Interloper at Glencoe Page 6

  She nodded, and looked away.

  “Man, that sucks.” At a puzzled frown from her he returned to chopping and said, “I mean, he must be a real jer... um...” He thought for a moment to find an appropriate word that wasn’t American slang, took another stroke with the ax, and said, “A real idiot. He must be stupid to have let you go. To have hurt you like that. It was a cruel thing he did, and not too swift for him to be coming here like that, either.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re better off without him.”

  She sighed. “On the contrary, I was far better off with him. With him I had my own home. I had a future, I was useful, and there would have been children. Those things are no longer mine; he’s given them to her.”

  Nick grinned. “Well, heck, a girl as pretty as you will find someone else.”

  “Who, then? That black-haired fellow who does not exist?”

  Nick had no reply for that, and had to concede and fall silent with a slight nod. She was right. That Gòrdan guy had screwed her coming and going. But after a couple more ax strokes he said, “Does anyone in the village know a guy who fits the description Gòrdan gives?”

  “Gòrdan has suggested ’tis one of the faerie folk. A sidhe.”

  “She? Like... a woman?” Now he was really confused.

  “No. A sidhe. A faerie. One of the Tuatha de Danann. They’re often seen, but they’ve little truck with humans, for many folk are afraid of them. Sighting one can be risky, at best.”

  “Are you afraid of them?” Now he wondered if he should be.

  She shook her head. “I’ve never seen one, nor been harmed by one. I’ve naught to fear from them.”

  “But you believe they exist.”

  A light, musical laugh rose from her like a wind chime. “Of course, they exist. Many folk have seen them. My own father has seen several, and tells of the time as a young man he was hunting and a sidhe attempted to lure him away from his quarry by taking the shape of a red deer, leaping off in a different direction. It’s tricksters they are, and there’s never any telling what one might be up to.”

  “But you’re not afraid of them.”

  “A smart human has naught to fear from even a faerie.”

  “Would you know one if you saw one? I mean, if they can change shape.... Do they have pointed ears, or something?”

  “Not as I’ve heard. Father reports he’s recognized them by their uncommon quick comings and goings. ’Tis how he knew the deer he saw was no deer. He also says that in human form they wear very little clothing. Sometimes of shining cloth, but oftentimes the cloth is ordinary. They dinnae seem to feel the cold at all, nor do they know the sunshine much. They live inside knolls and such, and where there are rings deep in the darkness of forest where the ground is damp.”

  The black-haired man Nick had just seen would answer that description. He paused in his work. What if he told her there really was someone hanging around Inverrigan who resembled Gòrdan’s fabrication? And what if he told her that same guy could also pass for a faerie? Aloud he said, “And if someone came to you and said he’d seen a guy like that? A sidhe with black hair?”

  She went pale, frowned, and tilted her head at him. “Are ye calling me a liar? Are you suggesting Gòrdan did find me with another man? And one of the faerie folk at that? Do ye hate me as he does, wanting to see me shamed before the clan so I’ll never have any husband?

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then why do you say such things? Talking of the sidhe, and with your sarcastic wit calling me ‘lady’ and all?”

  Nick blinked, and wondered what he’d done to upset her. “Not sarcasm. I think you’re a lady.”

  “’Tis nae my rank. Ye must know that, and I would have you not tease me so. And I do hope you do not hate me as Gòrdan does, or I wouldnae have you in my father’s house.”

  “I’m sorry.” Nick accepted that “lady” was used differently here, made a mental note to not call her that again, then redirected his attention to the subject of Gòrdan.

  “He hates you that much?”

  Tears glistened in her eyes, and she opened her mouth to speak, but then just nodded.

  “Why?”

  She shrugged.

  Still at a loss to understand, he said as kindly as he could, “Not much of a husband.”

  “He was once, for he did care for me. I’m certain of it. But now he’s nae husband to me at all. I would have done well to have kept him, for now he is angry and against me, though I know not why.”

