Lock & Key

by Gordon Bonnet

  Malcolm thwacked him on the back, nearly knocking him over. “Take no offense, Darinauld,” he said, laughing. “I merely jest with you. I am certain that in your land, you are looked upon as a valiant warrior, and have a different woman to your bed each night.”

  He fought down the urge to scream. “Yeah. Whatever. I’m the pinnacle of warrior-ness, back among the fierce tribes of the land of Seattle. But listen, you have to be on the lookout for this guy. He’d be dressed kind of like me, probably. At least not in that, um,”—he gestured toward Malcolm’s kilt—“skirt-thing you wear. He doesn’t have glasses. And he’s blond.”

  “A Viking?” Malcolm said, his voice suddenly sounding guarded again.

  “No, he’s not a Viking,” Darren said. “He comes from Seattle, like I do.” He considered for a moment. “But you might be well-advised to treat him like a Viking, if you see him. He’s dangerous.”

  “Why would he come here?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’ve got to find out. But he has already tried to kill me once. And if he comes here, I need to stop him. Somehow.”

  Malcolm’s eyes had that appraising look again, and after a moment, he reached out and gave Darren another breath-chasing whack on the back with his open palm. “There is more to you than I would have expected, to look at you, Darinauld. Courage is not measured in size, in the far land of Seattle, I think. You should certainly meet my father. He may have some wisdom to share with you about this situation.”

  Situation. Just like Maggie always called it. What was it about Scottish people, referring to chaos and insanity as a “situation”?

  Once again, Malcolm turned and strode away purposefully, Darren trotting along behind.

  A ten-minute walk over the rocky, barren hillside brought them to a small cluster of low huts. It was nestled in a hollow to avoid the worst of the wind, which he was already realizing was incessant. He had warmed up a little from the exertion of keeping up with Malcolm, but was still in amazement that the young man wasn’t freezing to death, given how much of his skin was exposed.

  Not only is he not wearing a shirt, there’s the issue of what the Scots allegedly don’t wear underneath their kilts. And about which I am definitely not going to ask.

  Nothing was in evidence near the huts but a few sheep in a pen, but Malcolm shouted out a greeting, and a tall, middle-aged woman with red hair shot through with gray came out of the largest hut, carrying a wooden bowl in which she was mixing something. She gave Malcolm an austere little nod, and then looked Darren over from head to toe.

  “What is that?” The woman’s voice was clearly disparaging.

  “His name is Darinauld, Mother,” Malcolm said. “He came by strong magic from the distant land of Seattle. He is no Viking, however, and means us no harm, but is pursuing one of his countrymen who is in our land with evil intent. So he says, and I believe him.”

  “Do you?” the woman said, her voice noncommittal. She gave him another appraising glance. “Do you speak, Darinauld?”

  “Yes, I can speak.” Even though he didn’t have the slightest damned idea what he should say.

  “And my son speaks truth? This one you pursue, he intends evil?”

  “I think he does, yes.”

  “You wish to kill him, then.” It didn’t sound like a question.

  “Well, yes. I mean, not really, I don’t want to. I don’t know. I want to stop him.”

  “Indeed?” the woman said. “Stop him from doing what, exactly?”

  “Well… I don’t know. I’m not sure.” Jesus. He didn’t usually sound impressive, but he was setting world records for unimpressiveness here.

  The woman’s right eyebrow went up a little. “If you don’t know what you are trying to stop him from doing,” she said, “it may be difficult to stop him from doing it.”

  “That’s what I told Fischer!” he blurted out.

  “Fischer?”

  “He was praying to his god of fishermen when I first saw him,” Malcolm said.

  He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “No, I told you, Fischer is not a god. He did send me here, yes, and I guess it would seem like it’s by magic. Hell, I suppose it is by magic. I don’t know. But he’s just a guy. Just a skinny guy with pierced ears and a big ego.”

  The woman looked at him, her eyes expressing mild curiosity but little comprehension.

