The Moon In Her Eyes

I set down my teacup with a somewhat louder clatter than is strictly necessary.

"Lamb. . ." I breathe, in a voice even I can scarcely hear, "Home. . ."

I fix Geillis with a sharp stare, and raise my voice, "You. . . don't mean Leoch? Do you?"

She looks at me, half reproachfully and half. . . unsure? Confused? Afraid? Though why she should be half anything at this moment is quite beyond me. . . "No, pet. Not Leoch."

Suddenly she whirls around and pounds her fists on the table, "Oh! What is the use of pretending? Are you going to tell me Quentin Lambert Beauchamp isn't yer uncle? That you aren't the precious niece from the Skycities he's always saying he's going tae find an excuse tae go visit?" She throws up her arms incredulously and sits down with a thump, "Why deny it? Why even try tae -" she points viciously at various parts of me, "when ye both have the same hair, the same eyes, the same way about ye, the same accent, the same last name, and the same scar?" She grabs my arm and gestures at the crook of my elbow, "I was suspicious the first minute I heard yer name being bandied about t'village , but when I saw this, I was sure. Only people born on the Skycities evar get crescent-shaped scars like that, 'specially there. And the only time I've evar heard the name Beauchamp is in connection wi' Lamb."

Her jaw sets, hard and fierce, "Now, are ye really going tae tell me he didnae send ye here after me?"

She narrows her eyes at me, sharp and insistent.

My head is whirling, my few dozen vague suspicions and half-realizations coalescing into certainties, and then breaking apart into confusing jumbles again, re-forming and shattering over and over inside my brain.

I pull my arm back, "Whatever else may be true, that last certainly is not," I say, earnestly.

Her eyes shift away from mine, still wary, but considering.

"He. . . Lamb, I mean," I say, faltering a bit, "He just. . . mourns for you. He. . . misses you. He feels guilty, I think. But he isn't. . . plotting anything. . ."

He had plans, certainly. Plans, and hopes, and wild, fanciful dreams. But I feel sure Lamb had no plots of any kind.

But then. . . am I entirely sure of that?

After those first couple of days, I had given up trying to get a read on Uncle Lamb. His particular blend of boyish, impish enthusiasm, modern practicality, and timeless, ancient wisdom was too much a of a foreign mindset for me to able to parse him beyond the superficial.

The only things I'm sure of about him are that he really, deeply cares for me, and that he has thrown himself into the Craigh na Dun project entirely – heart and soul.

And that means, it is possible that. . . that. . .

"Gi'en me up, has he?" says Geillis, her expression still hard, her gaze still far away.

"I. . . think so."

With a quick snap of her head, she meets my eyes, "How long ha'e I been gone?"

I conjure up the long talk Lamb and I had on the way home from Culloden moor, and sigh a little.

Culloden. . .

Home. . .

I shake my incoherent thoughts away, and force myself to remember the few times Lamb had gotten down to specifics.

"Three years."

An incomprehensible expression crosses her face, "I've been heer for almost seven."

"So. . . after all. . ." I say, wonderingly, "There isn't a way to tell? No way to say how long it will be – or seem – on the. . . the other side, I mean. . . when you. . . when you journey either way?"

Somehow, Geillis manages to understand the question, "Nae, there's a way. I'm heart sure of that." Then she hums, and says, dreamily, "It's only that nae mattar how much we know, they allus knew moor. Nae mattar how much we learn, or remember, there's allus going tae be sumthin' still lost – some things they had tha' we cannae even begin tae ken. . ."

Suddenly, a coherent picture of what is happening flashes before my eyes, but it is gone nearly as quickly.

"They?"

Her strange manner and tone have overwhelmed the moment, and several important points slip sideways, out of my grasp. . .

She blinks, and seems to return to the here and now, "The Druids, pet. The ones who figured the whole thing oot tae begin wi'."

"Oh, yes, I know that, it's just. . . "

"Aye?"

