Forging the Blade/Wilderness Years, Chap. 7, Part 1/2
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Sat, 9 Jun 2001 20:02:08 -0400
Forging the Blade
Part I, The Wilderness Years
See previously posted Part 0 for disclaimers and
acknowledgements.
Note: The link for the html version, including author's
research and translation notes, is:
http://www.wordsmiths.net/MacGeorge/wip.html
Rating: PG-13
~~~~~~
Chapter Seven
Duncan left the Macphersons behind with regret, but also a
little relief. The need to keep his identity cloaked had
become a strain which would only get worse come spring when
village gatherings and celebrations would make his presence
more difficult to ignore. The last thing he wanted was to be
a burden or an embarrassment, and he knew the Macphersons
would willingly endure the cruelties of the other villagers
out of their misplaced sense of obligation.
With their simple acceptance of his presence in their lives,
Nora, Alex and their boisterous children had long since
repaid any possible debt for something he had been glad to
do in the first place, and his conscience told him he had
worn out his welcome, no matter their protests to the
contrary. Even so, had he not had these past few months of
contact with good people who did not think him evil, he did
not know how he would have had the strength to go on in the
wake of his father’s death and all the turmoil of the past
three, long miserable years. He recalled when he had stood
alone at the top of a cliff, watching the crashing waters
far below, and finally acknowledged to himself that what he
had really felt at the time was a bone-deep desire to step
off, letting his body disintegrate on the rocks.
But that was a coward’s way, and even thinking about it now
made his face flush with shame. Giving up was not what his
father had taught him, and it went against his nature. He
remembered his mother laughing at him as a child for
believing it was possible that good would always overcome
evil and he was not ready to give up on that certainty.
Besides, ever since those blurred, endless, dreadful days in
the storm with Alex, he had felt a strong desire to see the
green, forested hills of Strathconnon, west of Inverness. It
was a good place to go, wild and uninhabited. He didn’t know
why he hadn’t thought of it before. There were said to be
old ruins and caves deep in the woods, and maybe that’s
where he could settle, far from those who would condemn him
for something he did not understand, and over which he
seemed to have no control. This needy dependence on the
presence and acceptance of others would simply have to be
overcome.
The trip north and east was cold and wet, but went fairly
quickly since he had a real destination in mind. Initially
he kept to the coast to avoid passing anywhere near
Glenfinnan. There were still periodic heavy snows this early
in the spring. Game was sparse, and edible vegetation even
more rare, but he now took some pride in the sturdy
resilience of a body that could be pressed beyond normal
human endurance. The miles passed underneath cold, numb feet
as he skirted to the east of Lochailort, staying well west
of Strathan, where the villagers had attacked him. Once he
was north of there, he didn’t feel quite so vulnerable to
those who might know his face, and he allowed himself
occasional contact with fellow travelers, who were few
enough this time of year.
He had to skirt way around Loch Quoich, then work his way
past some impassible river crossings, taking him due east
for awhile before he could cross the Five Sisters mountains.
The cold weather broke unexpectedly, the snow turned into
sleet, then cold rain that melted the remaining slush,
leaving the ground soft and muddy, and slowing his progress.
Some nights, huddled in the cold and wet, unable to light a
fire, eating whatever meat he could catch raw and bloody,
the thought occurred to him that what he was doing made no
sense, and perhaps Alexander Macpherson had been right, and
he should leave the country entirely.
But such thoughts were fleeting, and quickly forgotten in
the basic struggle for survival as he persistently moved
north and east, following river valleys until he finally met
up with a small group of peddlers outside the village of
Scardroy on the Meig River. He warily approached their fire,
staying to the edge of the campsite and calling out.
“Who’s there?!” a rough voice answered.
“A fellow traveler, alone and harmless,” Duncan answered.
Then he stepped closer to the smoky fire they had built
close to their wagon and covered with a tarpaulin to keep
away the wet. “And cold and hungry,” he added, spreading his
hands to show he had no weapon drawn. “But I’ve caught some
game I’d be happy to share in return for a place at your
fire.
