‘Stop it!’ She stood to object. ‘I sound schizophrenic!’ And that was exactly how she felt; she had two completely contradictory desires fighting for dominance.
Although Sara was not in any way religious, she did consider herself a spiritual person. She was very interested in the esoteric mysteries of this world, in history and the supernatural. All well and good when she was reading about it in a book, but now she had a paranormal phenomenon unfolding right under her nose, was she really going to just ignore it?
It took but a second to discard her work vest, measuring tape and glasses. How often does something truly magical happen in life? The stairs were scaled in haste and she entered the bedroom to confront her chair.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
Now that it came right down to it, did she really want to know any more about the experience and the person that was making her feel so ill at ease? Her eyes rested on the stone in the headrest, and at the thought of her mystery man, Sara’s heart welled in her chest as she’d not felt it do since her parents had passed. The compulsion to take a seat brought her inner turmoil to an end and upon reclining into the chair’s comfortable confines she felt immediately sedate.
* * *
The presence of light stirred Jon from his slumber. His arms crossed over his face to shield his bleary eyes in the hope of discerning the source of the disturbance.
It came as a shock to find his mysterious chair was again playing host to the beautiful spectre he’d first seen in a drunken stupor on the night of his birthday.
I’m not drunk now. He pulled himself up to lean against the headboard and felt himself over to be sure he was indeed conscious and present — by all accounts he was. ‘I don’t understand what you want me to do for you?’
As with their last encounter, the entity remained mute, but beckoned him closer.
‘Okay.’ He decided to respond to her bidding, but as he climbed out of bed and moved closer, her celestial form began to fade. ‘No, don’t vanish again,’ he appealed as she disappeared altogether.
Yet something was different this time around — the light from the stone in the headrest did not dissipate with her.
‘Ah . . .’ Jon felt he understood the invitation now, but did he have the temerity to immerse himself any deeper in the chair’s enigma?
SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS
Outside the warm enclosed confines of her small wheelhouse — which was built into the green hillside and barely detectable except for a door and smoke stack — Maggie breathed deep the fresh air of the late summer morning. She loved this time of year — the days were long and warm. The farm animals enjoyed the outdoors and so did she.
The sun had burned its way through the morning mist, which rose in dramatic swirls, exposing the lush rolling landscape as the penetrating rays glistened on the river beyond, giving the impression that it flowed with diamonds.
Next to her dwelling was another older wheelhouse that had once been inhabited by members of her clan. As the only member of her immediate family left, Maggie now utilised the more dilapidated dwelling as a barn for her animals at night and during the winter months, which prevented them being picked off by predators or poachers.
The first job of the morning was to set the livestock loose to feed, and Maggie was halfway to the barn when she heard the howl of the wolf behind her. Before she’d even had the chance to turn about, the beast sprang and knocked her to the ground.
‘Maccon, no!’ She laughed off the attack as the wolf licked her face. ‘The ground is all wet!’ Maggie pushed him backwards and got back to her feet to pat her protector. ‘A very good morning to you, too.’
The animal revelled in her attention before racing towards the barn to perform its morning duty.
Last spring she had found the wolf cub half-dead by the river. Its parents had probably been killed during the wolf cull that was carried out at that time every year. Locally, wolves had become such a danger that safe houses were being erected along major routes to prevent travellers from being mauled as they slept. Maggie’s father had warned her that the animal was a killer and would become a dreadful nuisance to their farm once it had grown. It was a good thing for Maggie that she had insisted on saving the cub, as come winter her father had been killed and without the companionship and protection Maccon afforded her, she may have been forced to abandon her family home. As it was, Maccon protected her and her animals from other wolves, of both the human and animal varieties.
