by B. J. Scott
Her pleasant expression darkened. “Do you refuse my hospitality?” She slid the mug closer. “Is this how you repay my kindness?”
Not wanting to appear rude or ungrateful, Alex picked up the mug and took a sip—something he quickly regretted. The brew tasted as foul as it smelled.
The woman watched until Alex drained the mug. “Now you’ve finished, it is time to sleep.”
Alex rose and the room suddenly began to spin. He took a step and stumbled, using the back of a chair to steady himself. “What was in that brew?” He staggered toward the hearth, grappling for the mantel in order to remain upright. “I don’t feel so good,” he groaned and slid his hand over his stomach. Had she poisoned him?
“It will help you to sleep.” The woman laid a pelt on the floor and pointed to it. “Rest now and in the morning you will be ready to begin your journey home.”
“I told you I’m not leaving.” His words slurred and, unable to remain standing any longer, Alex dropped to his knees. He peered up at her and gasped when he realized the pleasant, cherub-faced elderly woman who’d welcomed him into her home no longer stood before him. In her place was a hunchbacked old hag with weathered skin and stringy white hair. “Who are you?”
“They call me Cailleach. And you will go back where you came from or suffer the consequences.”
Alex immediately recognized the mythical name. He recalled the legends behind the Celtic fire festival of Imbolc, which fell on the second of February, halfway between the Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox, in an attempt to appease the evil hag who held the country in winter. The ancients believed that Brigid, the virgin fire goddess and keeper of the living flame and sacred wells containing the waters of life, spread a mantle of green across the land, prompting the growth of the first flowers of spring.
But it was just that, a myth. He tried to speak but he couldn’t form the words. He tried to focus, but his vision blurred and he collapsed on the floor. Helpless as a new babe, he stared at the flames flickering on the hearth, shocked when Ciara’s beautiful face flashed before his eyes. Her arms outstretched, she begged for his help. Alex reached out to her, but the image faded, as did the light.
Chapter Three
Nausea twisted Alex’s gut and his head pounded. He groaned and brought his hand to his brow. He was not much of a drinker, but given his current hangover, he must have really tied one on last night. If only he could remember.
He languorously stretched, then glanced around the room, sitting up with a start when he realized he was lying on a moth-eaten pelt, tossed on the floor of an ancient croft and not atop the king-sized bed in his Manhattan loft. Dizzy from the sudden move, his stomach did a quick flip and he swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat. But when he gazed into the flames of a low-burning fire on the hearth and once again saw the image a beautiful young woman reaching out to him, he rubbed his eyes in disbelief, certain he had lost his mind.
“Please help me, Alex. Only you can save me from Cailleach and free us from winter.” He swore he’d heard her speak to him.
“Ciara?” Alex muttered, then gave his head a rough shake as the vision faded and memories of the plane crash, the storm, and the old hag came back to him. Cailleach had warned if he didn’t return to the States as she demanded, he’d suffer the consequences. Did she mean the loss of his senses and grip on reality?
His mother came to mind and his heart clenched. By now she’d heard about the crash and was grieving the loss of her only son. Getting to Burghead and phoning to put her mind at ease was even more important now than ever.
Once his head stopped spinning and his stomach settled, Alex rose, went to the window, and peered outside. Rays of sunlight warmed his cheeks. And while the ground was covered with at least two feet of fresh snow, the storm was over and there wasn’t a cloud in sight.
After another quick scan of the croft to make certain the hag was not around, Alex decided it was the perfect time for him to leave. He grabbed his jacket and patted the breast pocket, relieved the amulet was still there. Wasting no time, he slipped his arms into the sleeves, tugged on his boots, and stepped outside, greeted by a blast of cold, crisp air.
The SUV was buried in a snow bank not far from the croft, but Alex wasn’t sure where. He turned full circle, surveying the area, then scratched his head. Snow was falling so heavily when he arrived, he had no idea from which direction he’d come. If he wandered off in the wrong way, he could get lost.
