Interloper at Glencoe

by Julianne Lee

  Nick rolled to look in the direction of the dark alcove where the bunks stood. Soft snoring came from it, and an occasional snort from one of the men. These people had done nothing to deserve what was to come. His chest tightened, and he closed his eyes against it.

  o0o

  For the next several days Beth wished Nick wasn’t working so much, for he began hiring out to others in the glen and spent not nearly so much time nearby as he had at first. She missed him during the day, for she’d known everyone in the glen since she was old enough to talk and he was terribly entertaining for being from elsewhere. She loved the way he talked, his foreign accent so plain and light. And the strange words he used. The way he put things, as when he’d told Gòrdan to “take a hint.” The casual note in his voice when he’d said “If you lay a hand on her, I’ll have to hurt you.” No anger, but a simple statement of fact. It was a cold strength rare in this glen, for the MacDonalds tended to hot tempers and great displays of threat. Herself included, and she admired Nick’s cool head though Father and Dùghall thought him weak and stupid.

  She longed to ask him about the New World, and what adventures he may have had there, but there was no time of the day when she could speak to him without interference from Father and Dùghall. With them around there was little for her to say, for the men talk bored her. It was all about cattle and crops, the self-righteous Campbells, and the corrupt southerners who had deposed the rightful king and should be hung to the last of them.

  She cared little who sat on a throne far away in London. Beth couldn’t even picture London, for she’d heard there were tall buildings like houses stacked one upon another, and roads lined with stones, and so many people it was impossible to know, or even meet, all of them. That many people, she couldn’t imagine! Why Nick thought the king cared so much about their own tiny clan was a mystery to her. The significance of the MacDonalds to such a powerful man so far away couldn’t be so terrible as he said. She listened to the men talk on, sitting around the fire of an evening, about what the laird should do, and knew they were only indulging in their own self-importance. Men were like that, always acting as if everything in life depended on them—though so little of true importance did—and there was naught she could do to change them, so she stayed out of the discussion.

  Particularly, she kept quiet because Nick irritated the other men with his insistence they convince the MacIain to sign the oath. Father only fell silent and eyed the newcomer whenever he spoke of it, but Dùghall argued back, turning red in the face and raising his voice. Nick argued on, his voice level but insistent. Pressing with understated but relentless urgency. He never raised his voice no matter how Dùghall raised his, and though his eyes were bright with caring he kept his hands laid gently on his knees or folded together between them. The calmness of him was something Beth found she admired.

  Occasionally he would glance at her, as if she had something to do with the talk, and she would glance away because she did not wish to be involved. When that happened, Dùghall stared at her, then at Nick. He said nothing, but it was plain to everyone he didn’t like Nick paying so much attention to his sister. Plain to everyone but Nick, she supposed, who continued to look over at her.

  Beth didn’t mind the attention. Not at all. When Nick looked at her it was with a kindness in his eyes she hadn’t seen in any man since she was very young. It touched her in such a way she couldn’t return the glance, but rather was forced to turn her attention to her hands. The spoon she ate with, or the knife or spindle she worked with, became her focus and she watched him with only the corner of her vision. Then he would sigh and return to the talk with the other men. Only then did she dare look at him again. Whenever Dùghall glanced from herself to Nick, then back, she frowned at him to let him know he should never mind her and attend to his own business.

  The weather turned cold over the next few weeks. Nick’s work earned him a coat and brogues, as well as a nice pair of trews to warm his legs. The coat was sheepskin, large and heavy, and he cut a fine figure in it once he learned how to drape his plaid so it didn’t create a lump on his shoulder.

  The blistered hands healed and were beginning to callus over, and he’d proven his strength at hard work and his willingness to do what was asked of him. He’d calmed some since his arrival, and now seemed less confused. Less stupid, as well. Aside from learning to use an ax, he also took up a borrowed dirk and whittled a plate for the household. He talked a bit about having been a scout of some sort as a boy, but after only a few words quit suddenly and didn’t bring it up again. Who he’d scouted for so young, she could only imagine. She’d heard tell of men in the New World who explored the vast wilderness surrounding the settlements, but couldn’t imagine a boy so stout. In all honesty, she couldn’t imagine Nick in the wilderness at all. Not with those hands that had never touched an ax before now.