As soon as the barn door was opened, Maccon was inside chasing the chickens and the geese out into the garden; he was more patient with the chicks and goslings, nudging them with his nose to move them along in the right direction. The chickens rambled through to the vegetable garden and the geese made for the pond. Once the smaller livestock were out, Maggie opened the corral and the young grey wolf rounded her small flock of sheep up and drove them outside and down the path to the paddock. Maccon returned and waited patiently by the door for Maggie to finish milking her cow, and then escorted cow and calf down to join the sheep. Lastly she released her faithful garron mare, Geneth, from her stall. The little horse immediately trotted out after the rest of the livestock off down the path to the paddock, where she and Maccon did their early morning dance around each other.
The wolf suddenly broke from his ritual — his attention diverted towards the dirt road that led into the property, and he began to snarl.
‘What is it?’ Maggie moved to see beyond the woodland that bordered both sides of the clearing in front of her dwellings. Upon reaching the track her cart had worn into the landscape, she spied a horse-drawn cart headed towards them, and as there was an old woman at the reins, Maggie whistled to bring the wolf running to her side. ‘All is well,’ she assured him, and Maccon took a seat beside her to await their visitor.
‘Good morning.’ The old woman called upon approach. ‘Maggie Munro?’
‘Aye, I am she.’
‘I hear you are the healer in these parts?’
‘I know some herb lore.’ Maggie was curious to note a couple of bare feet extending from the back of the cart.
‘I found this young man by the side of the road.’ The woman pulled her horse to a halt, and climbed from her vehicle. ‘He’s a wee bit under the weather, to say the least—’ As she moved to approach Maggie, Maccon started growling again and the woman stopped still for fear of being set upon.
‘Maccon, heel.’ Maggie insisted, but for the first time in his life the wolf ignored her order to desist. ‘In the barn then.’ She pointed — reluctantly Maccon complied, and she shut him in. ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s come over him.’ Maggie made her way towards the back of the cart. ‘Let me have a look at the patient.’
She climbed up into the cart beside the fellow, who appeared perhaps a few years older than herself. His long, dark hair was filthy, along with the rest of him, and his clothes reeked of perspiration, urine, and stale blood. ‘Whoa,’ she leaned away from him in search of a whiff of clean air.
‘He’s a wee bit on the nose,’ the old woman admitted.
‘A wee bit?’ If he’d not been breathing, Maggie might have assumed from the stench that he was dead already. Her attention was drawn to the blood stain on his shirt, and raising the fabric she found a knife wound that went straight through the flesh above his hip. ‘Fortunately the wound is too far aside to have hit any organs, but it will fester if we don’t get it clean.’
With a gentle touch she turned his face to inspect the bump on the side of his head. His shirt and trews were of good quality, and Maggie imagined he’d most likely had boots, a tartan and jacket that may have been stolen? ‘Bandits.’
The man stirred, and his eyes parted to a squint. ‘An angel.’ He smiled in delirium.
She was flattered by his misconception. ‘Sorry to disappoint, but you are still very much alive.’
Maggie jumped out of the back of the cart. ‘I need to get him inside.’ To that end she grabbed hold of hi
s legs and pulled him half off the vehicle. He released a groan of discomfort. ‘He’s heavy!’ Maggie strained as she took hold of him under the arms to drag him to her house. ‘How did you ever manage to get him on there?’
The old woman stood back, not offering to help. ‘I found a couple of lads to assist.’
The man began to mumble a prayer as he was hauled towards the dwelling.
‘What’s that?’ Maggie couldn’t make out his words.
‘He’s praying to God to spare his life,’ the old woman commented, amused. ‘Even though you’re the one doing the saving.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ Maggie kicked open the door.
It was a bit of a struggle to get her patient on the bed, but once the feat was accomplished, she returned outside to invite the old woman in to discuss what would become of the patient once she’d patched him up. She was nowhere to be found — the woman had just vanished, cart and all.
‘Where—?’ Maggie couldn’t believe such an old lady could have absconded from sight so quickly. ‘You can’t just leave him here!’
She called out in protest, knowing nothing of the man.
Maggie made haste to the barn to release Maccon. ‘Where did she go, boy?’
