Fetch Ye
With an innocent, cheerful wave at us, Hamish rejoins his friends outside.
What the boy totally misses – and what I know I cannot in any way hide from Jamie – is the utter consternation he leaves behind.
Considerately, Jamie lets me speak first, stammering though I am.
"W-would you mind going over to Geillis's shop and getting the things I left over there? That sack I made to carry things on my back, y-you know? And the five or six bags of stuff I got with the girls this morning. . ."
"That many?" He looks mildly surprised, "D'ye really like shopping sae much then, Sassenach? I didnae take ye for the type. . ."
I huff a tiny chuckle, "I don't care for it all that much, no. It's just the first opportunity I've had to go shopping since I got here, so I had to get a bunch of essentials - and also, going out with the girls meant I had to get a lot of girly stuff, whether I wanted it or not."
"Oh, aye," Jamie smirks, "That's jus' tradition."
"Eee-xactly." My answering smirk is a perfect match to his.
He grins briefly, then goes quite serious, "Are ye certain ye want ta deal wi' Dougal alone, then? After all, it may be me he's comin' tae see. . ."
I roll my eyes, "Have you done anything to make him mad lately?"
"No' as such, but-"
"Yes, I want to confront him alone," I say, keeping my voice low but urgent, "Especially considering the next stage of our little plan. Or the current stage, I should say. We can move the next step forward a bit whenever we judge the time is right, but it's only been a few days – hardly long enough, I should think."
He considers briefly, then nods, "Aye, if ye feel comfortable dealing wi' him, I'll let the twa ov ye be. . ."
"Comfortable is the last thing I am. But I do think it's the best way, given the circumstances."
"Right." He stands up quickly then, calling to the large, jolly-looking man behind ice cream counter, "Carter?"
"Aye, Jamie lad?"
"Would ye mind askin' yer Wee Tomas ta drive my kids home in time fer their supper?" He flings a small set of keys over the counter.
Carter catches them deftly. "Aye. Dinna fash."
Jamie smiles his thanks, nods one last time at me, and in three strides is outside, untying Laoghaire's leash from her iron table, while digging a fuzzy green rubber ball out of his pocket. He throws it for her, and she leaps ecstatically after it. He disappears across the square with her, his stride easy, his posture light and casual.
I take a deep breath, and try to copy his example. Calm. Casual. Non-confrontational. After all, there's no need to deliberately antagonize Dougal at this point, and several reasons not to.
Come on, calm down now, Beauchamp. You can do it. . . Maybe it isn't even you he's angry at. . .
Dougal's scowling face and fiercely bristling silver beard appearing just that moment behind the glass door of the milk bar rather destroys that theory, however. . .
Thankfully, he doesn't start yelling right away, though he does fling the door open a good deal more violently than necessary.
I clamp down on the frail placid veneer I've managed to wind about myself, and stand up from the table, as gracefully and serenely as very sore shoulders and my third sugar rush of the day will allow.
I call my thanks to Carter and Ellie, only vaguely hearing their cheery replies, my eyes fixed on where Dougal is standing, waiting, blocking the door.
I raise my eyebrows as I approach, and lift my chin, only slightly defiantly.
"Well?" I ask, mildly enough.
He doesn't answer, but he does move aside long enough for me to exit the building.
I smile over at Jamie's group of kids, as they run about playing Hands Off, or whatever it is. Fergus is sitting in the midst of them, his eyes tight shut, counting slowly backwards from fifteen. All the others, including Hamish, scatter around him, but don't go far.
A light wind picks up, blowing a thick patch of snow-scented clouds just far enough down the sky to let the last rays of the afternoon sun in over the ridge of the western mountains. The light reflects warmly off the nearby walls of brick and stone, and gilds the sound of the children's laughter with all the airy solemnity of fairyland.
Fergus finishes his counting, and then the mere dozen or so children become innumerable, as they dart back and forth, and round and round the tables, chairs, plants and trellises, as quick and as mischievous as a band of devilish pixies.
I feel Dougal's presence loom up behind me, dark and insistent, and the adult world calls, regardless of the display of wild, bittersweet charm all around us.
I risk a glance at him, but his scowl only deepens.
I choose the table furthest from the children's brilliant chaos.
Dougal practically stomps after me, and once I sit, he leans on the iron table in such a way that he can loom at me with impunity.
