Interloper at Glencoe Page 5

  But then she frowned, for neither of those seemed right. Since his arrival the day before he’d not mentioned God but that once on waking, and she’d never seen a priest who wasn’t forever going on about Jesus and the saints. As for thieves, she’d never known any at all other than Calum’s lazy sons but did think the look in Nick’s eye too direct for him to be such a one. He was a puzzlement, to be so plain and so earnest, yet so terribly unskilled at honest work.

  Father and Dùghall would be no help to teach him the wood chopping. They were away on the fields, grazing the cattle one last time before closing them into the byres, and they would more than likely not have helped him in any case. They would rather have laughed at him and let him exhaust himself shredding their firewood.

  She wondered whether they would still laugh once he’d broken their ax handle.

  But as she watched, she noticed the strokes of the ax become purposeful and accurate. Gradually Mr. Mouliné began to slant the blade back and forth with each swing, cutting pieces that fell away now instead of shreds clinging to the log. Then he began to make his way through the log and finally caused it to fall into two pieces which he then split with single strokes to make usable firewood. The chore had taken him twice as long as it should have, but Beth was certain the next piece would give him less trouble. And the one after that even less.

  No, not a thief, and not a gentleman. There must be something more to him.

  The length of his plaid drooped and slid from his shoulder. He slung it back over his shoulder and under his breath muttered a curse at it. No, not a priest, either, then.

  She spoke and he turned, startled to hear her behind him. “You might simply drop the kilt and work in your sark.”

  His mouth twisted into a sour grimace, and he looked at the gray sky. “It’s pretty cold.”

  Pretty and cold? What a way to look at the world! “Such a man, to feel the cold so sharply.”

  His shoulders tightened, and he looked around at the gray sky again, but not for the sake of seeing it. “What is it, about thirty or forty degrees out here?”

  “I know naught of ‘degrees.’ I know ’tis cold enough to wear a cloak, but with this work ye should keep warm enough without the plaid.”

  Mr. Mouliné ran his fingers through his hair up the back of his head. “I’m sweating like a horse.”

  “Well, you’ve but two choices: wear the plaid or not. Be cold, or let it fall this way and that with your swinging the ax.” She turned and went into the house, but once through the door turned again to open it a crack and peek outside. The stranger was looking at the ax, then at the wood yet to be cut. Then at the bulk of wool slung over his shoulder. With a sigh, he set the ax head into the uncut wood and reached for his belt buckle. The plaid came off, and was draped over the stack of dried peats next to the shuttered house window. Then, wearing only the sark, he picked up the ax and continued with his work.

  Beth watched, and a smile crept across her face. A blustery wind blew his sark against him, making plain the strong line of his back and legs. A fine sight she enjoyed very much, for though his manners were common and crude, his form was not. He moved with an animal grace, like a wildcat she’d once seen stalking cattle. Careful, precise, and with intense purpose, every muscle smooth and efficient. If not for her own chores, she would have liked to stand there all the day, watching him.

  But then in the distance beyond Mr. Mouliné she spotted a figure coming toward the house from the track in the direction of Achnacone. Even if that head of flaming red hair weren’t so bright as to shed light all the way from that village, she would have recognized the gait of her former husband. Gòrdan approached, peering at Nick and slowing to watch the wood chopping. Beth threw open the door, picked up her skirts, then hurried from the house and past her guest to keep the new visitor from coming too close.

  “Gòrdan. What is it you’re wanting?” She blocked his path, and sidestepped with him to keep him from passing. He halted and frowned at her, then his gaze flicked past her shoulder and he said as he watched the stranger chopping wood, “What a welcome. Did you greet that one as rudely?” He pointed with his chin and his eyes narrowed. Beth was glad Mr. Mouliné couldn’t understand the Gaelic.

  “Never you mind him. He’s not any business of yours, and if he’s treated better than yourself in his house it’s because he’s never spread lies about me.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “Quit it, Gòrdan. Tell me why you’re here.”

  Gòrdan’s stare made it plain he’d come to have a look at the stranger. But aloud he said, “I’ve come to speak to your father.”

