“Yes, and he himself it was sent me to see how the young lad was getting along.”
She seemed somewhat satisfied and proceeded to answer my question.
“You can see for yourself. It is that Aidan, the poor bairn. The faeries were not giving him back, and he has died.”
“Indeed? And how was that happening?”
I saw a shadow cross the woman’s face and I fancied her expression grew guarded. “They were not giving him back,” she repeated. “The boy died.”
“It is sorry I am to be hearing that,” I said. Just then the little company came out of the chapel and took the small corpse to a freshly dug grave on the far side of the chapel. The women did not follow but remained where they were.
“We should not even have come this far,” the woman said to me. “Women have no place at burials. His mother should have stayed at home, but she would not. No, she must follow him here, and this much was permitted. Poor thing,” the woman added. “He was her first child. I have lost four myself. But Aidan was a bonny boy for all that. And none of mine were taken by the sithichean.”
I guessed the fever, or whatever illness the poor babe had, had killed him. I stayed, watching the burial with the group of women until the men returned to the party, and we made our way to the cottage for some food. As we walked, I recognized one of the men somewhat from my younger days on the island. I think I had seen him at Donald Dubh’s and I greeted him.
“This is a sad thing.”
“Indeed.”
“Did he die of the fits? Was there nothing the healer could do to help?”
“There was no healer. Just that Gillean from the other side of the island, the faerie doctor.”
“And he could not save the boy.”
The man shook his head.
“He could not. He had tried all the cures, and they did not work. Nothing could drive them out of the poor boy.”
It was just then that we reached the cottage and went in. I offered my condolences to the poor woman whose son had been lost and drank a little uisgebeatha before I left and returned to Dun Evin in the chill of the early afternoon.
Chapter 8
The next morning I set out to visit Gillean, to find out more about the death of the poor child at Riasg Buidhe. I found the old man hard at work piling some dried peats up outside of his cottage. The sun shone weakly in the sky, not enough to pierce the cold that had the island in its grip.
“Dia dhuit,” he greeted me cheerfully enough. “And how would you be this fine morning?”
“I am well enough,” I answered, “unlike that poor boy from Riasg Buidhe. I walked over there yesterday to see how the lad was faring and found his funeral procession.”
“Aye, it was a sad thing,” agreed Gillean. “I have seen it like that before when the sithichean will not let the child go.”
“How did the boy die?” I asked. “Was it the fits that took him?”
“No,” replied Gillean. “No, it was not.”
“Then what happened?”
Gillean turned taciturn. “It’s as I said. None of my cures worked, and the boy died. Now if you’ll be excusing me, I must get these peats stacked today before we are getting more of the bad weather.”
I left him and turned eastward, walking over the hills and towards Riasg Buidhe on the east side of the island. As I walked, I mulled over what he had said and not said, and the words of the mourner yesterday. I reached the village and saw Seonag sitting outside a cottage, listlessly spinning with a drop spindle. She looked pale, and I could feel the sadness and grief of her heart as she sat there on a rough wooden stool. She raised her green eyes to me, then dropped them as if ashamed to meet my gaze. Or perhaps it was just the shyness that had come over her.
“Seonag, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Aye.”
“I am Muirteach, from up at the dun.”
She nodded. “I remember you,” she said softly.
“I’m right sorry about your nephew. I came yesterday, and found his funeral. It is a sad thing.”
“I was seeing you there.”
“What happened, finally? Was it the fits that took him in the end?”
She shook her head. “No, that was not it.” She began to speak more rapidly, as if the words could not come out of her fast enough. “They tried all the cures, the herbs, the fresh milk, even the piss, and he still had the fits. And he was burning hot.”
“And he had been sick for some time. Your sister must have been aye worried about him.”
“Indeed she was. And then the faerie doctor was saying that he must be put to the fire, or else the sithichean would never be giving him back. For it was the eighth day, you see.”
I nodded.