  Speechless, Nick struggled for a reply, but found none. To say what he knew would hurt her, and to tell her how he felt about her predicament might be taken wrong. Nothing acceptable to say came to him. In the end he said nothing, and turned to take out his emotional confusion with the ax on the hapless log before him.

  Chapter 4

  Beth returned to her work, and slowly calmed herself with the everyday routine and familiar duties. Gòrdan and his hatred slipped to the back of her mind, as well as Nick, whose steady pounding with the ax faded to become unnoticed background to her day. Soon she let slip from her mind it wasn’t her brother outside, making that noise. It was refuge to withdraw into habit, and she hummed a tune as she prepared the evening’s supper.

  Toward sunset she heard outside the voices of the men returning from the fields with their cattle, and she came out of her reverie. Father was saying, “Show me your hands,” more than likely to Nick. Och, Nick. The stranger in their midst. The thought of him brought a fluttering in her belly, and she drew a deep breath to keep it still. It made her smile.

  Then she heard a disgusted “Och” from Father, and nothing further. By now the wood chopping had surely raised blisters on those soft hands, and Beth was sorry for it.

  She went to the door and opened it, then to the byre door and opened that as well, so the men could take the animals through to that part of the house. The space would hold ten head of the small, shaggy black cattle for the winter, but this year there were only seven head, and a goat for milk. It was a straight shot from the front to the byre, and a short distance, but Beth stood by with a linen towel to wave at any creature who might try to stray from the path. One by one the animals were led through the front of the house to the byre in the rear, then closed in. There they would stay until spring.

  As Dùghall secured the byre door with a loop of rope, Nick watched from the house entrance, bent to see under the lintel, bearing a wide-eyed look of surprise. To Beth he said, “You keep your cows in the house?”

  That made her laugh. “Not in the house, but the byre.” She waved her towel playfully at him, as if he were a cow she was herding.

  He blinked, and looked like he might say something further, but then said only, “Oh.”

  “Come and eat,” she said. Father and Dùghall sat at the table and awaited the pot of fish stew that hung over the fire on a hook suspended from the roof tree. Beth folded the towel over the hot handle, and lifted the heavy iron pot to the table. They commenced to serving themselves with their spoons while Beth tidied the table before sitting as well. Nick came inside, but hesitated to sit.

  “Is there a place I can wash my hands?” He was struggling to restore his plaid, and belted it sloppily around his waist, more like a cloak than a kilt.

  The three turned to look at him, then as the men returned their attention to their meal without comment Beth said, “Oh, there’s the burn that way, but the food will be cold by the time ye come back from it.”

  Nick splayed his palms, and she saw they were not only blistered but some spots had already opened and were bleeding.

  “Och.” She went to the water bucket and dipped her towel. With it she dabbed the filth from Nick’s hands.

  Dùghall said, his head bowed over his bowl and spoon, “I’ve never seen a man blister up so terribly from only an afternoon with the ax.”

  Father said, “A boy, perhaps...”

  Dùghall snickered. For his part, Nick said nothing and k
ept his eyes on his hand before him. His expression gave nothing away of what he might be thinking, though she could imagine he wasn’t comfortable.

  Beth suggested they quit. “Hush, the two of you. In my life I’ve never seen either of you work your hands bloody. I daresay he’s less afraid of the pain than either of you.” She finished cleaning Nick’s hands and they sat at the table.

  “And more successful in avoiding the work since he was a lad, it would seem.”

  “He’s our guest, Dùghall.”

  “He’s our gillie, ye mean.”

  “Dùghall!”

  “Beth!” Dùghall cracked a grin, but she knew he was only trying to jolly her out of her irritation before she might smack the back of his head. So she smacked him anyway, and that made him laugh.

  Nick stared at the stew pot as if looking for something.

  “The food is inside the pot,” said Dùghall with an exaggerated tone of helpfulness, and Beth shot him a look.

  “I was looking for a spoon.”

  “In your hand.”

