by Julianne Lee
Just as they were about to plunge into the woods, Beth saw a scattering of shadows nearby against the drifting snow, shapes of people lying on the ground near the refuse pile.
“Och, mo dia!” She wrested her hand from Nick’s grasp and ran.
“Beth!” Nick’s voice was a low hiss. He hurried after her.
The bodies were all men, all adults, but they were bound with ropes, their hands tied behind them. The ground seemed littered with dead. Beth knelt to see who they were, desperate that none of them would be Father or Dùghall.
Nick took her arm. “Beth, we’ve got to get out of here!”
“I must know.” They could hear the voices of the soldiers nearby, the rattling of muskets on baldrics and boots on frozen earth, but she held her ground.
“They’ll kill us.” Nick growled into her ear.
She yanked her arm from his grasp.
In the distance there was a shout of the Campbell war cry, “Cruachan!” A shudder ran through her. The voice was filled with vile hatred, and worse, triumph. Suddenly there was light as the house the Redcoats had just left began to flame high. Then another down the path. The dry thatched roof caught easily even in the cold, and the village began to flicker orange in the blaze. Another house went up.
Beside her, the shapes of the bodies came visible among the pools of blood. Nine men, all dead. Calum and his sons. Anne’s husband, Eòsaph. Beth’s uncle and three male cousins. Gòrdan. A cry escaped her. Dear God, it was Gòrdan, shot in the neck, his head nearly severed and his blood already frozen in an enormous puddle beneath him. It glistened wet on the ground. They’d all been shot. The smell, in spite of the cold, was dank. Musty and filthy.
Desperation drew Nick’s voice taut. “Come, Beth. Hurry. They’re not here. They’re alive somewhere.”
The words sank in. Father and Dùghall weren’t among these dead, and for that she could feel grateful. She scrambled to her feet and followed Nick into the woods. They ran hard, headed for Ballachulish, which was the closest town outside the glen. The track began to slope upward; it would be a hard trail.
But they pulled up short at the sound of soldiers coming their way. Many soldiers.
“Crap,” Nick whispered. “Which way?”
Beth drew Nick by his hand back the way they’d come. “Up the glen. Upriver. The soldiers came from Fort William; they’ve blocked us. That way lies death. We must hie quickly to the mountains. Toward Dalness.”
“Dalness?” There was alarm in his voice, for he’d been told where Dalness was; a two-day walk, and that for a healthy man in good weather. “Those mountains aren’t passable.”
Her voice hissed with urgency and she stepped off in the direction she wished him to follow. “’Tis the nearest shelter beyond MacIain land that isn’t blocked by soldiers. And those slopes will seem less passable to the Redcoats who would prefer to stay here to steal and burn. We’ve no choice.” Her hand reached out for his.
Nick took it, and they hurried onward through the forest. The cold of his fingers made her realize the danger they were now in, and she wished for the gloves her father had begun to sew the morning before. Already the cold pierced her with every breath, and her nose was numb.
Throughout the dark pre-dawn, they walked along the snowy track, then plowed onward when there was no track. The blizzard continued, and soon even on the low ground the drifts slowed their progress. As the sky lightened and the sun began to rise, cold and dim to the southeast, the snow slowed to an occasional white puff from the sky. The wound on Nick’s arm had quit bleeding long before. It had been a shallow cut, and the cold sent the blood away from it.
They began to see shadows of other refugees moving here and there along the white slopes. Nobody seemed to have a firm idea of which direction to take, for everyone knew there was no natural shelter this way. They were all headed in the general direction of Dalness, nearly twenty miles away over steep mountains. Making their way through drifts, wending between trees and over the rough ground, nobody spoke. Some women wept. The children were strangely silent. The shadows appeared and faded, everyone intent on their goal, which was shelter wherever that might be found. They could still hear random shots and distant cries of “Cruachan!” from the villages below.