“But she did not want to do it. She said, ‘No, it will kill him.’ But then her husband was saying we had to follow the faerie doctor’s advice or we would never be getting poor Aidan back. And after a time, she had to agree to it. For her husband was giving her a big clout over it all.”
“So she agreed?”
“She had to, didn’t she?” returned Seonag, quite matter-of-factly for a girl so young. “And she was sore worried about poor Aidan.”
“And so what happened then?”
“He died.”
“Of the fever?”
Her eyes filled with tears again. “He just died. It was a terrible thing to see, and didn’t the poor boy wail. It made my blood run cold, the sound of it. I can not get the sound of it out of my ears. But old Gillean said that was just the faerie not wanting to leave. Then, after, he made no sound, and the faerie doctor said that he was dead.”
Seonag kept her eyes on the ground for awhile. Then finally, she spoke.
“Gillean was telling my sister that it was only the changeling that had died, and that Aidan is even now feasting in the faerie hills.” She lifted her eyes to mine.
“Perhaps that is so,” I hedged, not wanting to take any comfort from the girl.
“Aye, that must be the way of it,” she continued, “for he can not be dead. Not my sweet little nephew. Surely he is there with the faerie. Perhaps he is the child of some faerie queen even now, sitting in her lap, being fed sweetmeats from a golden tray.”
“Perhaps so,” I repeated, not wanting to distress the child more. There seemed no need now to speak with Aidan’s mother. I had learned what I had come there to discover. I thanked Seonag and left the village and returned to Dun Evin.
* * * * *
I told my uncle what I had discovered. He scowled and spat in the fire. “There’s no proof of the faerie doctor’s harming the boy, Muirteach, and I’m thinking there is no law to prevent such things. No one has complained to me of it, and what am I to do even if they were. The poor boy is dead, whether of a fever or of the sithichean there’s no telling.”
“But what if it was the faerie doctor that caused the lad’s death?”
“Perhaps, but the lad was sick with the fever, and mayhap it was the sithichean made him so. It is a sad thing, Muirteach, but children die all the time. I’m thinking the less is said about this, the better it will be.” And try as I might, I could not budge my uncle from his judgment on this.
* * * * *
One upshot of the new accord between my uncle and the Benbecula MacDonald was that the constant harping of his wife changed somewhat. She began to insist that the MacRuaris were responsible for her missing son. And so, a few days after that fateful chess game, my uncle called me to his private chamber. My bad leg ached, and we were all of us muddy and sore from scouring the caves yet again, this time with some of the twelve men His Lordship had sent from Islay to help search for his grandson.
“Muirteach, I am not liking to ask you to do this,” my uncle began somewhat apologetically. He had a look in his eye that I knew too well. I sighed.
“What is it, Uncle?”
“It will just be those MacRuaris. That woman is going on at me as to how they must have killed young Niall. Now I am not believing a word
of it, but it is true enough that there is bad blood between them and the MacDonald.”
“Aye, I know of it. And so?”
“Well, I was just thinking that if you were to go to Uist, yourself, you could find out what the truth of the story was.”
The incident between the MacRuaris and Niall’s father having been over and supposedly done with twelve years ago, I felt the truth of that matter might be in short supply. But my search of Colonsay had so far proved fruitless. Perhaps the MacRuaris, wanting revenge, had been involved in Niall’s disappearance. There might be some clue there on Uist, or Benbecula.
“I’ll send you with some business for Donal. He’s the chief of the MacRuaris who lives there near Howmore. We’ve men enough here, what with those from Finlaggan. They can keep looking while you are gone to Uist. I pray the weather is fine enough for that, for I am not wanting them hanging about the hall all day drinking up all of your aunt’s ale and myuisgebeatha. That will just be leading to trouble.”
“And what will be the reason for my trip?”
“That Donal has a daughter he is wanting to marry to Malcolm. You can begin to negotiate a dowry. Some cattle, I’m thinking. See what he offers. He’s a good man. He can tell you the truth of that incident with the MacRuaris and the MacDonald.”