  Okay, they understood the language, but that didn’t mean they understood anything outside of their culture. For some reason they understood each other’s words, even though he thought he’d read that they spoke Gaelic or something in medieval Scotland. But if the concept didn’t exist in their culture, it wouldn’t make sense to them, even though they were somehow speaking the same words. So everything about the Library, the computers, the timelines, Fischer, Maggie, and Norton SuperBifurcator would sound like complete gibberish. And trying to explain it all would get him nowhere.

  He took a deep breath and started again. “Look, it’s just that this guy, the guy I’m looking for. He’s bad. He tried to kill me, and has caused, um, a lot of damage in my land. Other lands, too.” Yeah, eradicating the whole human race was kind of a lot of damage. “I need to find out if he is here. His name is Lee. He’s taller than me, bigger, with blond hair. And he doesn’t have these things.” He jiggled his glasses.

  “I’ve seen no such stranger,” the woman said. “But to follow such a man. You are braver than your appearance would tell.”

  “I said the same,” Malcolm chimed in.

  “Well,” he said, “that’s really nice of you both. But I guess, the sooner I find Lee and stop him from doing whatever it is I’m supposed to stop him from doing, the sooner I can stop complicating your day, and get back to Seattle.” He paused for a moment. “I hope.”

  The woman set down her mixing bowl. “Malcolm, perhaps you should bring this man to your father.”

  “That is what I wished to do,” Malcolm agreed. “Is he not here?”

  “He is away, near the harbor. Donnacha told him that the boats were in a day early with their catch. He and your sister brought their creels down to take back our share.”

  Malcolm nodded. “Will he be back soon, do you think? Would it be best to wait for him here, or meet them there?”

  “They left not long ago,” she said. “Perhaps if you leave now, and don’t tarry, you will be able to help them carry back the creels. You can explain the stranger’s story to your father on the walk back.”

  Malcolm nodded.

  The woman looked over at Darren again. “And for my part, though it is perhaps not my place to say it, you have an odd manner of speech, and one that gives the impression of cowardice and ignorance.”

  Darren started to object, but the woman gave a little gesture, and he fell silent.

  “I think, however, that you are neither cowardly nor ignorant, merely different. Something in your speech tells me that you are speaking the truth, or at least as much of it as you know and it is wise to speak to us, who are strangers to you. That you could tell more, I don’t doubt, and for myself I do not fault you for keeping your own counsel.” She looked at him, her gray eyes steady. “And you gave us your name before you knew if we were friend or enemy. We owe you the same. I am called Caitlin.”

  He wasn’t sure what the proper medieval Scottish response to that was. Nice to meet you, Caitlin. The pleasure is all mine. My, you’ve done such wonderful things with this hovel. None of the usual sorts of platitudes seemed appropriate, and he ended up inclining his head a little in what he hoped was a respectful fashion. Caitlin acted satisfied, and without any other words, she turned and went back through the low door into the hut.

  “Let us go down to the harbor and meet my father,” Malcolm said, and immediately turned and strode off down the path.

  Whether it was his age, or simply his personality, Malcolm appeared gifted with a limitless supply of physical energy. He was strong, tireless, and had the boundless enthusiasm of a golden retriever. His long, sin
ewy legs moving in a determined gait, his powerful arms swinging at his side, he easily outpaced Darren, who was breathless after the first minute of trying to keep up.

  “What do you think your father can tell us?” he said, trying to keep the sounds of exertion out of his voice.

  “He will know if others of your land have come here,” Malcolm said. “My father is wise. He speaks to others on the island, and to the fishermen who come from other islands. If your enemy has come here, he will know it.” Now he half turned toward Darren, and said, his voice betraying curiosity. “What is your home like? I have never been farther than the neighboring islands. But I think that there is much to explore, out there in the world.”

  “That’s the truth. But I haven’t seen much of it. I’ve lived in Seattle all my life.” He paused. “Seattle is a big city. Huge, really. People everywhere, and big buildings, cars, roads, stores...”