He lifted the collar of his jacket and jammed his hands into his pockets. If he didn’t start moving soon, he’d freeze where he stood. When he spotted a horse tethered to a lean-to behind the croft, he approached the mare with his hand outstretched. He hadn’t ridden since he was a boy, but he’d always heard that once you learned, you never forgot.
“Easy, girl,” Alex cooed and stroked the horse’s mane. “I only mean to borrow you. Once I’ve reached Burghead, I’ll see you’re returned to your owner.” He spotted an old blanket hanging over a fence rail and laid it across the mare’s back before climbing atop the beast. Riding without a proper saddle was a new experience, but nothing about this trip had been normal. He pressed his heels into the animal’s sides and she lunged forward.
He hung on for dear life, relieved when the horse finally slowed to a walk. Using the sun’s position in the sky to guide him, Alex headed north, but as he neared what appeared to be the seaside town he sought, he reined in his mount, stunned to spot what appeared to be a medieval village and a castle in the distance.
“Alex,” a man shouted, then rode up beside him. “Where the devil have you been, cousin? Your da was beside himself with worry, na to mention furious. You disappeared well over a fortnight ago without telling anyone where you were going or when you’d be back.” He spoke in an ancient Gaelic tongue.
Stunned, Alex stared at the stranger, his mouth gaping open. He had no idea who this man was or how he knew his name, but he understood everything he said.
A renowned history professor, his paternal grandfather spoke fluent Gaelic, and insisted Alex learn the language of his ancestors as soon as he was old enough to talk. Today he was thankful for that gift.
The man crossed his arms over his broad chest and returned Alex’s stare. “Care to tell me where you’ve been? Your da thought mayhap you’d been captured by one of his enemies.” His brow furrowed as he studied Alex. “What are these strange garments you are wearing?”
“What am I wearing?” Alex replied in Gaelic, equally baffled by the stranger’s attire. The man wore trews, leather boots, a saffron tunic, and a heavy woolen cloak lined with rabbit fur draped about his shoulders. But what really caught Alex’s eye was the baldric slung across his back and the sword at his side.
He’d seen pictures of the attire worn by Highlanders in the early twelfth century and had examined countless artifacts from the time period, but this was different. The man was actually wearing the authentic garb. “Is there some sort of re-enactment going on?” Alex finally asked in English, having no idea how to say the word in Gaelic?
“What?” The man cocked his head and glared back. “You’re dressed oddly and acting very strange, cousin. First you speak in Gaelic and then in some strange tongue. Have you gone daft, and where did you get that nag?”
Bombarded with questions, Alex scrubbed his beard-stubbled chin. “I—I borrowed the horse,” he replied in halting ancient Gaelic. How could the man speak ancient Gaelic and not English? It was impossible to find anyone in modern Scotland who could understand Gaelic but not English. Ancient Gaelic. Twelfth century clothing and weaponry. The hag’s primitive cottage. He couldn’t quite believe it, but the only explanation was that somehow he had travelled to the twelfth century. What was happening to him? He returned the man’s stare, deciding it might be best to learn a little more about his situation before saying any more.
Regarding Alex curiously for a moment more, the man finally shrugged. “Come then. I’ll race you back to the Castle. Mayhap some o
f your da’s whisky will loosen your tongue and refresh your memory. But best have a good excuse for being away for so long.” The man dug in his heels and his horse bolted toward the curtain wall.
Alex blinked several times in disbelief at the stone structure on the horizon, and beyond to the Pict fort. If his facts were correct, the stronghold, once belonging to his ancestors, had fallen into ruins centuries ago, right after the collapse of the feudal clan system in the Highlands. And what was left of the fort lay buried beneath modern day subdivision—except for a small section of unearthed ramparts, the site of their dig, and the sacred Burghead well.
He raked his fingers through his hair. None of this made any sense. Was he dreaming or had he truly lost his mind? He was a man of science. It was physically impossible for a person to go back in time, yet somehow he appeared to have done it. Maybe he had died in the plane crash and this was what heaven was like for an archeologist. Uncertain how long this fantasy would last, and convinced the answer might lay beyond the castle walls, he followed, overtaking the man as they reached the portcullis.
