Forging the Blade-The Wilderness Years, Chapt. 6, Pt. 1/2
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Sat, 2 Jun 2001 20:20:50 -0400
Forging the Blade
Part I - The Wilderness Years
by MacGeorge
See Disclaimers, Ratings and acknowledgements in Part 0,
previously posted.
Chapter Six
Both horse and rider were tired, so he took his time heading
back northwest. The ride gave him a lot of time to think.
He had learned some hard, painful lessons. Almost three
years had not changed anything, had not lessened the
unreasoned hatred and fear his very existence seemed to
spark. Wondering what he had done to so offend his clan,
his family and God felt like it was slowly driving him
insane.
The moment by his father's grave kept returning to him. If
the earth had opened up and the pit of hell that the priests
had always described so vividly had swallowed him whole, he
would not have been surprised. But nothing had happened.
No, that wasn't exactly true. He had felt...safe. Duncan
shook himself out of his reverie. He truly was mad, if
standing by his father's grave, his murderer's weapon in his
hands, with a crowd of hostile ex-clansman watching, made
him feel safe.
He also knew he was not looking forward to returning to life
in a cave, with his only occasional companion a cantankerous
old woman who seemed to have no real use or desire for his
company. Still, somewhere, astride patient Maise, or lying
on his back at night, looking up into the gray mist that
occasionally cleared long enough for a glimpse of a sky
dotted with stars, he realized that even hostile contact was
preferable to the isolation of no contact at all. It was
stupid, really, and he knew his reactions, his own needs,
were shameful weaknesses. He would be far better off just
staying apart from the rest of the world, but the thought
made his insides ache.
He let Maise pick the trail up into the steep hills towards
Mog's home. He had sidetracked long enough to bring down a
red stag in hopes that the gift of meat would go some way
towards repaying the loan of the horse. The chase and the
butchering of the carcass had left horse and rider tired and
dirty, and he decided that a scrub in Mog's creek would not
be amiss, once he had settled Maise into her pen. The mare
quickened the pace a little as they approached familiar
terrain and they broke into the clearing almost at a trot,
but Duncan immediately pulled the mare to a halt.
A large cart was in front of the cottage, with an unfamiliar
horse inside the pen. At the sound of his approach, the
door opened and a tall, slender man stepped out, meeting his
eyes with a complex look of surprise and fear. A woman
pushed him out of the doorway and stepped passed him, eying
Duncan suspiciously as she dried her hands on a cloth. She
elbowed the man, and nodded towards the sword at his side,
and he reluctantly drew the weapon.
"That horse doesna' belong to you!" the woman announced.
She would have been attractive, but for the hard set of her
mouth and eyes. She had a voluptuous figure outlined in a
dress laced tight from the waist to the bodice, with more
flesh showing than Duncan though quite proper for a woman
her age. "'Dair, what're you standing there for like some
half-blind gelding?" she nudged the thin man. "Make him
give her back!"
"Hush, Moibeal." The man moved forward a few steps and
turned to Duncan. "Who are you, and how did you get that
horse?" the man asked. He held the sword a little
awkwardly.
Duncan dismounted with a sigh, glad to be on his feet again,
but tired of so many hostile confrontations and assumptions
that whatever he did had some evil motive. "Mog kindly lent
her to me so I could tend to urgent business. She trusted
me to return her, and so I have."
"Nay," Moibeal said, more to her husband than to Duncan.
"He's just come back to steal her things, I vow. She said
she'd been trading with the devil. Maybe it wasn't just her
little joke after all."
"Mog spoke of you," Duncan pinned the woman with a hard
look, his voice taking on more bitterness than he would ever
have believed only a week before. "She said you forced her
out of her own home, her own village, to live here in the
wilderness." He looked over to Mog's son. "Tis a hard
thing to abandon your own mother." It was also not
something he would have said to an older man before he had
been banished, and even as he said the words a cold chill
swept over his shoulders. Who was he to criticize, after
all?
"How dare you!" Moibeal stepped up to him and would have
slapped him if he had not caught her wrist in the act.
"Enough, Mab!"
The look she shot her husband was deadly, but she kept her
tongue and yanked her wrist out of Duncan's grasp.
