BDP: Going to Ground

Moira shuffled through what she had always thought of as the cattle shoot at Cork International. She was pitiably glad for the remnants of chivalry that allowed pregnant women to debark first. She had to pee. Again.

Spending so much time sitting with her feet low had made her ankles swell. As for what those miserable chairs had done to her back, the less said, the better. Honestly, she had felt better trekking through the jungle.

Various aches aside, everything was going better than she had any right to expect. The Consulate had bought her story without more than a cursory check into their records to make sure that Dymphna O'Dubhthaigh existed, which, since the name belonged to a childhood neighbor, she knew did. Besides, who expected a hugely pregnant woman to lie? They had issued her a new passport and hustled her on the next flight to Ireland.

After a quick stop in the powder room, including a change of clothes and hairstyle, Moira caught the bus to Dublin. The ride wasn't long, but buying the ticket for the second leg of her journey took enough time that she almost missed the sleeper ferry to Scotland.

Moira had planned it to be close, since anyone following her would have to scramble like she had. It was a good way to flush out anyone tailing her. Not that she had any reason to believe she had been followed this far, but paranoia was more than just a state of mind, it had to be her way of life.

That same paranoia prompted Moira to visit an obstetrician in busy Edinburgh, rather than one nearer to where she had decided to settle. Always, of course, assuming there was one where she was going. The isle of Barra was small, four miles wide and eight miles long; one could walk from one end to the other in a day. Not the likeliest of places for a specialist physician to hang out a shingle.

Despite it's diminutive size, Barra possessed an airstrip and there were several ferry stops, all heading for varied locations. It would be easy to disappear, should it became necessary. Another plus, the language of the island was Gaelic. Any ferrylouper, as the islanders called the visitors, asking about her would get the run-around.

If whoever Irons hired even got this far, which was doubtful. Sure they would look here, they had to suspect she would go to ground where she knew the territory. Which was why she had not gone to Ireland or Skye, they were too obvious.

Excluding those two locations still left literally hundreds of islands that a fugitive could be on. Searching for a dark-haired widow with children wouldn't narrow the field any. Not here. The majority of the locals livelihood was the sea, and the water was as inclined to take as to give.

Despite the ferocity of the winter storms, there was no doubt in Moira's mind that the children would love it here. There were whales and seals to watch and miles of pristine beach for building sand castles. When that paled, one could turn inland to explore the Neolithic circles and barrows.

There were other ancient settlements here as well. It had been put forth lately that Barra might be the island Jason and his Argonauts had visited. It was also the starting point for Grettir's Saga, a Norse tale that bore striking resemblance to Beowulf. Wouldn't that fire a boy's imagination, especially if they inherited their father's love of history? There was even a castle for her little knights to clamber around in.

The image of three dark-haired hoydens storming Kisimul Castle brought a soft smile to her lips. In her mind she could see Ian directing the charge, blending play with tactical training.

It was part of why she had chosen this island, the fact that Ian would have loved it here. All the things he should have done as a child, the freedoms, love, and laughter that he should have had, their children would have.

It was the only gift she had left to give him.

Moira had wanted so much for them. She had wanted to show Ian everything he had missed, wanted to watch the delight move across his face. But the real world had damn all to do with dreams and wishes.

Moira laid a protective hand over her stomach, silently vowing to do everything she could to keep the children safe from the forces that had torn apart her world. It would be difficult to accomplish alone, but she couldn't risk contacting her family. Sure as anything, they were being watched.

Which was why she would be calling cousin Owain, who had been socking her retirement funds away in the Bank of Lloyd, and not her parents. Even if she could get a message through without it being intercepted, Mom wasn't good at dissembling. Da would be fine; he liked beatin' the pants off his mates at the weekly poker game, but Mom… What she felt showed on her face as clear as day.

Moira hated leaving her parents to grieve for another daughter, dear God they must be miserable, but the alternative would alert anyone who cared to look. Better her folks grieve once than to lose their youngest child a second, and probably painfully final, time.

The fact that there would be Hell to pay if Mom found out her baby girl had been alive all this time, and nobody had told her, had nothing to do with it. Really. The guilt would only be an order of magnitude (or two) above the time Moira had forgotten to call home on Mom's birthday. No big deal.

Moira nearly choked on the snort. Nobody did guilt like her mother, and Mom would bring it up every time she wanted her daughter to do something. Sure, Mom would get over it eventually. Like in a hundred years. Talk about the ultimate stick. But she'd take every lecture about her iniquity with good grace if it meant she could go home again.