Interloper at Glencoe

by Julianne Lee

  “A what?”

  “You’re English, I can tell.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Who are ye, then?”

  He blinked and stuttered for a moment, then said, “My name is Nicholas Mouliné.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mouliné, I’m Beth NicDonald, daughter of Seòras MacDonald of Inverrigan. You’re French, then. You dinnae sound French.” Better for him to be French than English, though, by a long sight.

  “I’m an... American.”

  It was her turn to be surprised. “A French colonist from America? I’d no idea there were any.” This was utterly fascinating. So exciting to meet someone who’d come from so far away. “Tell me about the New World. Is it wild and dangerous as they say it is?”

  Mr. Mouliné hesitated again, then said, “Yes. Very wild. Untamed.” He made a small grimace, as if he regretted saying so.

  She smiled at him. “It must be very exciting to live there. Too exciting, I think. It would be too frightening by far to leave the glen.”

  A look of sadness crossed his face that remained in his eyes, though his mouth formed a false smile below them. Such a strange sort! With a toss of her head toward the path, she said, “Come. I’ll take you to my father’s house. He’ll find the lads who attacked you, and have your belongings returned.” She plunged back into the woods, but Mr. Mouliné didn’t follow. Turning back toward him, she said, “Come along. You’re so cold, you’ll want to find a warm fire.”

  That moved him, and he followed, his pale, soft bare feet dancing as he stepped on rocks, dead sticks, and thorns along the path. “I don’t think they were from around here.” There was still a shiver in his voice, though the plaid covered him from shoulders to knees.

  “And how would you know who might or might not be from around here?”

  “I... um... they sounded English.”

  A giggle rose in her. “English trespassers, and robbers as well? I’m certain they must like to live dangerously to carry on so in the glen of the MacIain! But no matter. Whether English or Dhomhnallach, Father will recover your gear. Or at least your trews, so I might have my plaid returned to me.” She turned to smile at him, and the white smile he had for her in return made her giggle. She hefted the basket on her hip and her step became just a bit livelier.

  o0o

  Man, this dream was taking forever to finish! Nick almost wished he could wake up, but the friendly girl was a nice touch. He looked around at the woods and marveled at his own imagination. This was the most detailed dream he’d ever had. Every blade of grass and tree leaf was clear, and there was no random shifting of time or place like there usually was. The conversation was even coherent, which hardly ever happened in his dreams. And now he was walking with this dream-creation of a woman, following her down a path that went on and on.

  And on.

  Uneasiness settled on him, as it had before with that old man. This wasn’t enough like a dream to suit him. Except for the pretty girl, this wasn’t like him at all. Scotland? What did he give a damn about Scotland? He’d read a paragraph in a book. Big deal. He thought of what the old soldier had said about the thing, and asked the NicDonald girl, “You said there were faeries in that clearing back there?” He stepped on yet another rock, and hopped and hobbled until the pain subsided.

  “Och, aye. Did you not see the ring?”

  Ring? “What, those toadstools in a circle?” He glanced back down the trail, but of course the clearing was no longer in sight. His eyes off the trail, he stepped on a twig and danced a few steps again. His attention returned to where he was walking.

  “Aye. Are there none in America?”

  “I think we’ve got the rings, but no faeries in them. Not that I’ve ever heard of, anyway.”

  Another dimpled smile was tossed his way, and she said, “Then ’tis plain the wee folk know where home is and dinnae care to leave it.”

  “I suppose not.” Man, she was pretty! He decided he wouldn’t mind if this dream went on a little longer so he could get to the good part. In the ones with Sheryl Crow they usually ended up in bed, and some body heat would feel real nice about now.

  They walked some more, the path winding a distance, then it came out on a river bank. Again very un-dreamlike. Too much detail. No shifting. It was taking way too long to get to this girl’s house.

  He wanted to ask what year it was, but couldn’t think of a way to phrase the question that wouldn’t make him sound like a flaming nutcase. Besides, by her dress he guessed what her reply might be. So, though he could also guess the answer to this, he asked, “Exactly where are we?”