"Who are you to tell us what was done or not done?" Alisdair
approached him cautiously. "We were her family and cared
for her as much as she would allow. Now give the mare over
and leave us be." He held his hand out for Maise's reins.
Something in what he said made Duncan's thoughts halt and
backtrack.
"You were her family?" he asked softly. "What's happened?"
He pushed past them both and went to the cottage, throwing
open the door. "Mog?" he called.
She was lying on the small cot she kept against the wall,
her gnarled hands folded peacefully on her breasts in a
position he was certain she would never have taken in life.
Duncan crossed to the pallet and went down on a knee. "Oh,
Mog, what have you done?" he whispered.
"She died," Moibeal announced behind him. "It happens to
old people who run off and live by themselves."
"It happens to everyone," Duncan answered over his
shoulder. Or almost everyone. "It just shouldn't happen
alone."
"Oh, aye," Moibeal countered. "If you had been with her,
this place would've been stripped to the foundations and you
long gone by now, no doubt."
Duncan stood, his plaid swirling at the motion. He seen
more death and heard more hateful words said these last few
days than he could take and his frayed temper almost made
him strike her malicious mouth. He somehow managed to stop
his hand, closing it into a tight fist at his side, but the
gesture was not lost on Moibeal.
"Dair!" she called, backing up from him. "He was going to
hit me, I swear! What are you going to do about it?"
"Now, Mabs, nothing happened," Alisdair attempted to placate
his wife. "I'm sure he's just upset at Mother's..."
"Nothing happened?" she spat at him. "Only because you're a
mewling coward. This man took our horse, clearly took
advantage of your crazy old mother and was going to strike
your wife, and you say nothing happened, and do nothing
about it?"
The air in the small cottage felt suddenly unbreatheable and
Duncan swept past both of them to the outdoors, taking deep
gulps of fresh air. Even that didn't seem to be enough,
though and he moved further away, eventually aware of Maise
nuzzling at his shoulder, her bulk providing something solid
to lean on as the earth seemed to tilt around him, and
nausea roiled his stomach and tightened his throat.
"Are you alright?" Alisdair's voice was not unkind, and
Duncan turned his head to look into light eyes and a
concerned face. "I apologize for my wife. I know she can
be harsh, but there are those who might take advantage of an
old woman living alone like that."
Duncan took in another long breath and the world steadied a
little. "No need," he sighed with a small shake of his
head. "I've been accused of far worse, for far less
reason. Your mother and I, we had an...arrangement, of
sorts. I provided her with pelts and meat in trade for
occasional vegetables and other necessaries. She was a hard
woman to get on with, but not unkind, for all that. I'm
sorry she's gone. If I'd gotten back a little sooner,
hadn't taken so much time along the way, if I hadn't
borrowed the mare, perhaps she'd still be alive."
"You're a MacLeod, aren't you?" Alisdair asked, and Duncan
shot him a hard look and stepped away, half expecting an
attack, verbal or physical, but the man just eyed him
curiously. "The one everyone's been talking of. They say
you died, but lived again. Is it true?"
"Who knows what's true and what's not," Duncan murmured,
using removal of Maise' saddlebags and saddle to cover his
discomfort.
Alisdair smiled sadly. "Aye, there's that. But you
shouldn't trouble yourself about Mog. One of the women of
the village came up three days ago to get a cantrip from
her, and found her in bed. She couldn't move one side of
her body and was near dead from lack of water. She tended
her, then ran back to the village as fast as she could. By
the time Moibeal and I got here, she had tried to move from
her pallet and fallen, and all she could do was mumble
curses at us."
Duncan led Maise into the pen, now a little crowded with two
horses to share it. He found a rag and rubbed the mare down
in long, slow strokes, feeling Alisdair's eyes on him the
whole time.
Dair shook his head, a sad smile on his narrow face. "She
was a stubborn woman. Always insisting on doing things her
own way, and wanted nothing to do with me, or the
villagers. But I don't think she was in any pain at the
last. She was just confused and rambling. The last thing
she did was to grab my arm and tell me the Black Donald had
Beauty, but that he would bring her back." Alisdair shook
his head. "I don't suppose I ever understood the woman,
anyways, nor she me."