  In addition to his capacity for work, she learned he had a fine singing voice. At céilidh, held often in the dark evenings when there was naught else to do, he picked up one of the songs favored by the men in the village and sang it to himself when he thought nobody could hear. It lifted her heart to hear him from down the path on his return from whatever work there had been for him that day, his voice deep and smooth, and his guesses at the sounds of the Gaelic words he couldn’t understand at least passable. With the warning of his approach, she checked herself for hair straying from her kerchief and dirt on her clothes, and if Father and Dùghall were elsewhere she would pinch her cheeks and bite her lips into as much redness as she could manage before Nick would walk through the door. His white smile at sight of her made her heart not just lighten, but even skip a little. It was a feeling she’d once thought was over for her, and now it felt the sweeter for that.

  Also at céilidh she noticed Gòrdan notice Nick was now less of a stranger than before. Whenever Gòrdan talked about Nick or addressed him, it was with a tone of disparagement that let everyone know he was not impressed by the outsider. Nick took it with an unruffled ease that even bordered on an effort at peacemaking, which did impress Beth but further irritated Gòrdan. Her former husband’s discomfort was plain for all to see. It brought a smile to the corners of her mouth to see him frown at Nick from across the room during the talk in the white house. Nick, on the other hand, took care to ignore Gòrdan whenever he could, and she knew that to be a mistake. She knew Gòrdan too well, and understood he could never stand to be treated so lightly.

  It was shortly before the New Year that Nick learned the consequences of it as well.

  He was near Achnacone that day, clearing stones from a field for her uncle, and Beth thought it a good day to visit with her aunt and small cousins. She bundled herself against the cold in her cloak and plaid, and set off for the next village. She knew which of her uncle’s fields was gaining a stone dike this winter, and so chose a route that would take her past it, and never mind that the track wound around by the river and took her quite out of her way to her uncle’s house. She would appear to have come from another house, and nobody would take notice of it.

  As she approached through the forest beyond the edge of her uncle’s field, she saw Nick beyond the trees, loading a small cart pulled by a garron. It was good to see he’d thrown his coat over the side of the cart and was working in just his sark and kilt, for it showed he was becoming accustomed to the cold. Though the previous day’s snowfall had melted off and there were patches of sunshine scattered across the small fields, the wind was still a mite blustery and the air chilled. Nick’s hair lifted as it was gently blown this way and that. The tiny white horse hitched to the cart waited patiently, its mane in its eyes, while he loaded the stones he’d dug that morning from the snowy earth with the pickax. That tool hung on the side of the cart, hooked by one side of its head.

  Then he went to the horse’s rope bridle to lead him and the cart toward the part of the dike he was building. Beth slowed her walking to time her arrival at that spot just right. They reached it at nearly the same tim
e, and she emerged from the trees beside the dike just as he halted the garron and went to the back of the cart.

  Nick looked up to see her, and his bright smile spread across his face like a summer dawn. “Beth. Feasgar math.”

  The surge of warmth toward him surely showed on her face, that he had learned some words of Gaelic during his stay. “Good afternoon to you as well, a Neacail.”

  Now he frowned. “Nicole?”

  “The Gaelic for Nicholas.”

  The smile returned, and that made her glad. “Ah.” He went to the rear of the cart and lifted a good sized rock from it. “Could I ask you something, then, if you’re going to call me by a Gaelic name?”

  “Certainly.”

  “How come you call yourself ‘NicDonald’ but your father and brother are ‘MacDonald’?”

  There was no helping the giggle that rose at having to answer such an obvious thing. “Because I’m a daughter, nae a son.”

  He nodded. “Oh. It’s a gender thing.”

  “Mac means boy, or son, and nic means girl or daughter. I’m a daughter of the Donald who began our clan. And we are called clann because it means ‘children.’ Tell me, what does ‘Mouliné’ mean?”