"An' jus' what d'ye think ye'er doin' heer, Claire Beauchamp?" he growls.
I can't help but laugh. Not only does he have no idea what he's asking for, he'd have no idea what to do with it if I told him. And in the midst of his ignorance, he's so. . . ferocious – brown eyes blazing, silver hair bristling - and at the moment it all seems nothing other than totally silly. I've seen behaviour like this often enough before. . . in front of the breeding pens on chicken farms.
Right now he's acting exactly like one of Skycity 15's genetically modified breeder chickens - a puffed-up, ridiculous, waddling little rooster of a man – his bare pinons all spiky, his face flushed, his eyes red. But for all his bluster and sour attitude, he's still just a featherless noisemaker – annoying, and mildly hilarious, but on the whole, surprisingly dull.
There isn't much that's interesting about mindless bluster. . .
I shake my head. He's better than this. . .
"Oh, come on now, Dougal. Do you really want to know all the details of my girls' day out, or are you just miffed you weren't invited?"
His eyes flare.
Oops.
He hates the fact that I can read him, and he really hates it when show off how well I can do it.
So much for not antagonizing him today. . .
"Girls day out?" he snaps.
"Well, yes – I mean, I assume that's what you call it when six Leoch staff members of the feminine persuasion decide to go in to town together."
Grumpily, he crosses his arms, "Call it whate'er ye like. But when my brother sends me tae bring ye to him, I, for one, expect tae be able tae lay hands on ye in at least the first two places I look – or perhaps three, at a stretch – yer office, the fields, or your rooms – an' nae more than those!"
I raise my eyebrows pointedly at him, but he ignores my growing incredulity.
"So, from now on, I expect ye tae restrict yerself tae the bounds of Leoch, and tae give at least two days advance notice every time y-"
"No."
He blinks, words backing up inside a mouth suddenly only able to say one thing -
"What?"
"No," I say, simply, "I will not."
"What?"
"I will do no such ridiculous thing."
"Wh-"
"You're neither my father nor my gaolor, Dougal MacKenzie!" I grip the edge of the table to keep myself from pounding my fists upon it, "I'm an officially unpaid volunteer, donating my time and efforts to Leoch Farms – and as such, I don't take orders from you or Colum – you both ask me, politely, to do things, and in return I may agree to do as you request. But, then again, I may not. That is our arrangement, Dougal – like it or not – that is how it is. I haven't taken some archaic vow of obedience – not to you, or Colum, or anyone - and you have no right to control me, my life, or my choices, in any capacity whatever. Understand?"
Despite the words all too clearly still welling up inside him, he says nothing.
"Now then," I continue, more calmly, "Sit down. Slowly. Like we are having a mature and totally normal adult conversation."
In the middle of their play, two of the kids zip round our table, squealing and giggling – making my point for me.
Some of the heat goes out of his eyes. He does not want to disturb the children – the only thing, at this moment, upon which we totally agree.
The last of the sun slips behind the mountains, and all at once the entire village of Cranesmuir is cold, dark, windswept and smelling of impending snow.
He sits down.
"If you can present me with a logical and compelling reason why I should stay strictly within the boundaries of Leoch, I will, of course, consider doing so. But to order me to do so, especially in this high-handed, pompous fashion, for no other stated reason than making sure I'm constantly conveniently on hand to, to. . . service you, is archaic, idiotic, and absurd. Not to mention insulting, disgusting, and, I'm pretty sure, damn near illegal!"
Dougal starts at the last word, his mouth dropping open a little. Instead of holding back words, now he can't seem to find any.
"Leoch is my workplace, Dougal" I press forward my advantage, "Volunteer or not, living there or not, it's where I work – and you can't force me to stay there, or restrict my mobility in any way, without my consent. Doing so is technically called slavery. And that is very, very illeg-"
"Awright, awright," Dougal breaks out in a fierce, hissing whisper, "Ye'ev made yer point, lass, leave off already!" But a strange, gleaming twinkle flashes for a moment deep within his eyes, springing, I am certain, neither from hate or annoyance. He suppresses it far too quickly for me to be sure of anything else – if there is even anything to be sure of at all – and then moves on, "Fine then - will ye please come back wi' me tae Leoch? Now?"
I relent a little. That's about as good as I ever expected to get out of him, especially here and now. . .
"Why, what does Colum want?"