Duncan had stopped his motions, and looked over Maise's
back, meeting the other man's eyes. "Your mother loved
you," he told him in almost a whisper, remembering his last
conversation with his own mother, and her attempts to
comfort him, even when she was in such terrible grief. "She
was troubled by your wife, but she spoke of you with
pride." Duncan patted the mare, who was now busily munching
away at the fresh hay in the manger. "And she may have been
a little odd, but she wasna' crazy, even at the last. We
named the mare Maise, and she called me the Black Donald."
"Oh," Dair, acknowledged weakly. "She spoke of me?" he
sounded puzzled and a little dubious.
"Aye. Said you were the best man with a horse she had ever
seen." Duncan only exaggerated a little, and only because
he knew what it was like to feel you had failed a parent,
with no chance to make amends.
"A horse is about the only creature who will listen to the
man." Duncan heard Moibeal's voice, and looked over his
shoulder to find her standing the doorway, staring at the
bulging saddlebags he had slung over the rail of the pen.
"These are Old Mog's as well. Did you 'borrow' them, too?"
she asked, looking at him with one dark eyebrow raised.
Duncan wordlessly moved out of the pen, went to the
saddlebags, opened them, and pulled out the cuts of venison
from the stag he had killed, still leaking blood through the
skin wrappings. "Here," he said, plopping the three
heaviest pieces into her arms until she was staggering under
the load. "This was for her, but since I assume you've
inherited her property, tis now yours, along with the bags
which she packed with food for my journey. If you want the
food she gave me back, it's a little late for that, unless
you want to retrieve the..." he almost used a foul word, but
his mother's hard discipline about such things had been
ingrained for too long, "...leavings I left back on the
trail."
Moibeal's lips twisted open, then closed as she tried to
come up with something sufficiently cutting to say. "You
are the evil spirit everyone's been talking of," she
snapped. "No wonder you and that old witch got on so well."
"Mab!" Dair called. "She was my mother, and I'll no' have
you calling her names, not while her body lies in there,
hardly cold."
But his wife ignored him, staring at Duncan in suspicion and
anger. "Well, mind you quit these woods as fast as those
cloven hoofs will take ye, or I'll set the entire village on
you. They'll hunt you down like the dog you are, skin you
and burn you at the stake!"
Their eyes locked for a long, hard minute but it was Duncan
who finally turned away. It would be the same everywhere,
after all. She was just like so many others, including his
own clan. He gathered his things, and walked away, past
Dair, whose sympathetic look was almost harder to deal with
than his wife's hostility and razor-sharp tongue.
~~~~~~~
He found his way back to his cave, but there was no sense of
homecoming, only isolation. He contemplated preserving the
rest of the venison, but had little energy for the task.
All he really wanted to do was sleep, but sleep did not make
him feel any more rested and by the time he got enough
energy together to start the task of curing, half the meat
had gone rancid and he had to throw it out.
Of course, he still set his snares every day, and checked
them periodically, but the pervasive lethargy that seemed to
suck all the life out of him presented a daily battle, both
for survival and sanity. There seemed to be little point to
it all. His father was dead, so there was no hope of ever
gaining his forgiveness, and he had no role to play in the
care of his mother or the protection of his clan. Now, even
Old Mog had no use for him, so he went through the motions
of survival, but with little real effort and no enthusiasm,
knowing all along that he was not putting enough by for the
winter, but too perpetually worn out to care very much.
Then they came. He was aware of them long before they got
anywhere near his cave. It was a hunting party, about a
half-dozen men clumsily thrashing through the forest, the
smoke from their campfire visible for miles. At first he
thought they might be hunting, perhaps boar, bear or badger
in preparation for meat or pelts for the winter ahead. He
followed them for a few days, more out of curiosity than
anything else. It was also a relief from boredom and his
own dark thoughts. They seemed to be searching, looking for
signs in the woods, and when he deliberately left footprints
where he knew they would be found, his growing suspicions
were confirmed.
The group gathered excitedly around the tracks, discussing
when they might have been made, what direction he had been
traveling, and where his "lair" might be hidden. They were
looking for the demon, Duncan MacLeod. Probably sent by the
charming Moibeal. Duncan was a little relieved not to see
Alisdair among them, and hoped he had refused to be a part
of the hunt.