  “Not a clue.” He shrugged and shook his head. “It’s just a name.”

  She blinked. Just a name. Indeed.

  He continued, “I guess where I come from we’re not as big on ancestry as you guys are. My ancest... uh, my father went to America and pretty much forgot where he came from.”

  “Och. Ye should never forget where you come from. And who you come from. It’s who ye are.”

  “It’s not who I am. I love my family...” Suddenly he looked away and expelled a breath as if he’d just been pummeled in the gut, then took a deep breath and continued. “I do love my family, but I’d sure hate to be stuck being only what my parents were.”

  “They werenae good people?”

  “They’re terrific people. But they’re not me. Only I can be me.”

  “But you call yourself by your family name.”

  “Sure. If I didn’t, I’d be confused with all the other Nicholases in the world. And even then there are enough named Mouliné to require me to use my Social...” He stared off into the distance for a moment, then said, “Things are different where I come from. Just about everything is different.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. Finally Beth had a chance to get him to tell her all the things she couldn’t ask when the rest of her family were around. She leaned against a built-up part of the dike between them. “Tell me about them. I’m awfully curious about the colonies. What is it like there?”

  Nick took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if he were reluctant to tell her.

  “It’s no secret, is it? You are allowed to talk about where you’re from, aye?”

  “Aye.” He sighed. “But it’s hard to describe. It’s...” A light came to his eyes, and he said, “It’s big. Bigger than you can imagine.”

  “More broad than the Continent?” She’d never been to the Continent, but knew some who had.

  Nick spread his hands and held them wide. “Way bigger. I mean... you can walk from here to London in... what... a few weeks, right?”

  “A man with a string of fast horses can ride to London in a week. A determined man walking would take possibly four or six times as long.”

  “Well, to walk from one end of America to the other would take months. Possibly more than a year.”

  “It cannae. The world isnae that big!”

  “It is. It’s much bigger than that.”

  “Have you been all around it?”

  “Nah.” He chuckled. “Just Los Angeles and around California.” Then he looked out across the surrounding mountains for a moment and said softly, “And here.”

  “So how would you know how big it is if you’ve never been around it?”

  “Well, I’ve been here, haven’t I? I’ve been... on the ocean. I had to, to come here. And there are lots of oceans.”

  “I’ve seen the ocean. Well, a sea loch in any case, though I’ve never seen the other side of Oban. Loch Linnhe, which you can see from Glenduror where you worked all last week, opens to the sea, ye ken.”

  “Loch Linnhe is nothing compared to the sea. And the continents are huge. Big continents, way bigger than Europe. Asia, Africa, Australia... they’re all big enough to swallow all of Scotland without even blinking, and...”

  With a glance over her shoulder he cut himself off, peered into the distance and muttered something to himself that sounded a bit like “crab.” Then without excusing himself he turned back toward the cart where more stones awaited him.

  A voice from behind Beth called out, “Right, ye lazy bastard!” Beth glanced around. It was Gòrdan, and her face warmed as anger rose. She gathered her cloak around her and hunched her shoulders against his presence. Gòrdan continued as he approached at a brisk walk, “Get back to work, lest I tell old Seòras what you’ve been up to!”

  She looked sideways at him. “Be still, Gòrdan. Nobody wishes to hear the tales you tell about folks. They’re old and boring.”

  “And true.”

  “We’re ‘up to’ naught but that I was only asking him a question.”

  “It’s taking him an uncommon long time to reply.”

  “And how long have ye been spying?”

  “Long enough.” The light of fury was in his eyes, and that angered her in return. His self-righteousness was an irritant, and dangerous for being so convincing a performance. She was helpless to understand why his lie was so important to him. He had his divorce, he had his whore of a wife bound to him by a priest. For what did he need to hurt her further?

  “Then you’ll know we were only talking, aye?”

  “I showed myself so there would be naught but talking.”

  Heat flushed her face and neck, both at the implied and unfounded accusation, and at the realization she wished the accusation were true.