  “He’s nae here.”

  The sound of the ax thudding into wood was steady behind her.

  Gòrdan finally turned his attention to her face. “Where is he, then?”

  “Off down the glen. Ballachulish.” A lie, but she wasn’t interested in helping him find anyone.

  “What’s his business there?”

  “None of yours.”

  Gòrdan’s eyes went wide with innocence. Beth wished he would leave, but wasn’t quite rude enough to say so. She stared hard at him, and struggled to not let her heart be softened by the ruddy glow of his cheeks she’d once loved so much. Gordon’s skin was so fair as to be nearly translucent, and his good health shone through in his pink cheeks. The shining, coppery radiance of his thick hair was nearly warming just for the sight of it. Many in the glen were red-haired, but few this beautifully.

  A tightness grew in her gut that she’d lost him forever to a wife he’d married in the Church. A marriage that, unlike her own handfasting, could only be brought to an end by death or the pope and far more likely by the former than the latter. She looked away and reminded herself she should be glad he was beyond her reach. No children, no hope of ever reclaiming him, no future with him, and that meant she was free to find someone else. Indeed, she was required to find someone else.

  After a long silence, Gordon pointed with his chin toward Nick. “Tell me who the Sasunnach is.”

  “Is that what you’re here for? Might I remind you your claim on my life has expired?” As she spoke, a tightness crept into her voice. “I’ll not be telling you anything. Not who he is, nor what he’s doing here.”

  The wood chopping slowed to occasional, irregular thumps.

  “Is he another like the one—”

  “There was no—”

  “I saw you both!” Now Gòrdan’s color was high, spreading to his neck, and his eyes flashed with icy anger.

  Her teeth clenched, herself as angry as he was. “You saw nothing. There was naught to see.”

  Now Gòrdan glanced at the stranger and spoke English. “He was on you like a dog, a-grinning and a-grunting.”

  The ax behind her stilled. Mr. Mouliné was listening to this ugliness and could now understand the words as well as the tone of voice. Her face heated, and she knew she was breaking out with blotchy red patches. Ugliness upon shame.

  She continued in English, so her guest would hear her side. “Nobody! You saw nothing! I was alone!” Tears of frustration began to rise that Gòrdan persisted with this fiction he’d concocted to break the handfasting. Her voice trembled. “Why do you do this to me, Gòrdan? Why do you not simply go off with your whore and let me be? For what do you come to torture me with stories we both know are lies?”

  “No lies. He was black of hair, like this one.”

  “My hair is brown.” Beth turned to see Mr. Mouliné leaning on the ax embedded in a half-cut log. “It’s kinda dark, but it’s brown. Not black.” He picked up a short lock from his forehead to look at it cross-eyed. “See?”

  Gòrdan stared at him a moment, then turned his attention to Beth. “Do you like the dark ones? They satisfy you better? Has this one been at you as well?”

  She slapped him. He hauled back with a fist to clout her one, but Mr. Mouliné yanked the ax from the log, stepped in with it, and shoved Gòrdan back by butting him in the chest with the top end. B
eth stepped back from them both.

  “Leave her alone, buddy.” Mr. Mouliné’s eyes became hooded, lids drooping, and he suddenly looked very hard. A cat with his back up, ready to fight.

  “My name is Gòrdan.”

  “All right, Gòrdan. Leave her alone. Whatever you two had going, it’s obvious to me it’s over. Now it’s time for you to move on, and leave the lady alone.”

  At the word “lady,” Gòrdan let go a smirk in Beth’s direction. She felt her face warm even more at her guest’s rude sarcasm. Now she was more confused than ever about him. Was he trying to help her, or was his aim to make her feel worse? She gaped at him, but he didn’t seem to notice. His attention was on Gòrdan and getting him to back away. He shoved again with the head of the ax.

  “Go, I said. She wants you to leave. And if you lay a hand on her, I’ll have to hurt you.”