Duncan sank back into the woods, careful to leave behind no
trace of his passing. He went to his cave and gathered his
things: his meager pallet, the little cookpot that Mog had
given him, a few nice pelts he had collected. That, plus
the new plaid and his simple, homemade tools, his blades and
pieced-together clothes were all that he had. His cloak had
been left back in Glenfinnan, wrapped around poor Gavin
MacAndie's body. Not much to show for almost three years of
hard work. Abandoning the cave took only a few minutes, and
he left without looking back. It had never been home.
~~~~~~~
He walked almost aimlessly, without destination. Generally
west towards the sea and the setting sun. He skirted around
villages, avoided major trails in preference to finding his
own path. It led him numerous times to dead ends where a
valley would just end, or he was stymied by a steep drop and
had to backtrack to find another way around. The summer
waned and the leaves began to turn, and he had found no
place to stay for the winter, stored no food against leaner
times. It was as though he was marking time, waiting for
something to happen.
One day, with the chill of fall now definitely in the air,
he topped a rise he had been struggling towards for over a
day, and ended up standing at the top of a cliff overlooking
the vastness of blue-gray water as far as the eye could
see. Mist shrouded the cliffs below, but as the wind
shifted, he caught glimpses of waves crashing against rocks,
sending spray far into the air. The damp wind lifted his
hair and he spread his arms wide, wondering if there truly
was any magic in the world. Perhaps if there was, and he
leapt from the cliff wishing hard enough, wings would sprout
from his shoulders and he would be carried up high, away
from the earth, weightless. He leaned out, into the strong
wind swirling around him and for a moment it seemed so real,
so possible.
Then a rattle and clack of rocks falling spoiled the moment,
and he looked down to see where his feet had disturbed the
earth at the edge, and stones were bouncing down the side of
the cliff. Those rocks disturbed more stones as they fell,
setting up a small cascade that eventually disappeared into
the sharp, dark protrusions and pounding surf far below.
It made him wonder. How many years, how many centuries had
this bulwark against the waves stood, yet his feet could so
easily dislodge the earth? Oh, it was just a little bit of
soil, a few rocks, but over time, if a man stood there long
enough, chipping away at giant cliffs, stone by stone,
perhaps the cliff would eventually disappear entirely. He
wasn't sure why the thought seemed so important, but it
captured his imagination. That such small actions, over
time, could change what seemed unchangeable.
He camped for several days there at the top of the cliff,
even though it was windy, damp and cold. He would stand for
long periods, staring out into the mist, or watching the
waves throw themselves at the rocks far below, mesmerized.
It was soothing, for some reason taking his mind off the
insoluble conundrum that had become his life.
The bear skin that had been his pallet for so long was
becoming troublesome to carry around, so he spent his days
re-piecing it into leg coverings and to layer over his
doeskin shirt to protect and warm his shoulders and arms.
His diet had reverted back to the snaring of small animals
and whatever edible berries and roots he could find. His
previous days of game being relatively plentiful,
supplemented by a few occasional vegetables from Mog's
garden, now seemed almost luxurious.
Eventually he got restless, feeling the need to move on, so
one day he simply doused his campfire and headed west along
the coast until he almost stumbled onto a village, and had
to quickly retreat down the rocky coast along a path with
the cliffs to one side and the surging ocean on the other.
Hearing approaching voices, he knelt behind some bushes,
waiting for a group of women and their toddlers to pass.
They were carrying large baskets of clothes, still wet from
washing. He listened they chatted, walking slowly with
their heavy burdens balanced on hip or head.
It was simple conversation, gossip really. Shouts to their
children to stay to the path, discussion of a recipe for
getting blueberry stains out of cloth, the expected weather
for the coming winter. It was a kind of enjoyable torture.
A reminder of better days.
Then there was a distant shout, then a scream, and the
sudden thump of running feet. "Jamie!" a woman's voice
screamed, and he was drawn to stand and peer through the
foliage to see what the excitement was about.
A youngster, probably only three or four years old, had
wandered too far down into the rocks, close to the surging
waves. He had been caught and was failing his arms as the
sucking current either pulled him inexorably out to sea, or
smashed him against the sharp rocks. The women had thrown
down their baskets and were rushing over the massive
outcroppings, their heavy skirts yanked up around their
knees.