"You're speaking as though. . . as though. . ."

"Yes?"

"As though you're. . . related to them," I gesture vaguely, "Or. . . something like that."

She clicks her tongue, "*tsk* Dear dear. Mrs. Graham usually prepares Travelers bettar than that, pet. Soo does Lamb, come tae think of it."

I blush furiously, "Well. . . I. . . I didn't exactly. . . that is, there wasn't time-"

"Time?" she scoffs, "There's allus time, pet. Tha's the point, is it no'?"

"In the usual order of things, v-very probably," I stammer, "But. . . but. . ."

But I still don't know how much I am allowed to say to her. How much I can trust her. I lick my lips, cautiously, "Geillis. . . why do you want me to tell Lamb you're sorry? Is it because you haven't been able to change the future?"

She rounds on me, furiously, "Ye ken almost nothing else, but ye do ken that? How?"

"L-Lamb told me-"

"He told ye of what is kept secret except between fellow Travelers, but he didnae tell ye that. . . that. . ." the red fury in her eyes morphs into black suspicion, "Just how much do ye ken?"

I smirk, ruefully, "Like I said – almost nothing. This wasn't the plan, you see."

"But, Iona said. . ."

"So she is a time traveler too!" I exclaim, grasping firmly onto what has been merely a half-belief of mine since yesterday, "I knew she had to be! It's the only explanation that makes any sen-"

"Will ye stop that!" cuts in Geillis, her tone stuck somewhere in between exasperation and disbelief, "Stop it!" she hisses, "Ye an' I booth ken that the Sight is load of auld shite, an' if any Traveler seems tae have it, 'tis only because of prior knowledge of t'future!"

"Do we ken that?" I ask, suddenly back to being bewildered.

"Of course we feckin' do!" she almost yells, and then, suddenly remembering the man in the other room, lowers her voice to a ferocious whisper, "Sae how t'bluddy feckin' shite do ye ken nothing that ye should, an' evarything that ye shouldnae?"

I lean back in my chair.

The great jumble of my thoughts and suspicions are beginning to untangle in a few places. Not much. But enough.

I haven't been able to get a read on Geillis until this very moment. She's been too jumbled and confused, her signals too much one thing and then too rapidly the exact opposite.

If ever there was a self-contained paradox, it's Geillis Duncan.

She wants to know – needs to know – everything about me - for reasons I couldn't fathom even if she spelled them out one by one, but at the same time she's afraid – terrified – of me, of what I know, and of what my being here might mean. She likes me - but she hates me. She is desperate for what I know - but despises that I know it.

She may want me to tell Lamb she's sorry, but she isn't sorry for failing to change the past. At most, she's sorry that she can't believe in changing the past. All at once, that is very clear to me. She doesn't believe the past can be changed.

Or, perhaps, she doesn't believe the past can ever be changed enough.

And yet, equally clearly, she is terrified that she may have already done so. Changed the past, or the future, in some way she never intended.

It is not so much of a surprise to discover that this woman is a paradox. That a time traveler holds two opposing views at once is, perhaps, only to be expected. But such violently opposing views, held so closely together. . . matter and antimatter in such near proximity. . .

The wonder is that she hasn't yet exploded.

Well, that isn't so surprising either, really. It explains her rather neatly, I think.

Of course, of course she hasn't confided in Dougal. I'd like to bet she doesn't even like him all that much.

But she wants to. Perhaps more than she knows.

I decide to trust her, just a little. Perhaps a few confidences will put us on slightly firmer ground. . .

"Well, it was sort of an accident, you see. . ."

Carefully, I give her an abbreviated account of my adventures on Cold Island 12. My first sight of Craig na Dun, my journey to and from Culloden, my talks with Lamb, my interactions with Mrs. Graham, and my final, fatal morning on that little hill crowned with trees and a ring of standing stones. . .

She nods, and looks down at her hands.

A deep silence falls between us for several minutes.