For hours Beth walked with Nick. She couldn’t feel her feet any more, and it was as if her knees rested on blocks of wood with each step. She shivered mightily, and even Nick’s arms around her gave little protection against the ice and wind. Her eyes narrowed against the freezing air, and when she blinked they wanted to stick closed. Excruciating, burning pain in her arms at least let her know they weren’t yet frozen. She held an arm across her belly in hopes of protecting her baby, but knew all the warmth of her was already spent there.
By afternoon she and Nick were barely past Meall Mór. Not halfway to Dalness. They continued to walk as they ate the food she’d brought, for now the cold was unbearable and stopping was unthinkable. Beth leaned heavily on Nick, no longer able to hold herself upright.
“Keep going, Beth,” said Nick. “You can make it.” He sounded as if he were convincing himself. He certainly wasn’t convincing her.
She wagged her head, and stumbled again. A warmth stole over her. The burning was fading, and had become genuine comfort. She stopped shivering, and a deep sigh escaped her. Such a relief for the pain to be gone! She stumbled again, still unable to feel her feet, but it was all right. They’d make it to Dalness. Maybe not today, or the next, but Dalness was always there, and it would still be there when they arrived. Eventually. She was tired, and decided to sit down and have a rest.
“No, Beth. Get up.”
“Let me sleep. You kept me awake all night, and now I wish to sleep.”
“No, get up. If we stop we’ll freeze to death. We’ve got to keep moving.” He drew her along some more steps, but she stumbled.
“It’s nae cold. Can you not feel the warmth? Let me rest for a moment, then we can continue our journey.”
“No, Beth. Come!” He hauled on her arm, and pulled her to her feet.
“Nick, I cannae. I’m too terribly sleepy.”
“I’m sleepy, too. We can’t stop. You’ll kill the baby if you stop.”
That brought her around some, and a jolt of alarm made her take more steps. The world seemed unreal. Like the plastic in Nick’s time. Too smooth. Printed on. It became distant, and she felt no longer a part of it. Her knees buckled again, and she found herself caught in Nick’s arms. He lifted her, and her head dropped to his shoulder as he carried her. Happily, she went to sleep in his arms.
o0o
“Oh, God.” Nick shook her. “Beth! Beth, wake up!” He fell to his knees, and tried to shake her awake. “No, don’t go to sleep!” But she wouldn’t wake up. Was barely breathing. He wasn’t far behind, he knew. He recognized the feeling of wanting to simply curl up and sleep because he was so tired and the snow was so comfortable and snug. He fought it. He focused on getting to a fire where he would feel the cold again at his core and the burning freeze on his skin. Where he might feel anything at all. He picked her up and struggled to his feet in the deep snow. For another half-mile he carried her, until his legs gave out and he collapsed into a drift. He gasped for air that pierced his chest like frozen knives.
“Fionn!” He called to the hillsides around him. “Fionn Coigreach!” The bellow rose from his chilled core. The steep, white mountains towered above, shrouded by clouds and falling snow. There was nobody in sight. The others had moved off the track somewhere, or had lain down to die, and Nick had missed them. He was alone with Beth, as far as he could see. “Fionn!”
He struggled to his feet and took some more steps, but he knew it was hopeless. He was lost, and had missed the foot track to Dalness. He couldn’t tell which mountain was which.
“Fionn, you stupid faerie, show yourself so I can curse your soul before I die!” Then he dropped to his knees again to hold Beth in his arms for whatever small warmth he had left to give her. Sh
e seemed dead.
“What is it now?” The faerie sounded peeved. As if he’d been disturbed at his supper.
Nick looked up to find Fionn standing in the midst of a knee-deep drift, bare-legged and wearing only his ragged tunic as if the weather were as balmy as summer. The wind tossed his black hair, and the tail of his tunic fluttered. “Help us. Please.” The wind snatched the words from his mouth.
“And why should I wish to help you?”
“Not me. Her. You love her, you said. Send us back to the twenty-first century. They can save her there.”
“Ye’re nae for her.” The faerie became agitated.
“You can save her life. If you love her, you’ll send her back.”
“Without you.”
Nick didn’t hesitate. “I’m not important. I’m going to die if you leave me here, and will be out of your hair. She’s...” He started to tell the faerie she was pregnant, but remembered his bad reaction in the future. Instead he said, “You’ll see her again one day. I swear it.”