  Gòrdan said, “Och, I see the shame in your face that I’ve touched your heart.”

  “Only my disgust, Gòrdan.”

  “Leave her alone.” Nick stepped onto the low part of the wall he’d been constructing, and hopped down to the other side where Gòrdan stood. His eyes narrowed nearly to slits and his chin was raised in challenge. “She’s none of your business, and she’s not bothering you. You’re not her husband any more; she’s not your responsibility. She’s only talking to me, and I assure you she’s safer in my company than in yours. Let her alone.”

  “She’s my cousin.”

  Nick looked at her with raised eyebrows, and she answered his silent question. “My grandfather’s brother’s great-grandson.” Nick’s eyes went unfocused for a moment as he worked out the relationship, then he turned back to Gòrdan.

  “She’s your second cousin once removed. Big deal. She’s also the daughter of my host. Let her alone.” His voice was calm but firm. “Just turn yourself around and head back to wherever you came from. Now, Gòrdan.” Nick’s voice was hardening, and taking on an edge Beth had never heard in it before. He stepped toward Gòrdan and crowded him. Gòrdan refused to step back, and soon the men were nose-to-nose. Neither spoke, and it was plain to Beth neither would back down. In any case, she prayed that Nick wouldn’t. They glared, and the whites of Gòrdan’s eyes were large, angry, and frightening. His nostrils flared, and his lips pressed together to a thin line. The more cool Nick seemed, the more angry Gòrdan became. Finally he hauled off and swung.

  Nick wasn’t fast enough to dodge the blow, and caught the fist at his temple. But he came back with an equally quick fist to Gòrdan’s face then leapt upon him, and in an instant the two were on the ground, struggling. It was hard to tell what was happening, for they moved so fast, scrabbling together on the brown winter sod, but Nick’s fist rose and fell several times as Gòrdan wriggled and flailed in an attempt to escape. Nick rode him like a bucking horse, held him with his knees and kept hold with his left, and took G�
�rdan’s blows in his side with only grunts as he pummeled his opponent. Gòrdan continued to struggle, and finally threw Nick off. Then he scurried beyond reach like a bug before regaining his feet and yanking his kilt back down over the tail of his sark.

  Nick pulled his feet under him and stood, ready for another attack, shaking out his hand with its bloodied knuckles. Gòrdan’s mouth and nose were likewise bloodied, and his tongue extended to touch a split lip that was swelling quickly. Both the men gasped for breath, angry eyes wild, facing off against each other in defense. “Get the hell out of here, Gòrdan. Leave her alone, or I’ll stomp you into the ground.” His breaths were hard, heaving, but his voice remained level. He straightened and let down his fists, as if confident Gòrdan would do as he was told. Indeed, as if daring him to not.

  Gòrdan didn’t reply, but only stood ready to fight some more. He was afraid of Nick, Beth could see. A disgusted look came over Nick’s face as he saw it, too, and he turned back toward the cart and his work, muttering to himself, “Chickenshit redneck.”

  Gòrdan reached into his sark. Beth shouted warning to Nick, for she knew what was carried there. Nick turned, but not fast enough to fend the small dirk, and Gòrdan buried it in his back near his right shoulder.

  Nick yelled, surprised, yanked himself away from the dirk as he turned, then stepped in and clouted Gòrdan with his left fist. Gòrdan reeled and dropped his weapon, which Beth snatched from the ground and raised to threaten Gòrdan.

  “Gòrdan!” she shouted. “You get away from here! I’ve got your sgian dubh, and if you come near us again I’ll gut you with it! I swear I will!”

  Nick backed up her words by raising his left fist again. His eyes were wide, but growing dull. Vague. He panted hard and his right shoulder drooped with the pain in it.

  Gòrdan’s face clouded with fury. He looked at his dirk in Beth’s hand, but she made it plain she wasn’t going to let him have it back. He said to her in a voice choked with rage, and spittle flying from his lips, “Tha e allamharach, Ealasaid! Is allamharachd an dàimhealach so!”