Chains clanged and iron groaned as the large metal bars rose, granting them entry. They rode side-by-side until they reached the steps of the castle, then the other man dismounted and handed his reins to a young lad. “Stable my horse and take care of Lord Alex’s mount as well.”
“Aye, Lord Blair.” The lad peered up at Alex and smiled. “I’d be pleased to care for your mount, m’lord. Is she new?”
Blair. At least he had a name by which to refer to the man who called him cousin. Now he had to come up with an explanation about his horse. He nodded and addressed the lad. “My mount stumbled and fell, injuring its leg, so I borrowed this one.”
“You must have hit your head as well. That would explain your odd behavior,” Blair said as he trotted up the castle steps.
Alex dismounted and handed over his reins. “Thank you—”
“David, m’lord.”
“Thank you, David.” Alex tousled the boy’s hair.
“Are you coming?” Blair called out from atop the steps. “Or do you forget where you live as well?” He tossed back his head and laughed. “Your da will be glad to see you’re hale and hearty.”
“I’m coming.” Alex slowly climbed the stairs, his gaze darting around the bailey of the castle, in reverent awe of everything he saw.
Upon entering the castle, Alex halted, his mouth again dropping open in utter surprise. Once the initial shock was over, he fought hard to contain his excitement. He smiled, imagining this must be how a kid would feel if he were set free in a room full of candy and ice cream. He didn’t know where to look first.
Servants, dressed in the attire from the twelfth century, scurried about the main floor of the structure. Armed warriors warmed themselves by a large stone hearth, above which hung the Clan Innes crest. His gaze darted from the medieval furnishings to the brightly colored tapestries adorning the walls. If only he had his cell phone so he could take some pictures. No one in their right mind was ever going to believe him when he told this tale. Hell, he wasn’t sure he believed it himself.
Blair gave him a shove. “Are you going to go and see your da right away, or do you plan to stop by your chamber first and put on something proper?”
“My chamber,” Alex mumbled as he continued to stare at his surroundings. “Lead the way.”
Blair laughed and dashed up a set of stairs leading to the second floor. “You’re really going to play this memory loss farce to the hilt.” He led Alex down a long corridor, stopping when he came to an ornately carved door, which he opened. He bowed and ushered Alex in with a sweep of his arm. “Change and wash up. I’ll find your father and tell him his prodigal son has returned.” He left, closing the door behind him.
Alex surveyed the room. It was exactly how he’d pictured a typical medieval chamber would look. Or at least one belonging to a member of the laird’s immediate family. A large bed and several pieces of carved furniture occupied the center of the room, and a fieldstone hearth took up one whole wall. On two of the walls hung colorful needlework and the last held every type of medieval weaponry imaginable. He could literally spend years in here, studying each artifact. And if stuck in the past for the rest of his days, he might do just that.
From a table beside the bed, he picked up a pewter goblet, admired the fine workmanship, then moved to a shelf containing several pairs of trews, tunics, stockings, and boots. A unique find, since the average man from that era would be lucky to own one of each. After selecting something more in tune with the time period, he quickly changed, then hid his jacket and the amulet beneath the mattress on the bed.
Now what do I do next? He wondered. A feast for his eyes, there was so much to see. But he soon had his answer when a loud ruckus in the bailey caught his attention. He raced to the window, threw open the shutters, and peered outside. Below him in the inner courtyard, a crowd gathered around several burly warriors. They held someone prisoner. And if he wasn’t mistaken, it was a woman. Her feet were hobbled with chains and ankle irons, shackles binding her wrists.
“None of my affair.” He tried to convince himself, but he was drawn to the woman by a force he could not explain or deny. And when she raised her chin and the hood of her cloak fell back, he gasped. “Ciara,” he mumbled under his breath.