  “That there is Inverrigan.” She pointed to a cluster of houses ahead that appeared made of dirt. All had thatched roofs, and one had a goat standing atop it, grazing the dried grass and ferns. The animal lifted its head, gazed in their direction with dull eyes, and munched its fodder.

  “This is Scotland, right?”

  “Aye. Glencoe.”

  Nick’s stomach soured. If this was a dream, he didn’t want it. Not at all. “1692.”

  “Not yet. Nae for another month or so. Have ye been lost so long you dinnae even know the time of year?”

  Nick tugged the wool closed around his waist, and the wintry cold made inroads on his gut. He stared around him and prayed to wake up.

  Chapter 2

  But Nick didn’t awaken. He only continued following Miss NicDonald to one of the dirt houses, where she called out in a singsong voice, “Athair? Da, seo aoigh.” He guessed she was announcing she’d found a naked man in the woods and brought him home, and he adjusted the wool around him in hopes of appearing a little less ridiculous.

  Up close, he could see the hut was made of a kind of sod, blocks of the hard, brown stuff stacked one on another like sagging bricks. The thatching was of straw and dead ferns, and the whole structure was grown over with bare, brown vines. The rickety wooden door was so small even the girl had to duck to go through the opening. And there didn’t seem to be any windows. From a distance the house might have passed for a low, grassy hill. Or else a large haystack.

  A voice came from inside, of an old man. Miss NicDonald gestured Nick onward, and he ducked to follow her in. The place smelled strongly of smoke, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Across the room stood a large, heavy wooden table that dominated the area. Alongside it were a bench and a few stools, and a clutter of kitchen items rested on it: a wooden bowl, a cloth sack filled with something that might have been flour, a candlestick, spoons and a knife. Behind it in the shadows were stacks of more cloth sacks, shelves containing wooden buckets, bowls, wooden plates, horn tumblers, water skins, stacks of candles, ceramic jars, a stack of rope and other junky-looking things Nick couldn’t identify. Some trunks were lined against a wicker sort of wall that made an L, creating an alcove behind him. A glance into the lightless alcove gave a glimpse of heavy, crude wooden bunk beds, one up and two down. The floor was dirt covered in dry reeds and ferns. So far, the best thing about this house was that it was warm enough to keep him from freezing his ass off. His shivering began to calm, and he sighed with relief.

  There was an old man in a great, bulky kilt sitting by a small fire that burned in what appeared to be a shallow hole in the floor. He was sewing something, but halted his work as he peered at Nick.

  The girl said, her voice filled with assurance that all was well, “Seo Nicholas Mouliné, Athair.” She shrugged. “Chan eil e Sasunnach; tha e Fràngaich.”

  The man’s eyes brightened at Nick, who guessed she’d just told her old man their visitor was French and not English. Then she continued sotto voce as if Nick could understand and she didn’t want him to hear, “Tha Beurla aige.”

  Another sharp glance at Nick, and the old man said, “English only? You dinnae speak French at all?”

  “He’s a colonist, Athair.”

  “Certainly he’s got...”

  “Je ne parle...” Nick plundered his memory for all the French he c
ould muster, to say in that language that he didn’t speak it. He glanced at the girl and repeated, “Je ne parle Français.”

  The old man blinked. “No, you dinnae, for a certainty.”

  English seemed to be common to everyone in the room, and the only language at Nick’s command, so they continued in that language. The girl said, “Mr. Mouliné, this is my father, Seòras MacDonald.” To her father she said, “Where is Dùghall? It’s time you and he and the rest of the clansmen did something about Calum’s sons, for they’ve attacked this poor stranger and left him without so much as a stitch to cover himself. And bad weather a-coming, for that.”

  The aging eyes now took in that Nick was wearing his daughter’s shawl like a beach towel, and a dry smile touched his mouth. No laughter, though, and for that Nick was grateful.

  To Miss NicDonald, Nick hurried to say, “I can’t say for sure who it was. It may not have been those guys.” He sure didn’t want anyone arrested for a robbery that hadn’t happened. Not even in a dream. If this was a dream at all. A niggling doubt tugged at the back of his mind.