The figures around the fire appeared to consult with each
other, then the largest one stepped up and nodded. “Be
welcome, then, traveler. I bid you peace and hospitality.”
“And to you.” Duncan stepped closer. He had tried to keep
himself fairly respectable looking and he was glad of it as
he felt all their eyes inspecting him closely. He held out
the four red squirrels and a raccoon he had caught that
afternoon, and after a pause the bear of a man who was their
leader took them, then clasped his forearm in greeting.
“Angus is the name, and this here be Colin, my son, and his
wife, Rose.”
Two barely discernable shadows had half-stood and bobbed
before sitting back down close to the fire. Duncan hardly
blamed them. It was cold and drizzling and their small
shelter looked inviting.
“Those two over there,” Angus pointed to an irregular lump
under a stained, old plaid whose colors were
indistinguishable. Small heads poked out curiously, and
bright eyes were reflected in the low firelight. “Are their
wee ones, Little Angus and Donald, but they’re practically
asleep, aren’t you, boys?” Angus directed the question at
the two as if it were an order rather than a description.
The two boys’ heads disappeared quickly, but Duncan could
hear murmurs and whispers coming from under the cloth,
bringing to mind many nights when he and his cousins would
huddle together by the fire, telling each other wild tales
until his father would threaten them with some distasteful
chore.
“Come! Come,” Angus gestured, and Duncan came closer,
curious that Angus had left off any clan designation and had
not asked him his name.
“My name is Duncan,” he offered. “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod.” If they were going to chase him off, he'd rather
know it now.
There was a heartbeat or two of silence, and he saw a look
pass between Angus and his son and daughter-in-law.
“Well, Duncan MacLeod, those are some fine, fat squirrels
you’ve got there,” Angus finally observed heartily. “Let’s
add it to the stew Rose has made. We already gave the boys
most of what meat we have, and were not looking forward to
the thin stew that remains. Let’s skin these and see if we
can make a meal of it, eh?”
The conversation was stilted and careful, and Duncan quickly
became aware that this little group had as much reason to
fear identification as did he. For even though he had not
given his clan name, Angus wore a sprig of pine jauntily in
his cap. When he caught Duncan eyeing it, the two men shared
a long look. When Duncan just smiled at him and gave a brief
nod, Angus seemed to relax a little, and ultimately pulled
out a small jug of whiskey to pass around, “to keep away the
chill,” he said.
For surely, Duncan decided, these people must be of the Clan
Gregor, whose use of the name had been proscribed ever since
the battle at Glen Fruin twenty-odd years before. The whole
clan had been branded outcasts by King James VI, who every
Scot knew was a man who paled at the slightest mention of
bloodshed. The lily-livered Sassenach King had been swayed
by accusations of Archibald Campbell, 7th Earl of Argyle,
that it had been MacGregors who had murdered John Drummond
after the Royal Forester caught a few of them poaching, and
had then hung the suspects without a trial.
The story went that the outraged MacGregors set an ambush,
captured Drummond and beheaded him. They then rode to
Ardvorlich House, where Drummond’s sister welcomed them and
offered the travelers traditional Highland hospitality. The
Lady proceeded to see to the preparation of food and upon
her return to the hall, was greeted by the sight of her
brother’s head, mounted on the table and stuffed with cheese
and bread. It was said she went mad, and now either she or
her ghost could be seen haunting the woods of the area.
The terrible accusation and the resulting raids and
bitterness between the clans ultimately led to the massacre
at Glen Fruin, where the MacGregors slaughtered some 200 of
the King’s men, led by the Colquhoun, Laird of Luss. That
victory for the MacGregors led to their disastrous downfall
when James VI and his Privy Council issued an order
proscribing the very existence of the clan, forcing them to
change their names and removing them from their lands.
