Clean Pease Straw

The empty farmyard at twilight is far eerier than it has any right to be. I've been through here dozens of times by now, and never has it been so quiet, so lonesome, so. . . ghostly. Never have the last few rays of light spread themselves out behind the feed barn and supplies barn with such a growling, threatening red sprawl. Never have the cool, aloof lights of the horse barn beckoned with such a sinister gleam. . .

I shiver, thankful I changed into outdoor clothes before coming to find Jamie, and doubly thankful I decided to throw my old green woolen cloak over everything.

I pull it closer about me now, and quicken my pace towards the stables.

We haven't had snow for several days, so the rough, dirty clumps of ice left from last week line the most common footpaths through the yard, like spilled collections of shattered, twisted robot skulls. As the blood red light of sunset fades behind me, the whole scene turns livid gray, and almost fantastically ugly.

I nearly trip on the ice-slick cobbles in my rushed efforts to get inside, just to escape the looming, glowering outdoors. . .

I don't take my cloak off in the office either. It's colder than usual in here tonight, and much, much lonelier than usual. In just a few visits I've grown accustomed to the noise and bustle of the place, and without it now it just seems. . . dead. Even the eternal poker game in the corner, with Peter, Edan and Tory isn't happening tonight. Most of the stalls are shut up too, so I can't even greet the horses I know while I trail up and down the aisles of white, forbidding doors.

Finally coming across a wheelbarrow of muck, and hearing the scrape-thud, scrape-thud of a dung shovel, is a positive relief.

Knowing that it must be Jamie manages to almost completely lift my mood out of the Lower Townships.

His back is facing me when I finally see him, bent half-over and raking out the empty stall. Suddenly, I remember something he said to me my first morning here.

A bright spark of mischief rises in my heart. . .

"So, are you thinking of me?"

He turns instantly, grinning at me so delightedly, you'd think we'd been apart for months, not less than an hour, "Always, Sassenach," he dumps one last shovel of shit into the barrow, "But not particularly specifically at the moment, no. . ." he comes out of the stall, closing the door behind him, and rolling the barrow away into another empty enclosure, "Why do ye ask?"

I loop an arm through his, "Well, remember my first morning here, when you said you'd never muck out a stall again without thinking of the shape and smell of me. . .?"

"Ahh, yes, I was wonderin' why the feel of that fine arse of yours up against my thighs was sae strong in my memory taenight."

The firm weight of his hand rests for a minute on the curve of my hip, then slides lower, grabbing a handful that sends tingles up my spine, even through my thick cloak and jeans.

"I dream of that first night in the van, Claire," he lowers his forehead to mine, sighing contentedly, "Your legs draped over my lap, my arms cradling ye close tae me. . ." he runs his hands up and down my arms, "The perfume of your hair, still sweet from a strange shampoo I'd never smelled before. . . God I wanted tae kiss ye then."

"You did? But I was a mess. . ."

"Aye, mebbe so, but from the first moment I saw ye, I wanted tae-" he looks up as we pass a feed and bedding station, "Have ye been up tae the hayloft out heer?"

"No."

"Nae time like the present. . ."

He takes my hand, and leads me up the broad rungs of a ladder built into the wall. I sneeze a few times from the spicy-smelling dust, and then my body acclimates to the warmer, herbal-scented air. We swing off the ladder and on to the upper level, looking around at the stacks of green and gold bales piled in neat rows, with rakes and pitchforks leant along them at regular intervals in a very businesslike manner. Small sounds come up from the occupied stalls below, but the only light comes from the feed station we just left, and a thin line of twinkle lights strung along the center point of the ceiling.

I wrap my arms around Jamie, and pull him with me as I lean against a tall stack of rustling fodder. I wriggle a bit as I get him set firmly against me, and then I look up at him, pertly.

"Right. You were saying? About what you wanted to do to m-"

My words are cut off as his mouth covers mine. His hands are instantly under my cloak and grabbing hard at my arse, lifting me even more firmly against him. He drags one hand down my thigh, and wraps my leg around his hip, pushing me roughly against the solid wall of bales.

Even through thick clothing, the contact brings me alive. I kiss him back eagerly, nipping hard at his stubble-rough chin, then going back to drown in his soft, hot, exquisite lips.

I gasp, coming up for air, "God I want your mouth all over me, Jamie."

"Mmm?" he hums, busy sucking a bruise onto my neck, "Aye, jus' tell me whear. . ." He drops his head lower, to nibble on the small bit of collarbone he can reach.

"Where? Everywh-"

There is a sudden commotion from the room below. Stomping feet, raucous laughter, sighs, giggles, and heavy, thumping bodies. A wheedling, familiar voice says,

"Oh, aye, ye like that, lass? Weel I c'n-"

"Rupert!" I yell, annoyed, "Do you mind? Some of us are trying to make out with our boyfriend up here!"

A huge laugh comes up to us in response, "An' some of us are tryin' tae get laid doon heer, Sassenach! How is that gurt swate virgin good enough for ye annyway? Experienced lass like ye needs an experienced laddie!"

"He's good enough because I prefer men to lads, Rupert!"

There is another huge laugh, and a dismissive, "Aye, be off wi' ye!", before the sounds devolve into nothing but happy, yet highly off-putting shouts and moans.

