Ghosts of Culloden Moor 28 - Hamish

by L. L. Muir

  “Welcome, Hamish Farquharson. I am pleased to see that someone trusts me.” She lifted a brow and leveled the others with a teasing smile.

  “I must be honest, lass. I heard what passed between yerself and 39.” He lowered his voice. “Ye told the man that our destinations are chosen carefully, aye?”

  “Aye. And so they are.” She spoke low as well. Perhaps it was not something she wished the others to ken, that she could determine so much of their quests.

  “Then ye have the power to send me where ye will?”

  She turned her head to look at him askance, then nodded warily.

  “Then, for pity’s sake, send me to an untroubled place. Let my noble deed be to help some rich American woman spend her money, help her drink her champagne. Let my wee taste of mortality include something to taste, I beg ye.”

  The lass was taken aback. “Why, Hamish Farquharson, when I took a good look inside yer heart, would ye believe that is just what I saw there?”

  Hearing the dissonant ring of insincerity in her voice, he clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Ye but tease me, lassie. And here at our final parting too. For shame.”

  Soni laughed. “Dinna look so grim, my friend. I say I have looked inside yer heart, and I have found just the placement ye need, and the place that most needs you.”

  He sighed and forced the edges of his mouth back in some semblance of a smile. “Need and want are far different things, and ye ken it.”

  She placed a finger alongside her nose and tapped it twice. “And sometimes they are the self-same thing.” She winked once, hard, then swirled her fingers in the air. The white flames stretched and danced, mimicking her movement. The ground dissolved beneath his boots, then returned before he thought to catch himself, too busy recoiling from the brightness of the fire. But lo, it was no fire that bore a painful hole into his brain. It was the naked and unabashed sun!

  Just because he hadn’t felt pain in three centuries didn’t mean it was welcome, so he covered his face and howled. “Do ye mean to blind me, then?”

  “Haud yer Wheesht, Hamish,” came Soni’s voice from a distance, “Ye’d chew off yer tongue for complainin’, then have nothing to complain with.”

  It was something his mother had said often enough, and it gave him hope that perhaps the witch had been able to see into his heart after all.

  “Bring on the American, then,” he said, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. His hope faltered, however, when he realized he was standing at the edge of a clearing, high on a mountain, with nothing finer than a wattle and daub cottage staring back at him—and something verra sharp poking at the center of his back.

  “I have ye at my mercy,” said an aged and shaking voice from behind. “I kenned ye wouldn’t be able to resist the smell of a blaeberry tart, eh? But hear me, thief. I’ll be the devil’s bride ‘ere I allow ye to steal another morsel from me!”

  The pin-fine tip of the woman’s blade refreshed his memory of true pain and he regretted his complaint of a moment ago. It also warned him to tread carefully, for any woman who knew to sharpen her blade so fine would likely know how to use it.

  “Madam, I assure ye I have not come to steal from ye. Indeed, I was sent here…” He paused, unsure of what to say.

  “Her ladyship sent ye?”

  Her ladyship? Perhaps that was the wealthy American woman he’d hoped for.

  “Aye, her ladyship…sent me to see what ye’re most in need of.” It was a fine lie. As the son of a farmer, he was skilled at many tasks, so whatever repairs she might need, he was certain he could manage them.

  The blade withdrew and only a trickle of warm blood rolled down his spine. “If she’d have waited much longer,” the woman grumbled, “my thieves would have starved me out.”

  Ah. A fussbudget she was—and he should know.

  The beldam was complaining in the face of an offer of help, which was something he’d been accused of often enough, and the similarities left his skin itching. But he would spare her the admonishment of his mother, for she still held tight to the pole that sported her deadly blade at the end.

  She pointed that pole at the rise behind the cottage. “What I am in most need of, sir, is to be rid of the thieves who hide up yonder, for I am far too decrepit to hunt after them.” She hobbled toward the house and gestured for him to follow. “I had given up all hope of the lady sending aid, or I would not have cooked all my berries to lure them closer.” She narrowed one eye and scanned the trees that edged her yard. “Even now, they may be surrounding us. Best ye be prepared.”