“She carries your child.”
Hope bled from Nick and he blinked against the winter wind. “How did you know?” Snow blew across them both.
“It takes far more than a shapeless frock to hide such a thing from me.” Fionn’s eyes glittered, rage and grief dancing back and forth in them.
“Please send her to the future. Send her without me.” Let her go to the future, and he could curl up in the snow here and sleep. But only if she was safe first.
“She carries your child!” Fionn’s hands were fists and he raised them. “Your child!”
“Don’t let her die for it!” Nick felt so weary. Tears rose, and froze on his lashes. “Don’t let her die. You claim to love her; don’t let her die.” His tongue slowed, and making words come took more and more effort. His voice faded. “Let me. Send her to the future. I’ll stay here. I won’t get in your way. Prove you love her. Prove to her what you’ve been saying all along, if it’s true.”
The faerie threw back his head and uttered a long cry of anger and frustration. “Why?” He didn’t seem to be asking Nick, but rather addressed himself to the wind and sky. “I cannae! I cannot!”
“You must.”
“I cannot, not will not!” His eyes were wild, his hands fists. “I will it, but she willnae go without you, as you would not go without her! She thwarts the magic! Arrogant humans! Arrogant!”
“Save her, Fionn.” Nick’s voice was fading. “Do the right thing.” Overwhelming exhaustion came over him, and he sagged into the snow. Beth felt cold in his arms. He looked up at the faerie and said, “Her life—her fate—is for you to decide. Only you have the power to save her, Fionn.” Then his eyes closed, and he leaned his head against Beth’s. Just for a little while, until he would be rested.
o0o
Burning. Heat. Nick’s legs felt on fire. Cold. Cold radiating from deep inside to cool his burning skin. Nick groaned from the pain and lifted his head. He was in bed. The sheets were soaked and filthy, and tangled around him. A cold body lay next to him. Beth. A jolt of remembrance and alarm shot through him. He rolled from the bed and struggled to his feet. The phone. He had to get to the phone, but he couldn’t feel his feet and every joint of his body felt soft and wobbly. Out of control. He made himself stand, guessing at how to move his legs, and held to the walls as he made his way from the bedroom to the kitchen.
911. He made his fingers push the buttons in spite of the pain. Ambulance. Hypothermia. Come now. Yes, hypothermia. Yes, I know it’s July. She’s unconscious. He began shivering. He hoped Beth wasn’t dead. He was told not to move her or try to warm her. Paramedics would be there shortly. A sob took him, and he dropped the phone. He made it to the front door, and with both hands opened the deadbolt, then the latch. Leaving the door wide open, he then returned to the bedroom and lay back down on the bed next to Beth.
She wasn’t moving. She was cold. Blue. He kissed her, and held her. The pain grew as numbness faded. The minutes stretched to eternity, and he knew this was hell. Eternity on fire, with Beth dead in his arms. But soon there was a wail of sirens in the distance, coming closer. He wept with relief.
o0o
With a wistful sadness inappropriate to the day, Beth gazed at herself in the mirror across the room, a bouquet of white roses in her lap. They called this place the “bride’s room,” and she was to wait here for the ceremony to begin. The mirror boasted an ornate frame, but even she could see it was made of plastic. The carpet was threadbare and the window had a crack in it, but those things mattered not at all. She was in a church. That was what mattered today.
The dress was too extravagant. Too white. She was afraid to even move in it, and never mind going near food or drink. The high waistline hid the slight bulge that was a mite larger than they’d thought it would be. Everyone knew now, for Nick hadn’t felt the need to pretend, but it wouldn’t be mentioned today. The wedding had been postponed two weeks for her hospital stay, and she still felt weak. At loose ends. Memories of a month ago intruded at odd moments, and tears sometimes rose.