  “Calum and his lot are lazy and a nuisance,” grumbled the father as he returned his attention to his work. “They must be discouraged from their activities within the glen. Let them annoy Breadalbane and not prey upon kin. I’ll send Dùghall to retrieve your things.”

  “I’m certain it wasn’t them.”

  The old man glanced up. “You know them, then?”

  “No. As I said, the robbers were English.”

  With a shrug, the old man returned to his work. “Well, if they were English then they’re long gone or else lost among the mountains. And good riddance. More than likely headed for the moor. Or to Argyll. Here,” his gray head nodded toward a dark corner. “Beth, take Dùghall’s other kilt and my old sark, and give them to him. I cannae let it be said I let a man leave my home unclothed.”

  “Or unfed, Father. He’ll be staying with us the night.” Miss NicDonald went to fetch the clothing from a dark corner, where stood a large trunk.

  “Has he nowhere else to be?” Old Seòras shifted in his rickety, creaking seat.

  She paused by the trunk and looked to Nick for a reply. His thought was that he wished to wake up and be in his bed at home, but instead he said, “I’m not expected anywhere, and have no way of getting there if I were.” Seven thousand miles, and more than three centuries. Long, strange trip.

  “Then you’ll stay with us until you’ve the wherewithal to travel.”

  The old man said, “Winter is coming.” His tone suggested he wasn’t enchanted with the idea of a houseguest who might be stuck there for several months. He pursed his lips and glowered at his daughter from beneath heavy eyebrows.

  The girl came with a pile of plaid wool in her arms and a faded linen shirt of saffron yellow. “All the more reason for him to stay. The snow might come of a sudden, and there he’d be, with naught but a borrowed plaid and sark, no brogues, no coat, no food, no money, and it would be the fault of Calum’s lads for robbing him—”

  Nick and the old man said in chorus, “They didn’t do it.” The men glanced at each other, then away.

  The girl shrugged, then continued, “And our fault for neglecting our manners. In any case, ’twill be good to have company.”

  “He’ll nae be a guest.”

  She turned to address her father. “He can work. He appears strong enough.”

  Nick opened his mouth to assure them he didn’t wish to be a burden, but was overridden by the old man so he shut it.

  “I’ve a big, healthy son, and am healthy enough myself, for that.”

  “Then he can work for others. The MacIain is always in need of hands about. God knows there are few enough young men in this glen willing to work beyond his immediate need. And there’s more to be done about the place than raiding the Campbells, though ye wouldn’t know it by any of the lads in the glen.” Her voice dripped with such contempt, Nick knew there must be a story there.

  “A bit too much age on him for a gillie, do ye not think?” Old Seòras eyed Nick like a raptor circling a hare, with bright eye and tilted head.

  “He’s nae over thirty, by the look.”

  Feeling like livestock at a state fair, Nick volunteered, “I’m thirty-two.”

  “That old?” said the old man. “And ye have nae family awaiting you?”

  “Father!”

  The old man shrugged and took a stitch in his work. “I wouldnae have thought by the look of him.”

  Nick tugged the shawl more closely around him and said, “Thank you. I think.”

  “In any case,” Miss NicDonald shoved the discussion onward, “ye’ll be staying with us, and no argument. We’ve a spare pallet you can roll out near the fire, and it’ll be a blessing to have another set of hands about the place.”

  The old man muttered something in Gaelic, and his daughter replied in kind. He spoke again, and she said in English with a quick glance at Nick, “Gòrdan be damned.”

  Her father looked up. “Ealasaid Caitlin Màiri NicDonald! Not in my house!”

  There was a long, dark silence, then she said, “Aye, Athair. I apologize.”

  The old man returned to his work, and it seemed the discussion was closed. The girl handed over the clothing and said softly to Nick, “Do ye wear the kilt in your country?”

  Nick glanced at the great, shapeless mass of wool belted around MacDonald and slung over his shoulder, and knew he had no clue about the sort of garment these folks thought of as a kilt. So he shook his head.

  “Very well, then, don the sark and I’ll help you with the plaid and belt.”