He sighs in frustration, "His walker robot is glitchin' a bit," he gestures broadly, "An' since auld Beeton usetae run maintenance on it from time tae time, naturally he thinks of ye before he thinks of calling in a specialist technician."
"Mm. Naturally." I shrug, "I can certainly give it a look. Unless it's a fairly obvious problem I doubt I can do any good, but I can try, at least."
He gives a reluctant nod of acknowledgment, "Thank ye. Now where's wee Jamie? The walker cuttin' out twitched Colum's back – he needs Jamie tae chiropractor him oor summat. . ."
"I'm heer, uncle," says Jamie, coming up behind Dougal just then, carrying all the things I left at Geillis's, "An' I think both the lady an' I are ready tae go, aren't we?" He looks grimly at the sky, and then hands me my canvas bag, and two or three of the paper bags from the shops.
I almost shoulder the sack before I remember my bruises, and sigh in frustration, "Yes, I think we are."
Jamie takes my arm and leads the way across the square, Laoghaire trotting calmly at his side. His warmth next to me is beyond welcoming, and he is so easy in his manner, so cheerful and normal that my heart practically aches with envy - with want. . . I haven't felt so relaxed, so at home, for so long, it feels like a hundred years - though intellectually I know that it hasn't even been a month yet. . .
For some reason, for a second I feel a bit like Hamlet, bemoaning his mother's quick remarriage.
A little month!
But no! No, no. . . wait. . . It actually has been a hundred years, hasn't it? Two hundred years, in fact. That they are backwards in time instead of forwards doesn't lessen their impact. Rather the opposite, really. . . Having tea with Geillis must have seriously messed with my brain if I've actually started to forget about when I am. . .
My mind stutters to a halt.
When. . .
Wait. . .
Forget. . .
There is something I have forgotten, isn't there?
What. . . ?
"Oh, Jamie!" I draw myself up short, "I didn't tell the girls! I don't even know where they-"
He grips my arm a little and shakes his head, "Dinnae fash. I forgot tae tell ye that I met wi' Coira as I was bringin' the kids ovar tae the milk bar. She explained where ye were an' why, an' I said if that was the case, I'd likely be wantin' tae bring ye home, and she said aye, t'was a good idea, an' that she an' the girls had decided on the pizza place after all, soo they'd get ye a takeaway slice of the veggie kind ye'd said ye liked, an' meet ye back at Leoch."
I smile in relief, "That's Coira and Annie, all right. . ."
"Aye, it is," he grins, "An' like Mai an' Ev too. I dinnae know Kenzie as well as I might – she's off in the sheepfolds most days, as far from my workshop as can be – but I've heard Lily speak highly of her." He gives my arm a companionable squeeze, "Tis good tae ken ye'er makin' friends, Sassenach."
Halfway across the square, Dougal lengthens his stride to overtake us. I wonder that he was content to follow behind us for so long, but there is a sort of tension, a whiff of something in the air that maybe he held back to investigate. . . I can smell it myself, and it speaks of wild knowledge and strange revelations. Of eerie whisperings and unearthly lights, flashing. . . Or perhaps merely of simple realizations made otherworldly and divine by the magic breath of twilight. . .
Or. . . maybe it's just an early winter's evening in the Highlands of Scotland, with all its myths and legends crowding over the landscape like wandering untame creatures, trying to hurry in out of the cold. . .
I watch the well-worn but well-kept leather of Dougal's boots as he leads us round the square, close to the central green, and up to the Rover.
"Yes," I finally answer Jamie, as he quietly hands me and Laoghaire up into the back seat, "It is good to be making friends, especially girls like An-"
The world dissolves around me, as thoroughly and as suddenly as if I had walked through an invisible wall – and straight into hell itself.
Half the sky is now glowing a pulsating blood red, and the other half is pitch black, with a narrow border of caustic, unclean white spitting and sparking between them. Their combined dull glow dyes the grassy, rolling landscape a uniform ugly brown, with the pale white light only showing up a few harsh highlights of sickly green.
All around there is the clamour and horror of battle, though my brief, frantic look about shows me to be quite alone here. The whirring of blasts and bullets, the distant roar of heavy machinery, the clash and clatter of all too vulnerable Human bodies inflicting bloody damage on one another – the sound, the smell, the feel of it crowds in upon me, even as scan through the heavy, empty air, searching for any signs of life or hope.
