Interloper at Glencoe

by Julianne Lee

  So he listened to Mom’s tales of the women in her club, the name of which he could never remember. The Machiavellian control games were a bore, and he could never figure out why she seemed to enjoy hanging out with those people, but he tried to give the impression he gave a damn about the club. He didn’t; it was only her he cared about. When the program ended and the news came on, Dad entered the conversation with questions about his job. Nick told about Wayne.

  “I would have fired him,” was Dad’s response to the story.

  Nick didn’t want an argument, but especially he didn’t want to be told his business. “I think he’ll turn around this time.” He hoped Dad would drop it, but no luck.

  “How many chances have you given him so far? You’ve been complaining about this guy for, what, a year now? You should have canned him months ago.”

  “He’s got one more chance.”

  “You won’t fire him. You’re just going to let him walk all over you.”

  Anger rose, and Nick could feel his ears warm. “No, I took a different tack with him this time.”

  “Uh huh. And next time another, then another.”

  “Seriously. I presented it to him as a choice between being a man and being a boy. Shape up, he’s a man; come to work stoned, he’s just a stupid kid.”

  “And you think that’s going to make a difference?”

  Nick knew it had worked on him in Scotland, but couldn’t tell his father that. He only said, “We’ll see.”

  “Won’t we, though?” Dad’s tone infuriated Nick, and he fell silent. He pretended to watch the news, and then looked at his watch. Perhaps coming here had been a bad idea. When the news ended, he made his exit.

  At home he showered again just for the luxury of it, then crawled into bed, exhausted. It had been a long month, and the sublime comfort of his mattress and sheets took him and put him to sleep in an instant.

  Then a scream. Cold. Snow on the ground, and people running. Tiny popping noises here and there. Another scream, and it went on and on. Shadows hurrying across a field scattered with patches of white snow that seemed to glow under the orange light of burning houses. Then nearby came Beth’s voice. He was sure it was she, and wanted to go to her but couldn’t move. There was no body, no presence for him to move. He only heard weeping somewhere, Beth begging for her life. He tried to call out to her, but had no voice. She screamed again, a terrified cry that was cut short. Then silence. There were no more sounds from her, and only the distant woman screamed on and on. And on.

  Nick awoke, gasping and sweating in his bed. He looked around, terrified he’d find himself back in Glencoe, but it had been only a dream. Nothing to it. He was safe. The massacre was ancient history, and he’d only dreamed up those voices. He lay back down, scrunched his pillow under his head, and dropped off to sleep again. This time to dream about Sheryl Crow, he hoped. He figured he was about due for one of those.

  The next night at home, Nick lounged alone on the sofa, in front of the television but not seeing or hearing what was on. Nobody to criticize, and nobody to bore him. Life was back to business as usual. Dinner had been Chinese takeout, followed by a pint of ice cream, both impossible to obtain in seventeenth-century Scotland and both wonderfully delicious tonight. Now he lay back on cushions with his feet up, fresh from the shower and wearing only an old pair of cutoffs. He was warm, clean, well-fed, relatively pain-free, and staring at moving pictures on the surface of a cathode ray tube while thinking about a woman who would think the device magic.

  Beth was dead, of course. Had been for centuries. The realization came and went, then came again, and each time it returned he felt a soft regret that grew each time it washed over him. As if his heart were blackened by it like the core of a bad apple. He wished she could have been nothing more than a dream, but the ache in his shoulder was pressing reminder that it had all been real. The stab wound, the lost weight, his callused hands, the length of his hair, all made it plain he’d spent an actual month getting to know a very real, sweet, beautiful girl named Beth NicDonald. Alone in his apartment, he pictured her face. Her soft eyes, full, red mouth, and even the scar next to her nose that made him wonder what had happened to her. Had Gòrdan hurt her? Nick wondered what her marriage had been like. Then, out of nowhere it seemed, he wondered how it would be to be married to Beth.