Finally, quietly, she sings, in a voice more melodious than I ever expected,

"Hey Nonny Nonny,
The Rowan-tree is bonny,
The Mountains are under the Spoon,
The Devil's Eye flashed,
To see such s'port,
And the Witches dance under the Moon."

She looks up to see my reaction, and I grin, relieved that here is something we can talk about freely at last.

"I heard that my first day here – on Cold Island 12, I mean," I exclaim, "Actually, almost my first minute of being here. What does it mean?"

She sighs, "Different things to different people, a'course. But to us. . . it's a song of summoning. A sort of touchstone, if you will."

"All right. But what does it mean?"

She traces a design with her fingertip on the surface of the tabletop while she dreamily explains.

"'The Rowan tree is bonny' – that means either in flower oor in fruit. So, Spring oor Fall. 'The Mountains are under the Spoon' – the 'spoon' is Ursa Major - the Dig Dipper, as some call it. 'Tis in the sky. 'Tae see such s'port' – did the the folks ye heard sing it put in that little stutter there – 's'port'?"

I nod, "Yes, they did."

"That's because it doesnae mean 'sport'. It's short for 'transport', y'see. 'Tae see such transport' – meaning the doorway tae a different time is open. 'An' the Witches dance under the Moon'. Weel. I dinnae need tae explain that one, do I now? Ye saw."

Several of my vague wonderings finally resolve into firm certainty.

"So, it's a reminder of the time of year and celestial requirements for opening the time portal?"

"Aye, but 'tis a great deal moor than that, pet. It's a kind of. . . byword, I suppose you might say. Moor of a promise than a password, if ye take my meaning."

I don't. Not entirely. But I push onward anyway, eager to be learning even more answers.

"So, why did Lamb tell me about the known requirements but didn't say anything about the rhyme? Or would he have told me later and I just missed it by jumping the gun that morning?"

She smirks, wryly, "Lamb couldnae ha'e told ye about it if he'd wanted to. We havenae told him, more like," she meets my eyes, solemnly, "In the end, he is only a man, after all."

"We?"

She sighs, as though to a particularly stubborn child, "We Druids, pet. I'm no' one of Lamb's precious volunteers, ye ken. No' only that, annyway. I am - oor was – second tae Mrs. Graham herself. She is – oor was – oor will be, rather – Oldmother of our Circle that we have in Inverness. Jus' like her mother an' grandmother before her."

My eyebrows twitch up a bit, "Lamb said she – Mrs. Graham's mother, I mean – was a neo-Pagan. Is that what you mean?"

Geillis laughs a short laugh, sharp and dry, "Lamb would say that, the pet. He thinks he understands sae very much, but he knows what we've told him, an' nae moor," Her voice is cool and hard, "Druids arnae neo-Pagans, Claire. They're th'real thing – Pagans, in verity. An' it's a title that – Druid – no' a religion. It takes seven years tae earn the name, an' a'least forty tae be hailed Oldmother. Years full o' study an' learning an' experience," her tone warms and softens a little, "We'er guardians of some of the oldest an' mos' precious knowledge in t'whole world, Claire. Knowledge handed doon from one wise woman tae th'next, on an' on, for thousands of years, direct an' continuous across the centuries. Across millennia. Jus' think on that."

I do think on it, for longer than I think Geillis expects me to. A long path, and an even longer journey, unbroken for thousands of years of Human history, unfolds slowly before my eyes. The ends fade into the mists of infinite distance in both directions, but the here and now are clear and plain enough. From Lamb I had got the impression that only one project was occurring at Craig na Dun – his. Clearly, that is not the case. There is at least one more which, though concurrent, is entirely different, both in conception and ultimate goal.

Though what goal these Druids might be trying to accomplish I can't even begin to guess. . .

"You never answered my question," I say, finally, "Why do you want me to apologize to Lamb for you?"

