Wolf's Bain

I don't have time to think as I hurtle through the churchyard. Very possibly, that's a good thing. But I do have time to marshal all the righteous indignation, white hot rage, and tooth-grinding stubbornness I've got, and that I know is a good thing. Somehow, I think they will stand me in good stead before the day is out.

Or, probably, before the minute is out.

Wordlessly, I fling myself sideways across the stocks, slipping neatly between the child's upturned back and the priest's descending cane. In the split second before the next blow falls, I brace against the wooden planks, and grab the boy's hand.

Two enormous, wild brown eyes, streaming with tears, turn up to stare at me. Slim childish fingers spasmodically grip mine.

And then, the cane strikes across my shoulders, and blue-white agony blots out everything else.

I don't know if I cry out, but for a very long eternity everything seems to be a rushing, screaming mess, jolts of pain, and flashes of light.

It is good that I took the boy's hand, for only that grounds me.

Achingly slowly, my vision clears. It is a little hard to breathe. Most of me hurts, though some parts of me are numb. . .

And then the cane falls again. . .

This time, as the pain slowly fades, I hear a shout, a growl – no, no, two shouts, and a scuffle – and then the whistling whoosh of bamboo being swung cruelly hard, only this time I don't feel pain again. But there is a yelp, and a howl, and a clash of limbs – a connection of fists and bodies and feet and knees and legs and arms. There are wordless, indignant cries, tearing cloth, and harsh, snarling barking.

I look down, and see the wide open, wild face of the boy, stretching his imprisoned neck, trying desperately to see what's happening.

It's only then that I notice that through it all, above it all, there has been a stream of fierce Gàidhlig, most of it shouted with a voice and intonation that some currently distant part of me recognizes.

"Why am I no' surprised?" says the voice, breaking into English, "That a man whoo'll beat a woman - an' a child – has nae compunction ovar thrashin' an innicent dog?"

A high, strained voice, choked with far more than just emotion, spits back, "Damn'ed creature. . ." the priest gurgles a bit, as though he is being held by the throat - which, if our rescuer is who I think it is, may well be true, ". . . bit me!"

"Only when she saw ye raisin' yer hand tae these puir lambs-"

"That devil child? Curs'ed sneakthie-"

They are interrupted by a vicious snarling, and the sound of more ripping cloth.

"Down, Laoghaire!" Jamie snaps, coldly, "Ye'ev done far an' away more than enough, lass!" There is a tiny metal click, as of a dog lead being reattached. "Now you! Ye call yerself a priest, do ye? A minister? Give me that!"

I hear him snatch something, and both the boy and I flinch at the sound of whistling bamboo, but then Jamie comes into my peripheral vision, and I see him break the priest's cane over his broad thigh – once, twice! - and then he throws the pieces over his shoulder, turning back to our adversary.

"I dinnae care what excuse ye think ye had", he says, urgently, but with a frigid, dangerous calm, "Beatin' three creatures weaker than yerself, in public, in the light of the honest day – weel. Dishonourable's nae word fer it, Father, and ye ken that as well as I, if no' bettar. So get thee off tae a doctor tae see tae yer leg there – now! An' be sharpish about it!"

In our tense, bruised state, either trapped by or draped over the stocks, neither the boy or myself has been able to see the priest during all these exchanges, but at a mighty shove from Jamie, he enters our view, and at last I can see his face.

He is a stony-browed, sour-mouthed creature, with a cruel sneer and poisonous eyes, but for all that there is a morbidly fascinating sort of dignity about him. He is not young, nor very old, though the absence of any visible hair on his face or head makes him difficult for me to age properly.

He trains those narrow, darkly flashing eyes on Jamie, and raises a fist, shouting, "Heretic! Heathen!" He tries to stamp his foot, but has to limp sideways in pain, and to avoid a torn trouser leg, "Traitor tae th'Church!"

Jamie's voice sounds close behind me now, "Aye, an' t'was filthy tyrants like ye whoo drove me from et tae begin wi', tae be sure! Now be off, ye violent auld man! Spew yer poison som'where else, afore I put my fist through yer teeth, age an' yer collar be damned!"

He stands there fuming for a minute, but clearly, there is nothing to be done, not against a very determined Jamie attended by a very well trained and loyal sheep dog.

Slowly, I see the priest's flaming anger freeze into something far more dangerous – an icy, crawling hate – and then he turns and limps away across the square, towards, I assume, a doctor's office.

Then I feel Jamie's hand take me gently by the elbow, and I push the priest and all the new dangers he represents from my mind.

"Are ye well there, lass?" Jamie asks, lifting me to my feet.

"My back is very sore. . ." I wince as I try to take a step, "But I can't imagine it's worse than. . ." I gesture stiffly at the boy, still on his knees, his head and wrists stuck into the stockboards.

"Mmmphm." Jamie grunts, and kneels to help disentangle the boy from his prison.

It is then that I notice the boy isn't entirely trapped anymore – somehow he got one hand free the minute the priest went away. I'm sure I saw both sleeves poking out on the other side of the stocks when I reached over and took his hand. . . I wonder how he did that. . . and if he did it with the one why didn't he do it with the other? What. . . ? That hand – his right one – now I can see. . . it is bound up tight in a dark blue handkerchief, making a stump that barely emerges from his sleeve. . . I must have taken his left hand, then. . .

I try to remember exactly. Yes. . . yes I had. . .

Then Jamie lifts the imprisoning board, and the boy leans back with a great sigh.

"Merci beaucoup, Monsieur!" he says, a huge amount of relief, and not a little bit of pain in his voice, "And to Mademoiselle too, of course." He looks up at me, and suddenly he is all sweetness and enchanting manners, though it is clear he can barely move from pain. "The light from the Blessed Virgin be upon you both, my rescuers, my friends for all time!" With great effort, he lifts his arms to Jamie, "S'il vous plait, Monsieur? I cannot seem to stand. . ."

Jamie does not lift him to his feet as he did for me, but instead eases the boy over his shoulder, and carries him out across the square.

In something of a daze, I follow them, the aching bruises across my back throbbing with every step I take.

We are back in front of the ice cream parlour when Jamie speaks sharply to a group of lively children playing among the tables there.

"Hamish! Come help us please!"

The round head and bright eyes of the next Chieftain of the MacKenzies pops up from behind a chair, "What d'ye need, Uncle Jamie?"

"Go inside an' tell Mr. Carter we'll need ta use his back room, aye? An' his first aid kit, and several ice packs. Be quick now!"

Our small ambassador darts in front of us, and apparently does his job so well we aren't even questioned as we make our way past tables, counter, kitchen, and storerooms, to a small, comfortable, and very quiet back room.

I sit down at a little table where the first aid kit and ice packs are, and Jamie settles the boy on the nearby couch. Then he turns to me, and without a word, activates two ice packs, and lays them across my back. At once the deep throbbing subsides, and some of the fire leeches out of the bruises. I sigh with relief, and hunch over the table to better balance the packs on my back.

Then Jamie turns back to the boy, speaking softly in rapid, highly fluent French. The boy nods, and answers in the same language, as Jamie very carefully helps him out of his coat and shirt.

The boy is facing me, so I cannot see the damage as his back comes into view, but Jamie throws me a look that says it isn't good. Then his lip twists, and he looks determined, not worried, so I know it isn't all that bad, either.

He reaches for the first aid kit and more ice packs, and switches back to English.

"Now then, lad," Jamie says, very gently, "What's yer name?"

The child's response is to Jamie, of course, but those huge, almond-brown eyes are fixed on me, as he hesitates a moment, and then quavers out,

"Claudel. Claudel Ferguson."