  He sat up and scooted back against the sofa cushions. Whoa. Best not to go there. She was gone. He would never see her again, and whatever attachment he might have had was pointless now. She was dead, and there was nothing he could do about it. No doubt she’d remarried, had children, and...

  The massacre. A horrible feeling landed in his gut. At least one woman had died in that attack; the old soldier had said so. What if it were Beth? Had he met her so close to her death? Had she, for God’s sake, been killed in the attack?

  But the MacIain had gone to sign the oath. Surely the thing had been called off.

  Then why was the book still in his bedroom if the massacre never happened?

  Nick stood, wanting to do something but not knowing what. What could possibly be done, three centuries after the fact? He went to the bedroom for that horrible book, but then changed his mind and went to his computer and sat. He clicked on the dialup icon, logged on, and loaded a search page. Then he typed in “+glencoe +massacre” and slapped the “Enter” key at the corner of his keyboard.

  There it was. The massacre. Pages of links to sites that referred to the atrocity. Nick’s heart sank.

  His hand didn’t want to click on any of them. He didn’t want to know how badly he’d failed to stop the killing. But he had to know about Beth. What had happened to her. He sifted carefully through the offered links, his hands slick and his heart skipping way too fast.

  One page was a screed against the English from a very pissed-off nationalist Scot, offering very little real historical information. Another was a history of Clan Donald that offered a great deal of information about everything but the massacre. A third was a sub-page of the first site. That offered a once-over-lightly account. Here Nick learned that thirty-nine people had died, three of whom had been women, and two children. Though the MacIain had left to sign the oath in plenty of time, he went to the wrong place and ended up not signing until six days after the deadline. And the order for the massacre had indeed been given because of the oath being signed late. The laird had been caught in a blizzard and otherwise would have made it in time. Tightness grew in Nick’s gut, and nausea rose. Thirty-nine dead and hundreds displaced for a weather delay. It was appalling.

  One by one Nick browsed pages that told him the basics of what happened but not the names of the dead, until finally he found what he needed but didn’t particularly want: a list of victims. His heart pounded hard in his chest as he read the names of the thirty-nine who had been murdered outright by swords and muskets that night in 1692, hoping not to recognize any of them. Then it froze when he found, “Elizabeth Caitlin Mary MacDonald, age 28.” In Gaelic he knew, because he’d heard her father say it, Ealasaid Caitlin Màirì NicDonald.

  His hand slipped from the keyboard and dropped to his side. For a moment he couldn’t believe what he was reading. He refused to accept that this could be true. Surely she would have been one of the ones to escape. She was too smart to be caught. She was...

  An image of her wielding Gòrdan’s knife came, and he knew she wouldn’t have run away from the soldiers until it was too late to escape. The soft regret hardened into pain. There it was, her name listed with the other two women, two children, and thirty-four men who had been killed by soldiers.

  Nick’s throat tightened, and he looked away from the screen. She’d lived only two months after he’d last seen her. Never remarried. Never had children. Never done any of the things she had so wanted to do. Shocked into utter stillness, he sat for several minutes, struggling with the news. Further, struggling with the knowledge he’d abandoned her to that fate and had done nothing to change it.

  Now he went to th
e bedroom for the book, picked it up, and turned it over in his hand. The binding felt even creepier now that he knew it was human skin. Human skin that had never quite died. The remains of William Campbell, who apparently deserved his ignoble fate. He raised it over his head and said to the air, “William Campbell, where are you?”

  The book in his hand was silent. No screaming, no warmth from the ghastly binding. Whatever power it had held before seemed gone now.

  “Campbell! I want answers!”

  Nothing from the ghost.

  Nick tossed the book onto his nightstand and turned a circle in the room. He had to do something; he couldn’t just go on, knowing he’d had a chance to save Beth and had blown it. If he’d stayed...

  All the air left him at once. If only he’d stayed.