  She gained entrance to the humble dwelling by unwinding a long string from an old rusty spike pounded into the door. The other end was tied to a hook on the wall. And after allowing him in, she used the same string to wrap around a spike on the opposite side to hold the door closed. If it didn’t serve as a deterrent to trespassers, when she was outside the cottage, it would at least slow someone from entering. He assumed it would take very little force to knock the door open once she’d secured herself indoors, which made him even more curious.

  If they be true villains, why had her thieves not dispatched her in the night? Was her cooking admirable enough to give her value? Or was she so aged she could be nibbling away at her stores without thought, then assuming she’d been robbed by others?

  Hamish’s eyes slowly adjusted to the shadows. In the center of the room, before the fireplace, a dozen small pastries sat on a worn wooden table. A single, child-sized chair sat at the left edge, which she pointed at.

  “Sit.” She leaned her pole against the short wall at her back. A thin wool blanket hung across an opening that likely led to a small sleeping chamber. Against the outer wall stood a cabinet with bins and drawers. Two mismatched plates were propped against the back of a shelf in decoration. A rocking chair, spinning wheel, and a basket for wood filled the rest of the floor space.

  From about the five foot mark, however, the ceiling was filled with small, loosely-woven bags and bundles of drying plants hanging from lengths of twine secured to the beams, all within reach of the woman’s short arms. At least, in the center of the room, there was room enough for a tall man to stand unhindered.

  She pointed to the wee chair once more and waited for him to do as she’d bidden.

  He shook his head. “Nay, old mother. Rest yerself while I stand watch, aye?”

  She snorted. “Dinna call me Mither, laddie. Children are a scorn, and praise God I’ve had none of it.” Her mouth twisted and she stepped away to spit in the fire. The coals were still hot and accepted her curse with a sizzle. Eventually, she settled herself in the rocking chair and picked up a pair of paddles to card wool.

  After a moment, she glanced at the pies, then at his face. He tried not to reveal how tempted he was by the sweet, warm smell of the berries, but his stomach gave him away with a gentle growl.

  She dropped her hands into her lap with disgust. “Ye’re hungry, then.” It was an accusation.

  “Nay, madam.” He hoped a discreet glare in the direction of his navel would encourage his body to be still. And he ordered his mind to ignore the smell. But neither, apparently, felt obliged to obey.

  The woman nodded at the table. “One, then. But consider it payment for services ye shall render before leaving my mountain. If the thieves return after ye’ve gone, I shall use my last dram of strength to come after ye.” She glanced pointedly at her pole. “And I shall dig through yer gullet until I find every last berry.”

  He chuckled. “I almost believe ye would at that.”

  She stared long and hard in reply, then took up her paddles again. “A pie is a promise,” she said to her hands. “Eat it and go. I’ll not have ye staring at the rest of them. Ye can wait outside for the thieves, or go search them out. Just as long as ye doona leave their bodies upwind.”

  He regarded the pies again. Though they were far less tempting than before—what with the image of the old woman picking bits of them out of his intestines later
on—it might be his only chance for a taste of cooked food before his time was spent. Besides, if he intended to go searching for thieves, he certainly didn’t want a grumbling belly to give him away.

  So, for caution’s sake, he stepped up to the table and waited for her to tell him which pastry to take. He feared he might lose a finger or two if he chose for himself.

  The woman noticed his caution and enjoyed a hearty laugh. “Any one will do,” she finally said.

  Once he had a tart in hand, she moved to the door, let him outside, then closed it without a word.

  He was well away from the clearing before he dared address his meal and the one who had led him to it. “Soni,” he said, “I hope ye are enjoying yer mean trick.” For the woman he was now duty-bound to help was about as opposite a wealthy American as the wee witch could have found.