  The huge yellow shirt went over his head like a circus tent and draped to his knees, then Nick slipped the shawl from under it. Miss NicDonald tossed one end of the kilt over her shoulder and held the other end gathered, somewhat pleat-like in both hands, with about three feet dangling. “Now,” she told him, “slip the belt under, back up against it, pull it around you, and buckle the belt.” He did so as she adjusted and distributed the folds of cloth around his waist. “A tug here and there,” she pulled at the kilt as she said it, “and you’re done.”

  Suddenly he was wearing a skirt, with several yards of cloth sticking out of the top of the belt. The breeze up the middle to his privates was disconcerting, but it sure beat the snot out of being naked. And the tail of the shirt was almost as long as the kilt, so that was a welcome extra layer about his thighs. Miss NicDonald helped him arrange the length of the cloth over his shoulder, secured it beneath his belt, and there was a degree of comfort. He looked down at himself, and decided this wasn’t a dream. Even the darkest, most perverse self-hating corners of his subconscious would never have done this to him. He sighed, and murmured as he admitted to himself, “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.” Panic tried to rise, and he drew deep breaths to hold it down as he struggled to smile for these late seventeenth century folk.

  o0o

  Beth was furious with her father, and took out her anger on the bannocks as she mixed the dough in her mother’s large wooden bowl. Always, at every opportunity, he was broaching the subject of Gòrdan and his lie, and she was wearied unto death with it. That had been a shameful episode, a humiliation nearly unbearable in this tiny, closed glen where everybody and everything was known to the entire clan. Gòrdan was a MacAllein whose land was next to her uncle’s in Achnacone, so there wasn’t even hope of him leaving the glen one day. She would marry away if she could, but at her age prospects were meager and her history was not overly attractive. It appeared she was trapped where she was until her father might make an effort on her behalf. Since neither Father nor Dùghall would be eager to lose her to a husband until one of them married, she expected to keep house for them for a long while yet.

  That evening as the family of Seòras MacDonald ate supper of the last of the fresh beef, Beth watched Mr. Mouliné closely. Struggling not to stare, she took careful glances to the side and sometimes watched him indirectly while looking a
t Dùghall who sat on the bench next to him. He didn’t talk much, but seemed alert to everything said by Father and Dùghall. He seemed a careful man. Not so dainty as the Sasunnaich she’d seen with their overly fussy hands, but watchful. His dark eyes were deep. Intelligent. There was a gentleness that would once have made her think he was soft. But not since Gòrdan. Since Gòrdan, gentleness was a favorable thing in her estimation.

  He hesitated at the meat, as if afraid it might not be good, but on picking it up and tasting it seemed surprised and pleased. He ate with a relish that spoke of sharp hunger, though his obvious good health, shown in his ruddy cheeks, bright eyes, and glossy hair, suggested his hunger had not been with him long.

  Mr. Mouliné was a braw fellow, and no mistake. Though his fine teeth were not so much on display during supper for his care in eating, the rest of his face certainly was. And earlier she’d seen much else of him as well. His hair was terribly short, and looked to have been shaved for lice some months back, but now it showed no sign of the infestation and had grown out to a lush, brown thickness nearly two inches long. His clean-shaven face was so free of blemish she marveled at his good fortune in escaping the smallpox. She herself had a deep pock scar aside her nose and another just under the line of her jaw, and she was considered lucky in the glen. Gòrdan had thought her beautiful, and Gòrdan was one who could have had...

  Beth’s soul cringed and she had to avert her eyes. Gòrdan had taken not only herself but his new wife as well. Thank God there had been no child from that year with him, for she couldn’t have borne the separation then. But now, after what he’d done, she wondered if there would ever be another for her. Blemished or not. She lowered her head and focused her attention on the wooden plate before her.

  Father and Dùghall talked of the farm, livestock, and the coming winter weather, shifting often into Gaelic as they frequently forgot their guest had only English. Though it was apparent Mr. Mouliné was following the talk closely, he never asked to have the Gaelic translated. It was left to Beth to repeat in English, then reprimand her male relatives for their rudeness. She went ignored by her family, and with her eyes tried to convey her apologies to Mr. Mouliné. It pleased her that his own expression reflected understanding and forgiveness, with a small, discreet smile.