The wolf had a sniff around, but appeared as bewildered as she did.
‘Now that is odd.’ The cart hadn’t even left any marks on the muddy ground. ‘Darn it.’ She didn’t have time to waste on the mystery. ‘I’d best save this man, lest I have to explain how a corpse came to be in my home.’
* * *
Old black stone rounded walls, and wooden roof beams from which many herbs hung upside down in bunches drying. Shelves of books, tools, cooking implements, and bottles of fluids in all shapes and sizes.
Where am I?
A cauldron quietly simmered over the crackling fire of a central hearth, and the door to the dwelling was open, allowing a fresh night breeze to flow inside. On the other side of the room a young woman was seated at a tiny wooden desk, hunched over a manuscript. She had a quill in one hand, poised and ready to write, yet she appeared more interested in the crystal in her hand that she twirled around and watched sparkle in the candlelight.
As Luke moved to raise himself, the sudden stabbing pain in his side and head made him groan, alerting his company to his conscious presence.
‘Thank goodness! I was worried. You’ve been unconscious for days,’ she informed him.
He spotted a knife on a nearby table, and grabbed hold of it — paining his wound from the stretch. ‘Stay back.’ He was wary of the lone woman, having been hunting witches with the king’s commissioner and the Witch of Balwearie these three months past.
‘You have nothing to fear from me.’ The young woman held up both her hands in truce.
Just as she said this a wolf stepped out of the dark night and into the doorway to growl at him.
‘Dear God.’ Had he been standing he would have backed away, but laid out as he was, he could only point his blade in the animal’s direction in the hope it would see a threat.
‘Maccon, heel,’ the young woman commanded.
When the wolf complied and backed down, Luke felt his worst fears were confirmed. ‘You are a witch.’
‘Pardon?’ She appeared stunned by his assumption.
‘Only by witchcraft could a wild beast be enchanted to your bidding.’
‘I saved his life as a cub,’ she informed him, sounding insulted. ‘And I must say, that wild beast was far more appreciative of my efforts than you are.’
‘What’s in there?’ He pointed to the cauldron with the knife tip.
‘Clothes. The blood and stench would ne’er come out of your clothes without a good boilin’.’
When he looked down beneath his covers to find himself naked, his situation felt rather more awkward.
‘My name is Maggie and I am the healer hereabouts,’ her voice recaptured a more congenial tone. ‘I am not a witch, or an angel . . . but I am nevertheless a very good cook. I’ve some vegetable stew and mead, if you would like some?’
As the aroma of the meal made his stomach feel like it was eating itself in anticipation, he nodded to confirm his want and put down the knife. He watched as Maggie lifted a smaller pot from the embers, her long golden hair shimmering by the firelight that brought a rosy glow to her already pink cheeks.
This woman was strikingly beautiful, but as Luke had recently learned, not all witches were ugly old hags; many young girls had been seduced by the devil.
‘Here,’ she passed him the wooden bowl of steaming food. ‘This will heal you up on the inside.’
‘Most obliged.’ He accepted her offering, which smelled even better under nose.
‘Do you have a name?’ Maggie poured mead from a jug into a wooden cup.
‘Luke.’ His first name was all he was prepared to offer up as a witch could do all sorts of damage if she knew your full name. ‘How did I come to be here?’
‘An old woman found you by the side of the road and brought you to me.’ Maggie brought forth his drink and set it on a table beside the bed where he lay, propped up with cushions. ‘Were you attacked en route somewhere?’
He nodded as he recalled the ambush. He’d been on his way to Balnagown Castle, he was to deliver word of the arrival of the king’s commission in Ross to the brother of the king, James — Duke of Ross. The recollection incited panic. ‘I’ve been here days, you said?’
Maggie nodded to confirm this. ‘I have no idea how long you were laying on the roadside; the woman who brought you here disappeared rather quickly. But by the look of your wounds it was at least a few days.’