So I gathered my things while my uncle readied his galley and some of his men, and the next morning, a fair one for sailing, we set off for Uist.
South Uist is a lovely island, more windswept and flatter than Colonsay, with fine views of the western ocean. I fancied I could see Tir Nan Og in the clouds as the sun set in the west and we made our way to the MacRuari’s dun.
The headman of the Uist MacRuaris was an older man, and although his fort near Howmore was to my mind not so fine as Dun Evin, it was good enough. He made us welcome, and after we had broken our fast and drunk some of his ale, asked us our business. I spoke privately with him in a corner of his hall. He had no private withdrawing room, although his hall was fine enough, with elaborately carved rafters under the thatch and a fine raised platform for the MacRuari’s table. A great fire burning at the hearth took the chill of the autumn sea from my bones.
I told the MacRuari of my uncle’s business having to do with Malcolm’s possible betrothal. We discussed dowries. I had seen the MacRuari’s daughter in the hall, a pleasant enough looking lass with dark hair and blue eyes, and I thought Malcolm would not be too displeased if the match came to pass. For all I knew, they had never met.
“And then there is this other matter,” I continued.
The MacRuari frowned. “Aye, I’d heard something of it. That Benbecula MacDonald’s son is missing?”
“Yes, not a sign of him. We’ve scoured the island.”
His frown deepened. “A bad thing that, for the grandson of His Lordship to go vanishing away like that.”
I concurred. “You can imagine. That Ranald was off to Finlaggan recently, and His Lordship was sending some men over to Colonsay to help in the search, but nothing has been found. However, we were hearing something of a feud between those men of yours and Ranald, and my uncle was wanting to know the truth of it, that was all.”
“And so it was for this he was sending you here.”
“He also wanted you to know he feels favorably to the betrothal. When they are of an age for it.”
At this Donal’s frown changed to a slight smile. “Aye, I’ve met that Malcolm. I’m thinking he would suit my Marsali well.” His eyes narrowed as his thoughts returned to the other matter. “They are good men. It was a long time ago that it happened, and the honor price paid many years since. That should have set things to rights.” He paused to take a sip of his ale.
“The MacDonald was out hunting,” he continued. “Just newly married and come to Borve, he was, and had come over here to Uist hunting as my guest. It was an unlucky shot that killed young Tomas. But I’m not believing it was intentional.
“That son of Raghnall’s was running where he had no business to be. It was in the east of the island, in the hills. And then the MacDonald saw the movement and was thinking it was a swan, let fly with an arrow and caught young Tomas through the heart.”
“Dia—”
“Aye, Raghnall was fair fit to kill Ranald MacDonald, whether he was His Lordship’s son or not. But the honor price was paid, and the MacDonald even went on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia for his sins. I’m thinking he felt badly enough about it at the time.”
“But now his own son has gone missing.”
“Indeed. I am not thinking Raghnall would be involved.”
“Perhaps not. As you say, it was long ago.”
“Although he has a sister nearby. Perhaps you could be asking her about it all.”
“And what of the lad’s mother?”
“She died some eight years ago, giving birth.”
At that the meal was ready, and after we had feasted on wild goose, fresh cod and the MacRuari’s good ale, we slept soundly in his hall until the next day.
Next morning I asked the MacRuari if he would show me the spot where the accident had occurred so many years ago. He nodded and we went out hunting, accompanied by some of his men. It did not take too long to reach the spot, for South Uist is a narrow island. There was nothing to be seen there; just the hills and the sky and the clouds shimmering over the sea. But the hunting was fine enough, and we brought down some wild ducks that would make good feasting later.
On the ride back to the hall, I asked the MacRuari where I could find Raghnall’s sister and he pointed me towards a track running towards the western side of the island.
“Just down there it is, the only cottage down the track there. You’ll find it with no trouble. Are you wanting a man to go with you to show you the way?”