  That night in bed he hoped for another dream visit from Campbell, but there was nothing. He awoke the next morning in his own room with a heavy heart, safe from the Redcoats and far away from Beth. All that day he made his way through in a daze, thinking about her. He hadn’t known her long. Surely he would get over her death. After all, it had been so long ago.

  No, two days ago. Who was he kidding? He’d last seen her two days before. He could still hear her voice, and the brightness of her eyes was still vivid to him. His heart clenched, and he wished there were something for him to do.

  Anything.

  That night when he went to bed he hoped something would click. That there would be another dream. Anything. One hand reached over to lie atop the book on the nightstand. No heat, no vibes from it. His heart ached. Something had to be done. It was hours before he dropped off to sleep.

  Tonight he dreamed of swirling darkness.

  There was no sign of Campbell. Nick sat up and looked around, but saw nothing. The dark had a density that was like smoke. But not like it, for smoke reflected light while this negated it. Tendrils of it weaved back and forth, alternately hiding and revealing a figure nearby, the source of what scant light there was. It was a man, crouched low, staring at him.

  “Who are you?” The dense air shifted, and Nick saw the speaker was the faerie. The black-haired creature with the liquid, turquoise blue eyes.

  “Who are you?” Nick responded.

  “I asked you first,” said the creature.

  “Why are you jerking me around?”

  “Because I can. And whatever you have to do with Beth, you should watch yer step.”

  “You like her?”

  The faerie crossed his arms. “I love her. More than any mortal could.”

  “Did you know she was going to die?”

  Tears sprang to the cold eyes. “No. Do ye not think I would have saved her, had I kent her fate? Do you not think I would have changed her into a tree? Or a doe? For her to live, I would have done it. What a question! I should turn you into a snake!” He raised his hand as if to do it, but when Nick didn’t react he let it down. “You’re not frightened of me.” He seemed stunned at the realization.

  “You’re going to do what you’re going to do. I can’t stop you, and being frightened won’t change that. Besides, I bet you’re dead.”

  The creature’s face fell with astonishment. “I’m immortal.”

  “No, you’re not. I think what I’m looking at is as much a ghost as that Campbell guy. Wherever he is. What did you do with him?”

  The faerie leapt up and shrieked, “My soul is immortal!”

  Nick stood also, leaned in, and shouted back, “Big deal! So is mine!”

  “Would ye care for me to arrange for your death?”

  “Hit me with your best shot, Twinkletoes.”

  With another long shout of frustration, the black-haired creature waved a hand and disappeared.

  Nick stared into the darkness a moment, then murmured, “I wish to return to Beth.” Then he lay back down, closed his eyes, and continued sleeping.

  o0o

  Beth lay in her bed, unable to sleep. Alert to sounds from the next room, as she had been for a month now, she realized she couldn’t hear Nick breathing. He never snored, exactly, but she had become familiar with the deepness of his sleep and the slight rasp of his breaths in the night. But she wasn’t hearing him now, and hadn’t heard him get up to relieve himself outside according to his habit. The breathing had been there, but now suddenly it wasn’t. The absence of it had awakened her. It worried her, for she’d known of many folk who died in their sleep. Even a young man could die this way, without warning. Their hearts would stop, they would stop breathing, and they would be found the next day, looking as if they were asleep except for the pallor of death on their skin. It was a faerie trick. Those creatures were not to be trusted, and would carry off a clansman as easily as snapping fingers. Now she feared they’d taken Nick.

  Her heart in her throat, Beth slipped from her bed and moved toward the next room where Nick’s pallet was laid out by the hearth.

  But as she approached, the breathing began again. The familiar sound of Nick’s near-snore came from the long shadow on the floor near the hearth. She sighed, and breathed easier herself. Nick was well, and hadn’t been taken by faeries at all. She withdrew into the bedroom again, and returned to her own bed. Now she could sleep in peace.