  CHAPTER TWO

  To find his bearings, Hamish hiked up to a bluff created by a single crag that jutted out of the mountainside like a broken bone breaking through skin. It seemed vaguely familiar, even though he might be striding across any mountain in the world. He could believe he was now in America if not for the old Scottish woman.

  At the side of the giant promontory, he noted an abundance of handholds. Climbing would be no problem with two empty hands.

  He studied the tart. It was still warm from the fire. The smell alone was a grand gift that told him all his senses had been returned to him. He would have preferred to savor the thing a bit slowly, but his curiosity was an equally powerful urge in him at the moment. So he lifted the tart to his mouth and opened wide.

  He knew what would happen, of course. He’d swallow it in three bites, perhaps four, and by the time he descended the large outcropping, it would be a memory and a seed or two stuck between his teeth.

  He closed his gob and lowered the pie, happy it was still whole, still filling his lungs with the sweet promise of a joy to come.

  No. He would not rush his first meal in nigh three hundred years. But neither could he resist a wee nibble.

  Careful not to crush the golden crust, he took a child-sized bite of the pinched edge. Just touching it upon his tongue sent his senses swirling like a jealous wind inside his skull. A few berries threatened to spill out the hole and he lapped them up with a few drops of thick purple juice. To resist further temptation, he used a large crumb of crust to plug the hole again.

  “Later, my precious.”

  Not far to his right, between the stone and the earth from which it protruded, a small alcove was formed. If he was quick about it, he felt certain he could leave the pie there, unmolested. So, with a flick of his wrist, he released the clasp of one belt and removed his sporran. Carefully, he slid the pastry inside, wrapped the tails of the belt around it, and tucked it into the hidey-hole. For good measure, he plucked the fronds of a fern and covered the sporran.

  He sniffed the air to be sure the fragrance of warm berries was well-enough contained, but with so much of the sweet perfume lingering in his nose, he could not tell. After going to so much trouble, however, he could only continue and hope for the best. Without hiking high above, then descending upon it, there were no better routes visible to the top of the rock, and the view might prove essential, if he was to play the role of the hunter and not the hunted.

  What he would do with the thieves—if there truly were thieves on that mountain—he could not say. After all, in the current day and age, one could not go about dispatching men for stealing a loaf of bread.

  The question gave him pause. Judging from what he had seen in the woman’s cottage, her sharp weapon, her old Scot’s tongue, he could have believed that the wee witch had sent him back into the past. However, after considering it for a moment, he shook the nonsense from his head. Soncerae Muir’s power was remarkable, to be sure, but he doubted she could manipulate time itself.

  With the welfare of his food in jeopardy, Hamish attacked the crag. Thankfully, his body had been returned to him in the fine shape he’d left it in—except for a few deep gashes from Hanoverian blades and holes from their shot which had all miraculously healed over. Climbing took little effort at all. His fingers clung to the small sharp ledges and his lean body pressed easily against the wall of granite, allowing most of his weight to rest easily on his toes and not tax his fingers.

  He thought of those men who made it a sport to climb artificial walls covered in small colorful toe-holds, supported by ropes that would catch them if they lost their grip. What brave fellows, eh?

  Reckognizing that losing his grip would cause real pain to his now-mortal body, he slowed and moved more carefully, taking far longer to reach the top than he’d expected. But at long last, he scrambled over the edge of the precipice and pushed to his feet, and the plane of granite that stretched out before him chased away all thought of blaeberry pies…

  He knew this place!

  He edged his boots down the steep incline and stared out over the glen he’d known most of his natural life. There was no need to look behind him to know he stood upon Shepard’s Rock, even though he’d only climbed it once, when he was but ten years of age. Besides that, he’d seen it each and every time he’d been sent to collect his sister and her dog from the opposite side of Killiecrankie Pass, where she was wont to climb trees and play her music for all of the Highlands to hear.

  Their family farm once lay on the far side of the mountain staring back at him, in the flat of the next glen, beyond Tay Forest. For himself, he found little time to cross over to this side of the River Garry, so he’d only climbed to Shepard’s Rock the once, and to what lay above it.