Such as now, when she should be thinking only of the ceremony, she thought of the night she’d watched her father and her brother rush out of the house never to be seen again. Over and over again she told herself they’d escaped unharmed, that they’d made it over the mountains to Ballachulish or Dalness. They were not on the list of the thirty-eight killed by soldiers, and the leather-bound book written by William Campbell had disappeared. The thing was nowhere to be found, anywhere among Nick’s books. History had changed.
She herself had lost two toes of her left foot from frostbite, and they ached terribly. Today she would make it down the aisle with a brave face and only a slight limp, but the loss would be a constant reminder of that night. Constant reminder of how fortunate she was to not be dead. It made her conscious of how unworthy she was of this magnificent dress. Queen Mary would wear a dress so fine, but not herself. Shining silk and intricate lace were too much. Too perfect. A tear welled, and she held her eyes wide to not disturb the black paint she wore on her lashes for the sake of avoiding ugliness with Nick’s mother. She was as still as the room around her, on a low, cushioned stool, and she waited. They were to come for her when it was time.
There was a tap at the dressing room door, and Nick entered without waiting for reply. He was dressed for the ceremony, looking unutterably braw in black coat, and trews, with white sark and neckpiece, and a bit of tartan about his waist. He held a package in one hand, but let it drop to his side when he saw her face.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
She shrugged and smoothed the copious skirts that rustled and rose about her. All this white was unsettling. Too much like a snowdrift all around. She dabbed at her eyes so as not to smudge the black, and mentally cursed Nick’s mother once again.
He came to kneel before her. “Too much excitement?”
“Too much... everything.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
All the concern over her health had become nearly an annoyance, for it had been going on since their return. She put a hand across her stomach. “We’re fine. I trust your physician’s machines and needles that said the baby was kept from the cold by all the blood rushing to it. Two toes are nae so much to give for a child.”
Nick made a sound in his throat that was half “och” and half wry laugh. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? We’re alive. You and I are to be married today, in a church, and though it be Protestant ’tis far better than the handfasting or the sin.”
“You’re happy to be here, then?”
She smiled. “Oh, aye, I’m happy to be with you, wherever that may be.”
“I’ve got something for you. From Darlene.” He presented the package in his hand, which turned out to be a book in a plastic sack. “She wanted to read up on Scotland, and found this at the bookstore.” He pulled it from the sack and handed it to her. “I saw she had it, and asked if I could give it to yo
u.”
It was a small volume, bound in cloth, and it bore a paper jacket with a picture of the mountains of Glencoe. Aonach Dubh, the Black Mount, at the far end of the glen. The sight of it brought a surge of homesickness and sorrow, and she feared for her painted eyes again. She opened the book, but couldn’t see to even attempt to read it.
“What does it say?”
“It’s a book by William Campbell.”
She looked up from the volume. “True? Private Liam?”
“Aye. He lived a long life as before, and wrote his memoir before he died, but this book is the story of how he was saved from complicity in the massacre. He blooded his sword without killing, but it was later discovered he held back from his orders. He was drummed out of the army for it.”
Beth sighed. “I cannae say as I’m particularly sorry for that.” She laid the book in her lap and smoothed the already very smooth cover.
“Of course not. He did the right thing. But that’s not all the book says. It goes on to tell of how years later he returned to the glen, and found the man in whose house he’d been billeted.”
Now she looked into Nick’s eyes in search of a lie. “Truly? My father?”
Nick nodded. “Campbell calls him by name. Seòras MacDonald. And his son, Dùghall. Both alive, and returned to their property in Inverrigan some months after the attack. The house was burned and the cattle driven away, but they both lived, and Dùghall married.
Beth gripped the book, and this time when tears came she couldn’t stop them. “Mo dia...” She took Nick’s face between her palms and kissed him, then had to dab her lip paint from his mouth. “Och.”
“And here, I want you to see this.” He took the book from her lap and opened it to the last page. He read to her, “It is by God’s grace that I escaped the evil, and to my eternal sorrow so many others did not. In the final years of my life I have come to understand the heinous crime to all of humanity, and not only to the Dhomhnallach. I write this memoir with the hope that my words will change the hearts of those who might ever do such a thing again. Wm. Campbell, 1734.”