I declined and set off down the track. I found the cottage easily, nestled snug against a hill and looking cozy enough for it. To the west the waves broke against a small beach. There was smoke rising from the smokehole in the thatch, and a dog came out from around the back and started barking at me. A woman heard the racket and come out the door of the cottage, wiping her hands on her skirt. It could only be Raghnall’s sister; she looked enough like him to be no one else, short and somewhat stout, with glints of red in her brown hair.
“Dia dhuit,” I greeted her.
“And the same to yourself,” she returned. She looked at me curiously. “I’m thinking that you are not a man from this island. What is it you are doing here?”
I explained I was from Colonsay and had seen her brother there, and he had asked me to send his greetings to her. She nodded, accepting my story, and invited me to sit and have some ale while I told her the news of her brother.
“And were you hearing the sad tale from Colonsay?”
She had not and was curious and shocked to hear of the disappearance of the Benbecula MacDonald’s son.
“And wasn’t it just justice to him, although I am not liking to say it.” She looked at me and took a swig of her own ale. “After what the man did to my own nephew.”
“Aye, I was hearing something of the sort. That the Benbecula MacDonald killed Raghnall’s son in a hunting accident.”
“Aye. And it wound up costing Raghnall his wife as well.”
This I had not heard. “And how was that?”
“She was older, nearly past childbearing. But after their son died, she grew so unhappy, and then so pleased when she found herself breeding again. And she died trying to give birth to that babe. He would have been a fine son, had he lived. But he did not.”
“And how was Raghnall taking all of this?” I asked.
She gazed at me, as if pitying my stupidity. Then she relented.
“Well, you are not knowing him so well as all that, are you? My brother took it badly, for he loved his wife dearly.”
She shuddered a little. “That was a black night indeed, with his wife lying there dead in her bed, red with her own birthing blood, and the body of the poor infant lyin
g blue at her breast. Raghnall, when he saw his wife lying there, swore that the MacDonald was responsible for the death, and he swore dark vengeance on him.”
Chapter 9
“But that can not be true,” I said. “I thought the honor price had been paid for the other death, and it was all long over.” If Raghnall had sworn vengeance on Ranald MacDonald, Raghnall might indeed have harmed the MacDonald’s son.
“Indeed and so it had been, but Raghnall in his grief took it that his wife would never have wanted another child so if the first boy had lived. And perhaps he was right in that.”
I thought of my own mother’s death so many years ago. And the events last summer that had left my poor half brothers and half sister orphaned. I could understand grief, although I could not heal it.
“Well, it is a sad story indeed. I am sorry to hear about his troubles, for your brother seems a good man.”
“None better. He has a kind heart, as soft as a bairn’s for all of his wild talk. And all that was long ago and over now. He is courting another woman, although he has said little of it to me. I am thinking she is from your own island. He did tell me he was hoping she would consent to be married in the spring. I will be glad to see him home again though.” A shadow passed over her face. “It is lonely here, and I fear I talk too much to strangers.”
With that she stood up abruptly. “You will excuse me now. I am thankful for the news of my brother, but I still have much to do today before the sun sets.”
I thanked her for the ale before she re-entered her cottage, and I heard the grinding noise of her quern as I remounted my horse and rode away.
We stayed in Uist another night and the third day made the long sail back to Colonsay. The dun was packed with the extra men His Lordship had sent from Finlaggan, and I found the crowd oppressive. Aunt Euluasaid and her maids were fair put to care for all of them, and I think my aunt was relieved when I took Somerled and went into Scalasaig, sleeping badly in my leaking cottage there.
* * * * *
The day finally came to fetch Mariota from the nuns up at Balnahard, and I was happy to see the sun peeking through the gray clouds a bit. Like a good omen, I hoped, as I prepared the horses to go up that way. I took the track that led over the hills by Brìde’s well and then down towards Loch Fada and up to Balnahard at the far end of the island. The sun did not abandon me altogether, but the short October day was half gone by the time I arrived at the nunnery.
THE FAERIE HILLS (A Muirteach MacPhee Mystery Book 2) Page 7