The cries grow louder, more individualized – I think I can even recognize one or two of the voices – Angus, Murtagh. . . Geillis?
There is a long, tearing, female scream – of battle and of vengeance, not of fear - and with it, up leaps a bright column of white light in the black half of the sky. It is the same hard, insane white that borders the red half, yet as I watch, it softens, broadens, and splits - forming into a great moving arc that slowly spreads itself between me and the sky, like a bloodstain creeping from the wounded void.
At last, the two white arcs of energy join together with an angry sparking hiss, scattering shards of light in all directions. Then the ends draw themselves up, up, into the apex if the dome, and the white light there grows into a great, flashing, fiery globe of fearsome radiance.
As it builds, the violent clamour around me slowly subsides, in reaction? Awe? Fear? I cannot tell. There is one final cry from the invisible armies, in what I can almost swear is Dougal's voice -
"Sorcha!"
The sharp sound of it startles me, almost as much as the sudden plummeting decent of the glowing white orb from the red dome of the sky. It falls as though it means to crash deep into the earth, but with an otherworldly suddenness, it stops just above my head-height, and hovers there, angrily spitting fire.
And then, as I watch, it slowly morphs itself into a face.
It is a long face, shovel-jawed, male and hard. Long lines of white sparks from into untidy silver curls, deep-set, flashing eyes, a straight, prominent nose, a scowling mouth, and heavy brow. It would be a stereotypically Scottish face, except that it wears no beard.
I don't recognize who it is. If it even is anybody. . .
Except. . .
There is something. . .
The face floats there, impassively scowling at the hellish landscape around us, but then, the most shocking thing that can happen in this land of blood and horror, happens.
Its eyes move. In a moment, they meet with mine. A glance across space, time, reality, possibility. . .
They flash, with a great crackle of blue-white light, and then, then, I know what I recognized about them.
They are Jamie's eyes. Aged, hardened, and formed into another man's face, but they are the same brilliant, frighteningly intelligent, deeply rich blue. . .
I look away, unable to stand the horrible presence of such familiar intimacy in the middle of such unending terror.
Then, finally, the ground opens up beneath me, and I fall into blessed oblivion.
The world is dark, featureless grey for a moment. Or for eternity.
Or both.
Then, from a distance, I hear -
"Can I start the engine now, lad?"
The voice is sneering, impatient.
"Can ye no' give her one more minute, Uncle? She gets these wee anxiety attacks sometimes – is Colum sae desperate that a few minutes delay won't mean aught?"
This other voice is gentle, authoritative. Unafraid.
"Anxiety attacks? What t'hell does she have anxiety attacks for?"
"There's nae one of us doesnae have a past, Uncle. . ."
The first voice harrumphs, grudgingly conceding the point.
"Aye, weel. . . tha's no lie. . ."
Slowly, I come fully awake, opening my eyes and giving a soft, painful groan.
I can feel a walloping headache coming on. . .
"Easy there, Sassenach," Jamie's voice soothes into my ears, "Tak it slow, now."
"Can't do anything else. . ." I murmur, pushing myself a bit more upright. I take in the back seat of the Rover, with the smells of oil, and leather interior, and dog, and the wool of Jamie's tartan coat.
It seems today simply will not end.
How many days like this can I stand?
Jamie slips his hand around mine, his warmth seeping into my skin.
As many days as this man is willing to put up with me, apparently. . .
"All right," I nod feebly, looking forward into the cabin, and making eye contact with Dougal in the rear-view mirror, "Let's go."
He holds my eyes for a minute, then glowers down at the controls, and starts up the Rover's engine.
We pull out of Cranesmuir, and onto the Leoch road, in almost total silence.
Jamie brings his other hand over to pet the backs of my fingers without having to let me go. The sweet, intimate nature of the touch tells me that whatever it was that I just saw – be it vision or dream or doom – he saw it with me. He was there with me, even though I couldn't see him.
I grip his hand tightly, but turn to look out of the window. I don't think I could handle his eyes right now. . .
Eyes. . .
A little shiver runs though me.
There was something – something – about those few seconds of eye contact with Dougal.
Almost as is if, despite all probabilities to the contrary, he had seen that vision too. . .
I don't know. And I'm too exhausted to think.
I lean my forehead on the cool window glass, and sleep all the way back to Leoch.