  Nick looked at the wooden spoon in his hand, then at the pot, and finally decided to use it to dip out his supper and eat it. Beth sighed, and wished he weren’t so strangely backward. She’d seen plenty of men who were stupid, and even they knew how to use a spoon.

  But Nick couldn’t be stupid. He didn’t have the dull look of someone who was truly slow, and had certainly held his own with Gòrdan earlier. His gaze was sharp, taking in everything. Nevertheless, surely Father and Dùghall thought he was an idiot, not knowing what his spoon was for.

  Then Nick said, glancing sideways at Father, “What will happen if your, uh, laird doesn’t sign that loyalty thing?”

  Father shrugged and chewed thoughtfully on a piece of smoked fish. “I suppose there would be king’s men to come try and take him away for hanging. And a sizable number of us as well, for we wouldnae let them take him without a fight.”

  Dùghall said, “They might try, but they will fail.”

  “Nae,” said Father, and he shook his head. “It willnae come to that. The rising is over, and the clans have no heart for more fighting. Other than Glengarry, and he’s a madman in any case.”

  “Who’s Glengarry?”

  “MacDonald of Glengarry, who is yet exchanging fire with the army of King William. ’Tis against the wishes of King James, who has called off the rising.”

  “Then why doesn’t your laird simply sign the oath and make William happy?”

  “James, the true king, hasnae released him from his pledge.” Even Beth knew the obvious, and there was a tinge of impatience in Father’s voice.

  “But if James isn’t here, and can’t protect the people who are loyal to him, how come your laird still feels obligated?”

  Dùghall snorted at that, and Father peered sideways at their guest. Beth said nothing, and gazed down at her bowl, hoping nobody would say anything too ugly. She didn’t wish to hear Father rant about the lack of honor in young men. Though she wanted to like Nick, her opinion of him dimmed as she realized he was without the basic principles of manhood, duty and integrity. She was ashamed for him.

  In the end, nobody said anything at all, and the men turned their whole attention to their supper, leaving Nick with a puzzled look on his face. It was a long moment before he gave up waiting for a reply, then he continued eating also.

  Beth sighed, relieved, but then Nick spoke again. She nearly groaned aloud, but held it in.

  “Maybe someone should talk to him. I wonder if he really understands what they’ll do to him if he doesn’t sign.”

  Now Father’s voice took on a hard edge. “He understands well enough.”

  Beth stared sideways at Nick, and wished someone in the colonies had taught him not to argue with a man in his own home.

  “But he doesn’t know...” Nick faltered, then continued, “I think there are things you don’t know about the English.”

  “I ken all I care to.” The tension was rising in Father’s voice, and Dùghall was dead silent, watching him closely. He would follow Father’s lead, and rise to challenge Nick if Father moved to do it first. But Father held to his manners and kept seated.

  Though Beth tried to catch Nick’s attention and urge him to let it go, he persisted. “I think you underestimate their willingness to kill. Perhaps you don’t even know how much they hate you.”

  “I understand they wish to be rid of us Catholics. I understand that were it not for the sanctuary of our high mountains we would be overrun by Campbells who would take all our cattle and our lands and our priests, which are few enough already. I also understand, as does the MacIain, that without our honor we would be nae better than those who stand against us. The laird cannot—and should not—violate his oath to James.” It would go against his soul, and would shame the entire clan.

  Nick’s voice went hard, and his eyes flashed. “Don’t you care if he puts your daughter at risk?”

  Father blinked and gaped, as if clouted at the back of the head. “My daughter has naught to do with any of this.”

  “What if the English think otherwise? What if they decide that she and everyone else in this village are to die for the stubbornness of your leader? What if they decide to make an example of you all?”

  “And what could you know about it?” Father leaned forward, hard on one elbow with his spoon tight in his fist.

  There was a long silence as Nick seemed to struggle with what to say. Knots stood out on his jaw. Lights came and went in his eyes as thoughts crossed back and forth with astonishing speed. But in the end he let out a long breath then said, “Nothing. I can only conjecture.”