‘Then I am too late to carry out my charge.’ Frustrating though it was, there was little that could be done about that now, so he returned his attention to the stew. Whether it was his extreme hunger, or this girl’s talent as a cook, his first mouthful tasted better than any stew he’d ever consumed. ‘Very good,’ he paused between mouthfuls to advise her.
‘The study of herb lore has many rewards.’ She returned to her desk and her manuscript.
It was rather unusual for a young rural highland lass to be educated. ‘Where did you learn to read and write, Maggie?’
‘My mother taught me. She was educated in Aberdeen at the university for women there. She was of a higher station than my father.’
‘Where are your kin now?’
She appeared disturbed by the query. If she was a woman living alone, perhaps she feared he might take advantage once informed.
‘I am in the king’s service, and intend no harm in asking,’ he assured, pausing from his meal to taste the mead, which was equally palatable.
‘My mother died in childbirth when I was ten, my sibling died at that time also. My father perished last winter, at the Battle of Logie-Riach, which erupted after an incident at St Bridget’s Fair in Lagy Vrud.’
‘A clan feud?’ he assumed, having not heard of the battle.
‘The brother of the Baron of Tulloch, Alexander Bayne, caught several of clan Mackenzie, assaulting and robbing the local store holders of their earnings and wares. My father and uncles, along with others, stood by Alexander Bayne to demand the Mackenzies return to the merchants what was rightfully theirs. Our clan lost the battle, but Alexander Bayne survived to appeal the case to the king, whereupon the Laird Mackenzie was charged and brought to justice.’ The fact sounded to be of little consolation to Maggie. ‘Since then it has just been just myself and Maccon here to run the farm.’
Luke finished the bowl of stew and set it aside. ‘My condolences. It must be tough on your own. Why have you not gone to live with other members of your clan? The Mackenzies will surely seek revenge for the incarceration of their laird?’
‘I am not interested in their damn feud.’ Clearly she was frustrated by the question and immediately apologised. ‘Sorry. I have been through this argument with my kin many times of late, it is a sore point. But this place allows me to practise herb law. There is a glen close by wh
ere many natural remedies abound, I’m not prepared to just walk away and give up my living. I love this work, and I learn more every day.’
‘Your mother taught you this craft?’ He assumed, as she’d been educated.
‘No. It was my grandmother on my father’s side, who learned from her mother, and so on.’
There was no witchcraft here, Luke began to relax as this realisation dawned. Maggie was not like the simpletons who had been dragged before the commission thus far; she was an intelligent, headstrong, well-educated woman, the like of which he’d never encountered before, not in village or court. He didn’t like to think what the king’s commission would make of her, were she to be hauled before them.
‘How far from the closest town are we?’
‘It’s the better part of two hours to Dingwall,’ she replied.
And another five hours to Kildary. Where the seat of the Duke of Ross was located at Balnagown Castle. This was Luke’s initial destination and where the king’s commission was now headed. Chances were the witch hunt wouldn’t find its way out to this remote location, and this came as a relief to Luke. He had thought that he would surely die in that ditch, and felt a marked improvement in his vitality already.
‘There are many who wouldn’t have taken in a half-dead stranger,’ he said at last. ‘You took a huge risk on me, and I am grateful for it.’
‘Well, you are welcome,’ she seemed appeased by the upswing in his mood. ‘You can stay as long as is your need.’
* * *
Given a week to recuperate, Luke was feeling much improved. He’d been raised near the city of Edinburgh and had never really experienced rural life. Seclusion, tranquillity, privacy, these were entirely new concepts for him. Surely this was true freedom — he understood why Maggie didn’t wish to give this place up. In the last few days Luke had so enjoyed helping out around the farm that he was seriously considering never returning to the king’s service — everyone surely thought him dead in any case. It was a joy chopping wood every day, harvesting food from Maggie’s extensive garden and tending the animals. He’d even become quite friendly with Maccon, who enjoyed fetching a stick as much as any regular dog did — getting the stick back from the animal was rather more precarious, however.