  Though he tried, he could see no hint of Odin’s Helmet, but he doubted two hundred and seventy years would have shifted more than a stone or two from the giant mound. He could hardly wait to see if his guess was correct, and perhaps find the thieves the old woman was whinging about.

  So much for his hopes of aiding a wealthy American when it looked as if his first day of mortality would be spent hiking about…

  The valley had not changed so much over the centuries, though, unless he stood on his own father’s croft, he could not say what might be different. From Shepard’s Rock, there was nothing visible of the paths he used to take as a lad. There was no sign that time had passed at all. But he assumed much of Scotland was similarly untouched where no motorways had cut through. As long as he stayed far from the cities, he could pretend he was back home again, that the ‘45 had never taken place, that Culloden had been little more than a long, unending nightmare from which he had simply awakened.

  The air shifted. The hillside fell silent. Whatever birds and insects had been singing their song of Scotland just a moment before, paused to watch and listen.

  My blaeberry pie!

  Hamish glanced about. If he remembered aright, the west edge of the great crag had a gradual incline. If he hurried down that side, it would take him an extra minute or two to sidle around the bottom edge and return to his sporran. But a quick descent would more than make up for a slow climb down the way he’d come.

  Careful to keep his progress quiet, he hurried to the right and picked his way down the sloping rock. He came to an abrupt halt when he reached a drop-off that led only to a scree-covered slope a good fifty feet below. But he was familiar enough with the shape to believe that if he faced the stone and crawled backward, his feet would find footing just beneath the ledge.

  He moved quickly to the edge and ignored the fact that he was risking a painful and unnecessary death for the sake of a pie. But he’d tasted that pie and was determined that none but he shall finish it!

  He tested his arm strength constantly, taking solace in the fact that he could pull himself up again with finger-strength alone if his feet found no purchase below.

  Alas, they did not.

  His feet swung freely. He inched down as far as he dared, but felt nothing at all, then indulged himself for a moment to curse his memory and the misconception that all things turn out to be smaller than one remembers
from one’s childhood.

  Damn it all.

  His fingers insisted he make a quick decision. Was he to go back the way he’d come, or make a leap of faith based on a memory that, thus far, had failed him? The picture he tried to conjure, from across the glen, made him doubt every detail. It was a wonder it had seemed familiar to him at all.

  There was nothing for it. He had to pull himself up and return to the east edge and climb down the way he’d come. If he lost his sweet meal, at least he would still have the better part of two days with which to find another.

  He stretched forward and tucked his fingers into a deep crevice that still held the rain of a previous storm. He tested it, then used all his might to swing his legs to the right. Just as his boots began scrabbling against the rock’s edge, however, he felt the stone crack beneath his left hand. He allowed his legs to fall straight again while he searched for a firmer hold, but he found nothing deep. Though he felt every inch of the surface, he couldn’t even find the ridge he’d just been holding.

  It was too late. The stone beneath his right hand crumbled like a treacherous bit of shale and he slid over the edge, his progress slowed only slightly by the failing drag of both hands.

  By some miracle, his feet struck solid rock but gravity had already fixed it’s clutches on him and pulled. His shoulders were too far back to recover, and with his feet still toeing the crag, his torso fell, then struck hard ground, knocking his breath from his lungs like a train striking two bagpipes.

  Nearly upside down, he held perfectly still, dreading another slip that would send him head-first into the crumbled rocks below, wondering at the miracle that had stopped his momentum. The ground at his back was barely softer than the great rock hovering above, but the dampness of the grasses held to his wool. He dared not move his head. As long as he remained motionless, he could figure a way out.

  Something scratched his leg—a small animal of some sort—then it bit into him! He barked in surprise, his reflexes reacting before he could control them. His legs recoiled and gravity caught his boots, this time pulling his legs down past his head. He flipped completely and landed belly first against the hard, tilted ground. With his face in the dirt, he grasped the turf and roots that kept the hillside from washing away with the rain.