Duncan dropped his baldrick and sword, the pack that carried
everything he owned, yanked off his thick leggings and
footwear and dashed out, hearing the nearest woman cry out
in startlement as he brushed past her. His feet had gotten
hardened, as he usually went without shoes in the summer,
and they easily found purchase on the wet, smooth rocks as
he leapt from boulder to boulder, his eyes never leaving the
small bobbing figure that was washing in and out of reach of
the closest women as they tried to wade far enough into the
water to reach him, but not so far that they would get
sucked under by the powerful current and their heavy
clothes.
Finally, he just dove in, the shock of the cold water almost
paralyzing him for a second before he swam strongly towards
where the towheaded child had disappeared under the churning
waves. He could barely see in the dark, swirling water,
cold quickly stole his strength, and the fight against the
current made his lungs ache for air, but the pale gleam of a
small hand caught what little light there was and he kicked
hard, reached for it and pulled.
He breached the surface with a huge gasp, pulling the boy
with him, then gathered him in his arms to keep the small
face above the water. The child was so light, an almost
negligible weight as he somehow found footing on the rocks,
and the women reached to help him. Someone took the boy
from his arms and laid him on a rocky plateau near the
path. She tapped the boy's ashen cheeks, turned him on his
side and thumped his back.
"Oh, Jamie, come on, breathe! Oh, please, God, let him be
alright!" the woman sobbed, rocking the small body back and
forth. Then a small bubble of water surged from the boy's
blue lips, then another, then the boy coughed, gasped and
vomited while his mother held him. She laughed out loud,
clutching the child to her, as the child's face went from
pale to bright red as he at last found enough air to loudly
wail his distress and fear. Tears ran down her face and she
looked up at Duncan. "Surely you were sent by God, sir, to
save my son," she said, her eyes shining with gratitude.
"Thank you."
Duncan managed to nod, still catching his breath and too
stunned by her words to think of anything to say. He
stepped back, and back again, feeling the pats on his
shoulders and arms as the women gathered around, all with
words of kindness and praise. He turned away and went to
the bush where he had been hiding, gathering his things.
His clothes and hair were leaving a trail of running water
and he shivered as he sat and pulled his footwear back on.
"Sir?"
He looked up into Jamie's mother's face. It was a handsome
face, but worn and tired, the look of a woman who had
struggled all her life. She held the boy, who was still
sniffling and hiccupping, but other than being wet, seemed
none the worse for his adventure.
"It will be cold when the sun sets. I would be pleased if
you could join us for supper, and you could dry out in front
of our fire. I know my husband will want to thank you for
what you did."
"That's not necessary," Duncan answered. He stood, slinging
his baldrick and his pack over his shoulders. "But it is
kind of ye to offer." He stepped back down the path, away
from the village.
"No, please!" she grasped his arm to stop him, which made
him yank away. It had been too long since anyone had
grabbed him with anything but ill intent. "I'm sorry," she
responded, pulling her hand back. Her eyes took in his
ragged clothes, his pitiful belongings and his distrustful
posture, and her voice softened. "We all come on hard
times, now and then. It's easy to care about naught but
ourselves. But you didna' hesitate to risk your life to
save my boy. It would do us great honor to at least share a
meal with you," she said, meeting his eyes not with pity,
but with pride, making refusal a kind of insult.
He took a long breath and steadied himself. "My name is
Duncan MacLeod," he said, watching her carefully for a
reaction. "Of the Clan MacLeod."
She bobbed slightly and nodded, her face broadening into a
smile. "Pleased to meet you, Duncan MacLeod," she
answered. "My name is Nora Macpherson, and this here is
Jamie," she nodded towards her child, her expression
softening as she gazed at the boy, who now had his head
resting on her shoulder, his thumb firmly in his mouth and
his blue-eyed gaze fixed on the tall stranger.
"Hello, Jamie Macpherson," Duncan smiled at the boy. "Next
time you should learn to swim before you jump in the
water." The boy shyly hid his face against his mother's
chest and both adults laughed, along with the several other
women who had stayed to make sure all was well before they
gathered their dropped laundry and headed back to their
homes.
It was a moment of quiet joy, Duncan thought as he followed
Nora down the path towards the small fishing village right
at the edge of the ocean. He wondered if any of them
realized how precious it was.
Continued in Chapter Six, Part 2.....