  Gòrdan backed away a step, but didn’t turn. “You’ll be sorry you let yourself be seduced by that one. She’ll bury your heart, then squat and piss on it.”

  “The lady wants you gone, buddy. Take the hint.”

  Gòrdan regarded him as if sizing him up for a fight, then appeared to decide against it, turned, and walked away. Beth watched him go, his kilt swinging with a casual stride. She wished she dared take the ax to him herself, and in that moment wanted nothing more than to plant it in his skull, for it seemed the only way to prevent him ruining her entire life and not just the one he’d promised. Gòrdan would continue to poison minds with his lies, and it would never end. It was her most intense desire he be dead. Tears rose in a profusion she couldn’t blink back, so they ran down her cheeks.

  Once Gòrdan was beyond earshot, Mr. Mouliné turned to her and asked, “What was that about?”

  Beth couldn’t reply. She looked at him, struggled for a moment to find something to say, but couldn’t bring herself to tell the shameful story. Instead she picked up her skirts and hurried into the house.

  o0o

  Nick watched the girl disappear, crying, through the low door, then glanced off at the red-haired guy who was just now swallowed up in the woods by the river. Huh. He hoped this Gòrdan would stay away. Whatever was going on, it was upsetting Beth and he figured he didn’t like that. He wondered what her father and brother thought about this. Assuming they knew.

  For a moment he considered following her into the house to get straight what was going on, but instead returned to chopping wood. He was the outsider here, and this was not really his business. Curiosity gave him no right to stick his nose into it.

  But then he turned back and stared at the door as he realized nothing here was his business. As far as he could determine, nothing in this century, anywhere on the planet, had to do with him. A wave of frustration swept over him, an overwhelming sense of being adrift, and he turned again, looking out over the surrounding mountains close in on this narrow shelf of farmland and forest by the river. How in hell had he come to this place? What was he doing here? All last night he’d struggled to find rest on a thin, lumpy straw mattress rolled out onto the dirt floor by the fire. All night he’d stared into the darkness, waiting and hoping to be sent home. There was work to do. He had a job. Relatives. A life. What was happening at home while he was stuck here?

  Now he was chopping wood, for crying out loud. Never in his life had he even touched an ax, and now he was earning his keep by it. He flexed his sore hands. Dirt was ground into them, it lay in lines along the crevices across his palms, and he noted two red spots where blisters had already begun to rise. No adhesive bandages here. Once these things filled and broke, he was sure to be in a good bit of pain. And the logs awaiting him would still need to be chopped into firewood. Nobody here was in need of a repair shop manager, that he could tell. No cars, so no mechanics. No shops, let alone managers. He was about as useful to these folks as tits on a bull, and probably lucky they didn’t just tell him to move on down the road. And leave the borrowed clothing behind while he was at it.

  Dùghall seemed to delight in teasing him about his clumsiness. The guy was a big kid, probably about twenty or so, cocky and not so long out of his own adolescent clumsiness. All too eager to rag on someone else for amusement. This morning he’d not called Nick by his name, but instead addressed him as “gillie.” But that only made Nick want to work the harder. Damned if he was going to let these guys shame him.

  With a deep breath of wintry air that chilled his lungs, he turned to the woodpile and found himself nose-to-nose with another man. “Whoa.” Startled, he stepped back.

  “Tell me who ye are,” said the newcomer, whose hair was black as death and skin so fair Nick could see tiny red vessels in his ruddy cheeks like fine netting. The eyes were such pale blue as to make him shiver, and they glared with intense anger.

  “I’m new around here.” Quite rattled, he didn’t even think to hesitate replying.

  The black-haired man went to the wood pile to sit, and Nick saw he was quite naked under the short, ragged linen tunic that barely covered his privates. Nick found himself looking for dangling parts, and glanced away lest he actually see any.

  “Aren’t you cold?”

  The man only stared at him, his thin lips pressed together and surrounded by a line even whiter than the rest of his face. Nick waited for a reply, but there was none. Only the glare of unnaturally blue eyes the same shade and liquidity of a swimming pool.

  Finally Nick said, “Is there something I can help you with?”