  Father frowned. “Con... which?”

  “I can only make a guess. I’m guessing they’ll be very angry with your clan, and they’ll want you all gone. I’m talking about genocide.”

  Father shook his head. “The English are shallow and unprincipled, but they’re nae beasts. Beth will come to no harm. The MacIain will go to sign the oath once he’s been released from his pledge to King James, and all will be well.”

  Beth watched Nick’s face closely now, for his mention of her had sent shivers all over. She thought his eyes glistened for a moment, as if a sadness had brought the threat of tears, then he coughed and looked down at his bowl.

  “Okay,” he said. “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  Nick glanced at Beth, and when he found her watching him he looked away.

  o0o

  That night Nick lay awake by the fire, staring at the dim outline of the narrow log that held up the roof overhead. Smoke drifted upward, past the rows of drying fish hung from light rods in the rafters, and wafted out a hole in the thatching next to it. A long kettle rope with an iron hook dangled from the peak. Dusty spider webs clung between rope and roof tree, and a loosened section of them drifted in a slight breeze passing through the chimney hole. He hardly saw what he was looking at, though, for he was deep in thought.

  Sleep wouldn’t come. Nick closed his eyes and tried to will himself into unconsciousness, but the more he tried to fall asleep, the more alert he became. He’d thought he was in pretty good shape, but right now his body ached in places he’d never known he had. Pickup football games on the weekends kept him active, he thought, and he did a little lifting with free weights. But now one shoulder sent spasms of pain out to his fingers and down to his foot. His hands felt on fire with their blisters. Tomorrow was going to be a nightmare when he would try to use them again.

  And Seòras would be all over him for it. They called him “gillie,” and he’d gathered it was a term connoting immaturity. “Boy,” they were calling him, because he lacked work experience. That annoyed him more than the blisters. The spasms and joint pain were nothing compared to the humiliation of being thought socially retarded. Tomorrow he would tough it through. His hands would bleed, and he wouldn’t flinch. Seòras and Dùghall wouldn’t get another chance to laugh at him.

  Not in front of the girl, i
n any case.

  His thoughts turned to Beth, for she was surely in danger. From the massacre and from that Gòrdan guy both. Had she lied about the faerie? Had her husband actually caught her with that whacko?

  He rolled onto his stomach and watched the coals of the fire surge in their red glow then recede. Then glow again as the drafty air brushed over them. He tried to picture Beth with that creature he’d seen earlier, but couldn’t. The black-haired, half-naked faerie was too... wild. Too much a thing of the forest, not of the world she inhabited inside this house and within the village. She was too gentle to be the sort who might abandon herself to the crude and animalistic nature of the creature who certainly was less human than he even appeared. And surely she wouldn’t have described him as she had if she knew him and was trying to pretend she didn’t.

  In his heart Nick hoped she wasn’t lying about that. She was the only one here who wasn’t giving him the hairy eyeball for being a stranger, and he wanted to like her. Lying and adultery would surely take the edge off his regard for her. So he gave her the benefit of the doubt until he could learn more about her.

  The MacIain needed to be warned about the massacre, but Nick had no clue how to go about convincing him of a danger that didn’t even exist yet. There were no soldiers present. The directive from King William hadn’t been violated. Possibly, the idea of the massacre hadn’t yet occurred to the man who would order it. Hard to convince anyone of something that wouldn’t be true for another couple of months.

  The worst of it, though, that kept him from dropping off was the thought of what would happen to the nice people who had taken him in. In less than three months there would be shooting and stabbing going on all over this glen, and Beth, her father, and her brother would be targets. Nick tried to tell himself this was none of his business, that they weren’t his responsibility and he should cut out for wherever before it all came down, but it was no good. The idea that a king could do this to his own people was appalling. No amount of denial was enough to distance him, and he knew he couldn’t just leave. Not the girl, anyway.