Slowly, her eyes lose their hard sharpness, and turn inward, soft and contemplative, "I want ye tae tell him. . . I'm sorry I let him think I was Traveling for him. An' that I let him think I believed in his notions an' was going to dedicate all my time here to them an' nothing else. That. . . that I was going to come back at all. . ." her voice catches, and she stops, unable or unwilling to explain further.

Into the silence, I ask, quietly, "What makes you think I am going to go back?"

Her eyes flash their bright green at me, "Och, ye have the fire in ye, pet, I saw that straight away. The passion. The hope. Lamb got ye wi' his wild, romantic tales, didnn't he? Yer goin' tae change things - aren't ye?"

"Well. . . try. . ." I say, dubiously.

She shakes her head, "An' tha's jus' what ye'el nevar doo, pet. It doesnae mattar how many impossible stories he spun ye – changin' the past tae change the future cannae happen."

"But. . ." I wrinkle up my forehead in confusion, "Aren't there four World War III fighter pilots that might beg to differ on that point? Their futures at least were changed, and who can say what effect their loss had on the past?"

My confusion is echoed in Geillis's eyes, "Fighter pilots?" she asks, hesitantly, "Now then, which one of Lamb's stories was it included fighter pilots?"

"Why. . . it's the whole reason he came to Cold Island 12 in the first place. The five WWIII fighter pilots who sheltered next to Craigh na Dun, four of whom then disappeared. The one who was left behind told the authorities quite a tale, but then 70 years later four fighter pilots appeared in Inverness and tried to steal a boat."

"A boat?"

"Yes, that was my reaction. Who would think a boat of all things was a useful thing to steal, even fifty, a hundred years ago? But their evidence corroborated the story that that one prisoner of war had told seventy years before. The Cold Island Council decided to look into it, and a project was organized, and eventually Lamb got to hear of it, and that's why he's there at all. Didn't he ever tell you that story? I got the impression he doesn't mind telling it – not to people he considers on his side, anyway."

Geillis shakes her head, emphatically, "No. He never told me that. Nor ever anything like it, either. I don't know what started off the Council's interest in Craigh na Dun, but I do know Lamb was invited to the island by Reverend Wakefield, who was one of the directors of the project."

"Reverend Wakefield?" I ask, bewildered again, "But. . . he's been dead forty years. Lamb's only been on Cold Island 12 for twenty two, twenty three years."

Geillis's face is set in an incomprehensible expression, "The Reverend died four years ago, pet. He left the manse tae Mrs. Graham, bless him – so she'd have no fears where she'd live, ever. He was always sae generous to the orphans and widows about him, dear Reverend. . ."

"But. . . Mrs. Graham isn't a widow," I insist, stridently, "Mr. Graham was the one who met me at the port – he's the chauffeur for the manse – and gardener. And it's Lamb who lives there, not this Wakefield person."

Each of us stares silently at the other for a very long minute.

"You know what this means, don't you?" I say, solemnly.

She doesn't reply.

"It means you have changed the future, Geillis. You have. Not much, perhaps – but you have changed it."

She rolls her eyes and sighs, exasperated, "Aye, an' tae what effect? A few people did a few things exactly the same, but for altered reasons. The future may be slightly different – bu' 'tis hardly changed, pet. One person cannae change the future – no' tae any real purpose."

"But how do you know that, Geillis? How can any of us know that? For sure?"

She laughs shortly, regretfully, sardonically,

"Iona MacTavish. . ."

The purring roar of a car engine sounds from the street outside. As she jumps up to go and look, I hear a great flurry of laughter, giggling and chattering, sharply curtailed with one curt word,

"Hush!"

Geillis peers out of the kitchen window, a strangely somber look on her face,

"Looks like the Sisters of Peace have brought in their group of refugee orphans taeday." She shakes her head. "An', I ask ye, what good does my knowing that their whole refuge house will be burnt down in the Withdrawal after the Second Battle of Culloden do them, oor me, oor anyone? Nothin'. Not a blame, blessed thing. . ."