  “Some of the men who have talked to my father have been to Scotland. Some have been as far as Wales. There are towns there, they say, that are crowded and noisy. Some have five hundred families in them.” Malcolm looked back at him, a little sheepishly. “I do not ask you to believe it, and you who come from a distant land surely know better. But that is what they say.”

  “Five hundred families…” he said. “That wouldn’t make a thousandth part of the people in the Seattle area.”

  Malcolm came to a sudden stop, and turned to look at him, his face a mix of incredulity and suspicion. “Are you trying to dupe me with a falsehood, Darinauld? Just because I’m a simple islander…”

  “No. It’s the truth. Seattle is enormous. There are so many people that many live in huge buildings, with…” He paused. How do you explain a multi-story apartment building to someone who lives in a one-room hut? “Like many houses, one on top of the other. Each house has many families, and there are paths to get from one set of houses to the ones above and below it.”

  Malcolm looked suitably astonished. “I would not like to have so many other families so close. I would feel I was suffocating. Why would you want to live in such a place?”

  Darren didn’t answer for a moment. Why the Hell did he want to live in Seattle? Mostly it was because it was where he always had lived. He’d never really contemplated living anywhere else.

  He finally said, “I don’t know. Probably because it’s where I was born. I don’t really know why.”

  Malcolm looked thoughtful. “That is a fair answer.”

  “I do like the fact that there are a lot of trees. It’s very green. And the weather is mild, even if it rains a lot.”

  “Here the winters are cold. Few trees. For wood, we must cross to Scotland.”

  “So I see.”

  “But maybe you are right. Maybe you love Seattle because it is what you know. Perhaps the same is true for me. I love the island because it is beautiful and the fish are abundant in the waters, but mostly because it is home.” He brightened. “Perhaps one day I will visit Seattle, and will find it beautiful also, and then I will understand why you wish to live there.”

  “Maybe,” he said, and they began walking again.

  After a few minutes, they crested a hill, and the path sloped down before them toward the curve of a bay. Several dark boats rested on the gravelly shore, and there were groups of people unloading the boats’ contents, dragging nets onto land, and spreading them out for cleaning. There were dozens of large baskets lined up, ready to be filled with the day’s catch.

  Malcolm suddenly gave a shout of greeting, waved, and jogged down the hill toward the harbor. A thick-set man with an unruly mane of gray hair turned and watched Malcolm’s approach.

  “Father!” Malcolm shouted. “I bring a guest! He has journeyed long and hard from the distant land of Seattle, where men live in houses stacked one on another and there are trees growing everywhere, and it is always summer. He has pursued an enemy here whom he has already defeated once, and he believes that the enemy has come here to threaten our island, and he wishes to slay him so that he may return to his own land in peace.” Malcolm turned, and gestured. “His name is Darinauld.”

  Malcolm’s father turned his gaze toward him, and his blue eyes registered skepticism. “Well,” he said, in a deep voice, “that is quite a story. I welcome you. My name is Dugal. Where did you put in your boat?”

  Oh, shit, here we go again.

  But before he could answer, Malcolm said, “He came in no boat, Father. He came here by magic.”

  “Magic!” Dugal said.

  Malcolm nodded enthusiastically. “He has strong magic, Father, however he looks as scrawny as a plucked chicken. Look at the crystal coverings over his eyes. In his land, such things can make a blind man see!”

  The skeptical look deepened. “You have impressed my son, and he speaks many words on your behalf. But perhaps you should speak for yourself, and see if you can impress me.”

  He swallowed, and looked at the older man’s steady eyes.

  Okay, now they had come to it. All of this other stuff had been practice. Screw this up, and any hope he had of getting these people to help him was done.

  “Your son speaks truly.” He tried to keep his voice steady and his words respectful. “He exaggerates my valor, but otherwise the story he tells is true.”

  “It is modestly spoken. You come from far away?”

  “Very far. The other side of the world.”

  “It must be important, this quest of yours.”

  “Very important.”

  Dugal nodded. “And this enemy, this man you seek. He would come to our island seeking to harm us?”