Without a word, Jamie leads me down the long corridor of the hayloft, dropping us down into another feed station just far enough away that we don't have to hear Rupert's liaison.

Well. . . don't have to hear most of it, anyway.

"Wait here, mo nighean," Jamie says, kissing my lightly on the lips, "Be jus' a minute."

He is several more minutes than I am comfortable with, but eventually he comes back, leading a fully saddled-up Donas.

I shrink back, remembering last time we met, not caring that now the horse looks indifferent, and almost sleepy.

Jamie takes my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles, "Dinnae fash, mo chridhe, he's gentled now. I jus' want tae run away wi' ye."

"Run away? Where to?"

"Och, special place I've got. It's wonderfully isolated an'. . . erm. . ." he glances back at the distant feed station from which we can still hear occasional screaming, ". . . private. Come see it wi' me?" He reaches both arms out, ready to help me into the saddle.

I'm curious, I'm all riled up, and he's asking nicely.

I can't resist.

He lifts me easily into the wide leather seat, and then jumps up himself, settling in close behind me.

"Weel this is nice, aye? Yer lovely arse all snugged up against me again, an' yer neck in easy range tae kiss?" He pulls the cloak hood out of the way, and kisses me soundly on the jaw, "Plus we're on an adventure. . ."

I smile, leaning back into him, very much enjoying his solid weight behind me, even as I am quite nervous about the tonne or more of horse I'm sitting on. . .

Slowly, steadily, we clop-clop out into the dark farmyard, along paths only illuminated by the pale light from the stable windows. I clutch hard onto the pommel in front of me, and try not to think about what would happen if Donas trips. . .

"Y-yes – an adventure. And speaking of, Jamie, I need to tell you about the Oathtaking."

In a very few words, I tell him everything I saw, and most of what I surmised. He gives a long, low whistle.

"Crafty auld cat. It doesnae change much as far as Stage Four is concerned, though, does it?"

"No. But it might change Stage Five, if any of the men happen to twig to what he's done."

"Nah, don' think they will. Y'see, splittin' the Oath like that is – or usedtae be – a common way of doin' it at a Clan MacKenzie Gathering. For som'un who wanted tae make a show of his Oath, that is."

"I see."

"Aye, an' I dinnae think most of the men will have read the Clan Restoration Act as closely as ye have. Or at all, tae be honest."

"Do you think Colum has figured out what Dougal is doing?"

I feel Jamie's shoulders shift behind me, "No idea. But Colum's no fool. Leave him tae his own business – he's an auld hand at it."

We've reached the far side of the farmyard, looking out over the dark paths of the fields laid before us. A few streaks of old snow glow pale in the clouded starlight, but most everything else is deep, shrouded grey.

Off behind us there is a long, wild scream - a strange, inhuman bellow, that for one disorienting second, I think must have come from Rupert – or his date.

Jamie feels me freeze against him, and answers my unspoken question, "Dinnae fash. It's just the wild boar Marc's brought in for Hogmanay."

"Oh." I relax a little, but not all the way. I listen to Donas's low, thudding footfalls on the icy gravel paths between the fields. "Why is there a wild boar for Hogmanay?"

"For the Twelfth Night Hunt."

"Oh."

There is quiet for a long few seconds, broken only by the clinking of Donas's bridle, and the steady rhythm of his hooves.

"Soooo, you're not going to explain that either, then?"

There's a smile in Jamie's voice now, "It's an auld Leoch tradition. It used tae be the guests could hunt the wild boar that lived 'round here on their own – but nowadays, what wi' them bein' nearly extinct, they have tae be captive bred an' brought in special. The boar, I mean, no' the guests."

I want to smile at his joke, but I can't. "It seems so cruel. To breed a creature just so some people can chase and kill it."

"That's one way of lookin' at it, certainly."

"There's another?"

"Aye. A species has been saved from oblivion. Some of them die for Humans' amusement, true, but most of them are breeding sows, an' even the majority of the boars are raised for meat – no' sport. It's a rare person c'n afford tae buy a huntin' boar."

"I. . . suppose that's so."

"Don' take me wrong – I dinnae approve of blood sports, and trophy huntin' isnae my cup of tea at all – but there's more tae it than just some men torturin' a helpless frightened pig jus' because they think it's fun."

"Given the sound of that scream, I'd say that's very true. Frightened? Yes. Helpless? No."

He chuckles darkly, "Too right. A boar's no joke. Even a captive bred, special delivery one."

His arms go around me as he flicks the reins, guiding Donas through the wide strip of woods that edge Leoch's arable fields. Beyond them are the wide lower meadows, and the sheep-grazing fields.

The last place in Leoch where I've never been.

Donas plods serenely down the hill, and into the wide, untilled scrubland of the lower acres. I've only seen this bit of Leoch on maps. By night doesn't count as "seeing". We weave through the spindly gorse bushes and blackberry brambles, following a barely discernible path that's only slightly darker than the surrounding ground. There are a few single trees, but not many.

Then, as suddenly as if it just this second dropped in from the sky, a stone building looms up in front of us, with one pale artificial light gleaming in an ancient, shattered dooryard.

It is so clearly, obviously a ruin that for a second I think the light is a trapped soul, haunting a scene of destruction. . .

"What is this place?" I ask, almost scared of the answer.

Jamie briefly kisses the side of my head, then nudges Donas forward. "This? This is Castle Leoch."