. He was able to bring the MacGillechallums back to their abandoned homestead on the slopes of Beinn Alligin," she said, smiling. "Angus MacGillechallum was out watching the sheep as he used to do, and no one the wiser but for those of us who would never tell."
"So long as the new earl keeps away from Glen Shee, Finlay can bring whomever he likes to do the work of the estate. I'm glad he was appointed Kildonan's factor, though I did not like it so much at first," Catriona answered. "But he will do well for the land and its people."
"As if the new earl cares what happens here," Morag said. "He will grow fat and rich from the sale of Kildonan wool, though he has no interest in the process."
"So we can do what we like." Catriona smiled.
"True! Now run, Catriona Mhor. Let those long legs carry you home." Morag waved, then turned to hurry along a narrow track that led over a hill.
Catriona followed the drover's track that wended downward between ancient pines clinging to the steep hillsides. The wide path was overgrown, for no cattle came this way any longer, though numerous sheep and a few wild goats grazed. She moved steadily downward.
Overhead, heavy clouds gathered, sweeping in toward the mountains. The rain grew colder, carrying stinging sleet.
Perhaps she should have accepted Morag's invitation after all, Catriona thought. She decided to avoid the old stone bridge, which would be slippery, and take the longer route over the drover's track. Ice already accumulated underfoot from falling sleet, and her father's manse, Glenachan House, was still several miles away.
Drawing her plaid over her hair, she hurried onward.
* * *
Evan moved a little, testing his limbs, opening his eyes. He realized that he had landed, very fortunately, on an outcrop of rock, a mossy ledge coated with sleet. Breathless, his head aching, he looked around.
The gneiss wall soared far above him, where he could just see the faint trail of his fast descent in the snow. He had slid downward and had fallen to the ledge, hitting his head, but otherwise felt unhurt. His knapsack dangled from a shoulder and the rope was still tied to his waist, but he had lost the ax.
Shifting, groaning a bit, he rose gingerly on hands and knees, then untied the rope and claw and shoved them into his knapsack. He edged carefully along until he reached a broad incline, an angle of the rocky mountainside.
The hill was littered with stones and boulders, and the fog was thick. Aching, he stood slowly there, his balance uncertain, and began to move downward.
He could hear a voice through the sleet and fog, a sweet song, almost magical. He remembered suddenly a red-haired girl, years ago, standing on a hillside singing just such a haunting tune.
Vision or reality, he had never forgotten her, and hearing that strangely disembodied voice now in the fog, he felt as if he had found a compass in that sound. Slipping on icy grass, he kept his feet, then moved toward her voice.
Dizziness and the steep incline overtook him, and he realized that he was tilting, then sinking to his knees. An instant later, his head hit turf and heather and all went black.
* * *
Shivering in the cold and damp, Catriona continued to sing the new tune Morag had taught hen She clenched her mittened hands to warm them, for the temperature was dropping fast. Sleety rain had made the way icy, and she walked cautiously.
She glanced at the rocky precipice rising beside the path, its massive height swathed in fog. The slope she climbed was a foothill to the ancient, craggy mountain that soared toward snow-covered peaks invisible through the mist. Caves and crevices there were threaded with legends and stories that were told in some of the songs that Catriona had heard all her life.
She drew her woolen plaid high over her head, her coppery braid falling over her shoulder. Morag's prediction of snow might prove right, she thought, feeling the wind's bitter edge.
The old track angled over the hill and skimmed down toward the glen near her father's rectory at Glenachan. The ice here was so treacherous that she went even more slowly.
She kept singing the new song she had learned, further memorizing its poignant melody and multiple verses. Once home, warm and dry, she would make a copy of her notes and ensure that she had a good copy of the Gaelic and an English translation, which she took care to do with all the songs she had learned over the years. She had pages of notes folded securely in her pocket with a pencil, wanting to be always prepared to scribble new songs.
Daylight was fading rapidly, but she knew the way well. She was glad of the warm plaid shawl and her thick green jacket and skirt, stockings and flannel petticoats, and sturdy nail-studded boots, all suited to walking in the wintry hills. Her brother had added the nails to her boots himself.
She hoped her brother had stayed home today rather than ride to Inverness as he had planned. For two years her brother had dedicated his time to finding exiled Highlanders and quietly relocating them to their old crofts in Glen Shee, finding jobs for them when he could. The people were willing to work as shepherds for the vast numbers of sheep now roaming the slopes and fields of the glen—sheep that belonged to the current Earl of Kildonan, who had not visited the glen since his father's death.
Finlay all but ran the estate himself, making decisions with increasing boldness. Catriona worried that one day Lord Kildonan would return and ask why his sheep were being herded and clipped by the very same Highlanders his father had run off the land. If that day came, she hoped Kildonan would be so wealthy from the wool profits that he would not care if Highlanders, English or fairies were doing the work.
But she knew Finlay risked arrest or exile if the new earl discovered, and disliked, his factor's decisions.
Lost in thought, walking through thick white mist, she did not see what lay prone in her path. Tripping suddenly, she looked down and gasped aloud.
A man lay motionless at her feet, face down, arms flung outward. She had stumbled over his tweed-covered arm, the rest of him hidden behind a crop of large stones.
Sinking to her knees, Catriona reached out, afraid the man was dead. When his fingers twitched slightly, she touched his shoulder.
"Ach Dhia," she murmured. "Dear God. Sir! Sir," she said, shaking him a little, but he did not respond.
Chapter 2
He was dark haired and hatless, his body tall and long limbed. His face, only partly visible, had a firm and handsome profile, and he seemed about thirty years old or so. Catriona noted that he was well dressed, his jacket and trousers of good, heavy tweed, his gloves of supple brown leather. His well-cobbled boots had thick, hobnailed soles—a climber or hillwalker, then. Perhaps a tourist—some came up here to the hills. A knitted scarf was draped around his neck, and a canvas knapsack hung from his shoulder.
He must be one of the holiday climbers who sometimes visited the area to challenge themselves on the mountain slopes. Soon his companions would be looking for him, she thought.
Catriona glanced around, seeing no one else
, nor did she hear anyone calling out as if searching. All she could hear were the threatening sounds of sleet and cold wind.
Resting a hand on his back, she felt his breath rise and fall. Gingerly she swept back his dark hair, silky cool, damp with sleet. Blood darkened one side of his forehead. Seeing the small gash and dark bruise there, she frowned. He needed help for certain. She glanced around, wondering what to do.
She did not think the man was able to walk on his own. He was tall and muscled, and though she was tall and strong herself, she did not think she could support him all the way down to the glen.
The nearest house was Glenachan, but it would take her too long to get home in these conditions, and with the weather getting worse, she might not be able to return with help easily. And she could not leave the man alone to suffer, perhaps even die, from injuries and exposure.
She slid her fingertips under his scarf and felt the pulse in his neck. His skin felt cold, and he was pale under the dusky shadow of his beard. She had to help him, had to find shelter.
Resting her hand on his soft, dark hair, she frowned, thinking of Donald. Years ago, her eldest brother had fallen while climbing this same mountain—Beinn Sitheach, the Mountain of the Fairies. The weather had turned that day, too, to ice and cold.
With no one to help him, Donald had died alone of injuries that need not have killed him. By the time her father and Finlay had found him, he was gone, and her father had been injured too that heartrending day after falling.
She could not let the same tragedy befall this stranger, whoever he was. She had to find a way to save him.
Remembering that a small, ruined shieling hut was located farther down the slope, she wondered how to get him there. Easing the knapsack off his back, she set it aside. Then she stood and leaned down, grasping the man under the arms.