  A look came over the black-haired one, and he glanced at the door to the house with what Nick thought might have been grief. Then it passed and his eyes narrowed once again at Nick. “Why are ye here?”

  “Good question.”

  “Dinnae be coy with me, stranger. Ye do not belong here.”

  “Don’t think I don’t know that.”

  “Then leave!” he said in a tone that suggested he’d hit upon a perfect solution. The man rose from his seat and approached Nick, who stepped back and raised the ax.

  “Get away. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Ye dinnae ken hurting. But you will.”

  “I said, get away.” Nick held the ax to ward off the attack he saw in the other guy’s eyes.

  The door of the house rattled with Beth opening it, the man turned to see, and in a flash he was gone.

  Disappeared.

  Like a ghost.

  There was nothing to indicate he’d ever been there, not even footprints where he’d stood. Nick went light-headed and put the ax head on the ground to lean some weight on the handle as Beth came from the house.

  She looked around, a puzzled frown on her face, then said half to herself, “Has Gòrdan returned?”

  “No.” Nick drew some deep breaths to ease his shock, then was able to stand upright again.

  “It sounded as if you were talking to someone.”

  He blew out his cheeks and took the moment to weigh the pros and cons of telling the truth. He decided he was suspect enough as a stranger, and so lied. “Just myself. It’s a bad habit and I should break it, but sometimes I talk to myself.”

  “Ah.” She smiled. “Perhaps you could do with someone other than yourself to talk to, Mr. Mouliné.”

  Indeed. But Nick shrugged, not eager to talk, for he had little to say that wouldn’t sound insane to her. His mind tumbled frantically with what he’d just seen, or thought he’d seen. Nothing seemed definite any more. “Call me Nick.” That seemed safe enough.

  “Nick, then.” Beth settled nearby on the stack of uncut logs. “Perhaps you would care for some company.”

  Maybe he was crazy after all. Watching her sit, graceful as a queen, he could imagine conjuring her in his fantasies. Perhaps he’d slipped around the bend, and this was all a delusion and he wasn’t here at all. None of this existed. Maybe he was actually in a padded cell somewhere, ranting about doomed Scottish people from the past and disappearing men. Ghosts. He was hanging out with ghosts. A shudder shook him so hard he grunted. “I think what I
need is to get back to work.” He addressed his half-chopped log to take another swing.

  “Pay Gòrdan no mind. He tells stories about me. It’s to relieve his own guilt for breaking our marriage.”

  For some reason, the word “marriage” caught Nick’s attention and he looked over at her before hauling back for another swing. The ax head thokked into the log, and he yanked it out hard. “You were married to him? And now divorced?” He hadn’t known people could get divorced back then. Now. Whatever. He let the ax stay in the log, and turned regard her again.

  “We were handfasted for a year. At the end of that year, he wished to end it so he could marry someone else. Fool that I was, I tried to keep him and wouldnae simply dissolve the handfasting. So he told it around he’d walked in on me with another man.”

  “A black-haired guy.”

  “Aye. That day I’d been taken of a sudden with a weariness, and as I’d finished the afternoon chores I lay down to rest for a spell. I was nearly asleep when Gòrdan came into the house. Though I rose to meet him, he only turned and left. Thereupon I lay back down and finished my nap before rising to prepare supper. But he did not return that evening. Nor that night, until the next morning. I knew he wanted to break the handfasting, and at first thought he would complain of laziness in me. Imagine my shock when he told my father to collect myself and my gear, and that his complaint was of adultery!”

  “He has no proof?”

  “He needs none. Only his word stacked against mine, and a willingness to lie before God. He’ll tell the story to anyone who might stand still to listen, but ’tis fabrication only. He destroyed my reputation for the sake of taking someone else to the altar, and the speed of the wedding, coming hard on the heels of him leaving me, tells me things I wish I dinnae ken.” Her voice wavered at the end of the sentence, trailing off into pain. “The lies had begun long before that.”

  Nick gripped the ax handle and said softly, “You think he was with her while you were together?”