  Chapter 6

  Nick’s pulse picked up when he awoke and found himself lying on the dirt floor of Beth’s father’s house. He sat up, and flinched at the dulling ache in his shoulder. How had the transfer happened this time? Was it the wish? Or had that faerie guy sent him here for some reason? To die, perhaps? Being at the mercy of that nutcase made him go cold, but at least he was here. Now he had a shot at changing things.

  He looked around for Beth, and found her at the work table on the other side of the room, stirring something in a big bowl by candlelight. The roses in her cheeks were visible from here, even in the dim light, and her lips curved upward slightly in a natural smile. When she looked over at him and saw he was awake, it widened into a real one, and her eyes shone. Now that he was back, he knew he had to make history change. He couldn’t let her fall victim to the Redcoats.

  “Hi,” he said. It felt strange to see her alive, after having accepted her as dead even for two days. He couldn’t help staring, and fought the lump that choked him in his relief.

  “Good morning to ye, a Neacail,” she replied with a smile. “You appear insufferably cheerful on this dreary morning.”

  He glanced toward the closed door and shuttered window, and remembered it was winter, rather than the spring of Los Angeles he’d just left. As he rose from the pallet, untangling and covering himself with his plaid he used for a blanket, he said in all sincerity, “It’s good to see you.”

  That made her blush, and he grinned. She said, “Your sark is repaired and cleaned, Mr. Mouliné. Restore your kilt and ready yourself for breakfast if you please.”

  He rose to obey, his plaid tucked around his waist as he reached for the shirt hung on the back of a chair. She went to collect her menfolk from the dooryard where they were already outside, loading a cart with manure from the pile out back. Nick belted his clothing and arranged his plaid over his shoulder, then looked around, surprised at himself, for there was an odd feeling of comfort in this place now. He still thought it dirty and smelly, but now there was a purpose to being here and he could accept some things that had disgusted him before. He felt less helpless than he had since this all started, for he wanted to be here, had come by his own decision, and had a chance to change Beth’s fate. He sat at breakfast and didn’t even mind any more that there was no serving spoon for the oatmeal. He was eager for the laird to return from his journey, for influencing the MacIain was the only way to prevent the massacre.

  Just like him, everyone in the glen was waiting to hear, and clusters of folks around the village of Inverrigan gossiped about it with an intensity that meant nobody really knew anything. The weather turned snowy, and laid a thick, white blanket over everything. For two days the villagers stayed inside to keep warm. Even Nick found himself di
sinclined to drum up work, and hung out with Seòras and Dùghall instead.

  On the second evening Eòsaph and his wife Anna came to visit, and the house of Seòras MacDonald was glad for the fresh conversation. They shook snow from their clothing as they ducked through the low door, and Beth went to fill a large cup of ale to pass around the group, and the visitors settled into chairs near the fire as they chattered the gossip of the day. Nick sat against the peat wall, atop the roll of his mattress, listening and taking the cup when it came to him. The warmth of the room was relaxing, and he was able to glance over at Beth every so often. When she caught him at it, she would look down at her sewing and a little smile would touch her mouth.

  At a lagging point in the talk, Nick made an outsider’s contribution. “Tell me, Seòras, how come you call yourself the MacIain clan, though your name is MacDonald?” Between Breadalbane, who was a Campbell, and Argyll, who was also a Campbell, and the MacIain, sometimes called Polveig, who was a MacDonald but also called Glencoe as his tacksman was called Inverrigan, and the women who were “nic” and the men who were “mac,” and the women often went by their maiden names in any case, Nick hardly ever knew what to call anyone around here.

  Eòsaph made the reply instead of Seòras. “We’re the children of Iain Og nan Fraoch. Young John of the Heather. ’Tis why we wear the heather in our bonnets.” He nodded toward the wall peg where his hat hung, decorated with a sprig of something scraggly and dried. “He was the bastard of a fourteenth century laird of the Dhomhnallach.”

  “Clan Iain Abrach is what we are, for he was also called John of Lochaber, and through him our ancestry goes so far back as Donald and Ranald.”