  “I don’t know that for sure, but I suspect it. He has done a lot of harm back… back home. He tried to kill me once already. I have to stop him. Whatever happens, he can’t be allowed to come here and hurt anyone. Or do anything, really. He needs to either leave, or…” He paused. “I guess if he won’t leave, I may have to try to kill him.”

  “It sounds from your tale that he is worthy of death,” Dugal said.

  “I don’t know. I’m not the one to make that judgment. But I do know that whatever he tries to do here, we have to stop him.”

  “And he also comes here by magic?”

  “I suppose you could call it that.”

  “I could call it that? What does that mean? If it is magic, it is magic. If not, it is something else.”

  He didn’t respond for a moment. “What I mean is,” he said, trying desperately to find words to explain, “it certainly looks magical. To anyone watching, it would have appeared like magic. But looks are deceiving.”

  One corner of Dugal’s mouth turned up a little. “So it would seem, in your case.”

  “So, you believe him, Father?” Malcolm said.

  “For now,” Dugal said. “I don’t hear a lie in his voice. But it is a lot to believe.”

  “That’s the most I could ask,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “You may thank me,” Dugal said, “when I have done something to aid you.”

  “Just being believed is nice.”

  “That is true. And now, perhaps you can aid us. We have creels with fish to be brought back for drying. An extra hand would not go amiss.” He looked around. “Where is your sister? She is probably down the beach, making doe’s eyes at Donnacha’s son Cullen.” He turned and bellowed, “Maíre! Come help us to carry! We are all waiting for you, lazy girl!”

  His head snapped around toward Dugal. “Maíre?” he said. “That’s your daughter’s name?”

  Dugal looked at him, frowning. “Yes. Why is that strange? It is a common enough name.”

  “Maíre Gillacomgain?”

  Dugal and Malcolm stiffened, staring at him. The three men stood, stock still, in a frozen triangle, Dugal’s brows drawing together like a storm cloud, Malcolm looking stunned, Darren trying to keep his face from showing the combined fear and self-reproach that seemed to rise upward from his belly.

  You were doing so well, then you had to go and blurt out her
freaking name…

  “And how,” Dugal finally said, in a quiet voice, which nevertheless was heavy with suspicion, “do you know my daughter’s full name?”

  He swallowed, and opened his mouth to answer. He had no idea what he intended to say. But at that moment, a lithe, smiling young woman, with waist-length red hair tied at the back, came up to the three of them and said, “I was talking to Cullen, Father, I wasn’t far away.” And then she turned toward him, and said, “Who are you?”

  Neither Malcolm nor Dugal spoke. It seemed that the temperature between them had suddenly dropped twenty degrees.

  “I asked you a question, stranger,” Dugal said. “How do you know my daughter’s name?”

  He gave a wan smile. “Magic?”

  Dugal’s lips tightened. “That answer comes far too easily to your lips.”

  He started to protest that Malcolm was the one who had characterized his appearance there as magic in the first place, but thought better of it. “Look,” he said. “It’s a long story. I’ll try to explain it to you. But maybe we should take your fish-basket-things home and find a place to sit down.”

  “They’re called creels,” Maíre said, laughing a little.

  Dugal looked at him, his eyes narrowing. “Well enough. But if I find that you are lying to us, you will be treated as a spy for the Vikings.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” he said.

  “It isn’t,” answered Malcolm.

  “What is it with you people and the Vikings?” he said, lifting one of the creels with some difficulty.

  “I hope you never have to find out,” Malcolm said.

  By the time the little huts in the valley appeared in the distance, his back ached and every muscle in his arms was burning. He was determined not to be shown up, however—even Maíre was carrying one of the creels, although she was struggling with it a little—and Dugal and Malcolm carried one each with ease.

  I’m sick of the scrawny jokes. Plucked chicken, my ass. He looked over at Maíre. And especially in front of her. Damn, she’s beautiful. Just my luck. Go back in time and find the prettiest girl ever. Is there such a thing as love at first sight?