He should go to her and demand they set her free was the first thought that sprang to mind. Then he laughed inwardly at this folly. Who was he to think the laird, or anyone for that matter, would listen to him, let alone set Ciara free? The laird would likely have him arrested, once he’d stop laughing at his demands.
His eyes fixed on her face, he searched his mind for answers. He couldn’t just stand here doing nothing. But he had no feasible plan to save her either. There was no telling what they intended to do to Ciara, and he was one man against so many. Logic told him to stay out of it, but his heart told him to jump in with both feet.
They’d only met yesterday, yet she’d put herself in harm’s way to help him on the runway, so he at least owed it to her to come to her aid now. Not his typical, organized way of handling things, he’d decide what to do, once he’d checked out the entire situation.
Alex ran until he arrived at the bailey, then elbowed his way through the throng of onlookers until he reached Blair and an imposing-looking man he guessed was the laird.
“You’ve done well, men. Take her to the well and see she is chained to the wall,” the laird said. “I’ll take no chances with her. The Imbolc festival is but two days hence and the winter hag will require her offering and nothing less.”
“Wait. What’s going on?” Alex doubled over at the waist, gasping for air. “What do you mean the winter hag will require her offering?” The words spilled out before he could stop himself.
Blair grabbed Alex by the upper arm and yanked him upright. “Hold your wheesht. Your da has spoken and willna take it well if you challenge his decision in front of the clan. She is the chosen one and there is naught you can do to change things.”
If Alex didn’t know better, he’d think the laird was referring to some sort of human sacrifice. He scratched his head. Maybe he’d misunderstood. If his calculations, based on what he’d seen, were correct, and he wasn’t in the midst of a very vivid dream, he’d somehow wound up in the early eleven-hundreds. Human offerings were not only a barbaric pagan ritual, but they hadn’t been practiced for centuries, not since birth of Christianity.
True, some of the ancient festivals still practiced in Christian Celtic society were rooted in pagan times. But to take a human life was just not done.
“Chosen for what?” Alex wrenched free of Blair’s grasp. Hopefully he had misunderstood and Blair could clarify.
“You really did hit your head, didn’t you?” Blair lowered his voice so only Alex could hear. “She is the maiden chosen as the offering to Cailleach. Imbolc will soon be upon us, the time when the herds come down from the hills and the lambs are born. A time when we watch for
snakes emerging from their holes and pray for rain so Cailleach canna gather wood to fuel her fire. A time for the light to return and for new beginnings.”
“I know what Imbolc is,” Alex snapped. “But they can’t seriously be thinking of holding this young woman prisoner in a cave? With the intention of sacrificing her?”
“As you are well aware, cousin, time is almost up and none of the sacred water needed to appease Cailleach remains. This has been a very harsh winter and the only way to ensure spring comes this year is for a virgin—an oldest daughter who is pure of heart and soul—to offer herself to the winter hag in return for spring. You know this to be true,” Blair whispered.
“It’s barbaric,” Alex mumbled under his breath. To outwardly challenge these people’s beliefs and ceremonies based on what he knew to be true historical facts would be a foolish act on his part. He wasn’t certain whether he’d actually stepped back in time or not, but it felt very real. And if he was in their world, he must hold his tongue. Something told him there would be many thing that challenge his grip on reality, forcing him to suspend disbelief. At least for the time being.
“Have you something you wish to say, Alex?” The laird glared at him.
Alex had plenty to say, but was afraid if he started, he’d not be able to stop. Instead of commenting, he held his tongue and shook his head. Running off at the mouth about his personal beliefs and questioning the need for this ritual would not help Ciara.
The laird faced the crowd. “I have spoken and my word will be honored. The Dunmore lass will present herself to Cailleach in hopes that she will find her a suitable gift and exchange her life for spring.” His proclamation completed, he turned his attention to Alex, his brow furrowed. “Now that I have dealt with the matter of the Imbolc offering, I demand an explanation.”
“An explanation?” Alex chewed on his bottom lip. He had no doubt the laird had many questions to ask. Who is this man pretending to be my son, topping the list?