But Duncan knew the story of Drummond’s death to be false
from Neil MacGregor himself, who had refused to give up his
clan’s name despite the proscription. Neil had always
claimed that it was not the Gregors who murdered John
Drummond, but the Maclans of Glencoe, and that the Campbells
were responsible for the disgrace and downfall of his entire
clan. Duncan’s father had known Neil’s family since
childhood, and their mutual hatred of the Campbells had
meant that he never tried to enforce the proscription after
Neil and his family had been forced north.
Some people would have had greater tolerance as a result of
their own travails, but not Neil MacGregor, who had ever
been a bitter man. His eager endorsement of Duncan’s
banishment, and his eager ascension to the leadership of
Glenfinnan, seemed to be, at least in some measure, a
reaction to all that had been taken from his own family.
Angus broke Duncan's bitter train of thought by passing him
the jug of whiskey.
Duncan paused a moment, then raised the jug. “To Alasdair of
Glenstrae, Chief of the Gregorach,” he said quietly,
referring to Neil’s late father, the Clan leader of the
MacGregors and hero of the Battle of Glen Fruin. Then he
took a small sip, holding it on his tongue for a moment,
savoring the smoky, stinging flavor before he let it slide
down his throat.
The other three faces around the fire looked warily at one
another for a moment, then Colin took the jug from Duncan’s
hand with a smile. “To the Gregorach,” he said, took a sip,
then passed it to his wife, who repeated the gesture before
giving it to Angus, who took a long swallow, then grinned at
their guest.
“Tis good to warm the belly on a cold, wet night,” Angus
said with a conspiratorial wink, then laughed a great
chortle that echoed around the glen and lay back, relaxing
at last.
“All the nights in the Highlands are cold and wet,” Duncan
observed with a smile as he carefully added damp fuel to the
fire. They had shared a stew that contained a generous
portion of the meat he had caught, as well as a few meager
vegetables. He wasn’t nearly as hungry as usual, and the
cold and damp hardly bothered him, but he had reasons other
than the pleasure of human company, the shared meal and a
rude shelter for seeking out these travelers and gaining
their trust.
“Have you come from Inverness?” Duncan asked.
“Oh, aye,” Angus nodded, taking another sip from his jug.
“But we stayed to the outskirts. There’s more tinkers and
peddlers there than is good for business, and we must ever
be wary of Campbells and the King’s men, even this far
north.” He passed the jug to Duncan again.
Duncan nodded, sipping carefully, then passing the jug to
Colin. “Then you passed through Strathconnon Forest coming
this way?” he asked casually.
“Och, there’s a place that’ll give ye a richt fleg,” Colin’s
wife observed. She had rejoined them at the fire after
checking on the children, who now seemed to be genuinely
asleep.
“And why is that?” Duncan asked.
“It feels like someplace the Daoine Sithe would gather, full
of dark places, caves and old ruins. I swear we saw a light
coming right out of the side of a mountain one night when we
camped there years ago,” she told him in a loud whisper,
looking carefully over her shoulder as though the spirits in
question might be listening. “We always pass through as
quickly as can be. Tis only a day’s travel east of here, and
I advise you to head south if you want to skirt round its
darkest parts.”
“Enough of your tales, ye bletherskate!” Angus growled,
passing the jug around once more. “Tis all nonsense. You
would’na know a cruithneach if one came and pinched your
arse. For all you know, young Duncan here might be the devil
himself!” Angus leered a little drunkenly at him and Duncan
decided they had all had enough to drink, and passed the jug
without swallowing any of the strong liquor.
He slept in the MacGregor’s camp that night, his sword kept
close by his side, no matter that they had a shared reason
for distrust of authority, and of nosy strangers. The next
day they parted company, with the peddlers heading west for
the small village of Scardroy while Duncan turned east on
the final leg of his journey.
The forest grew thicker around him, dimming the already gray
light. Eventually he turned off the trail left by previous
travelers on the road from Inverness, and moved upwards,
climbing a barely marked trail into steep, rocky hills. The
afternoon waned and the rain finally slacked off, and still
he kept moving even though he was hungry and cold and tired.
Each time he thought about stopping to rest, to set some
snares for his dinner, he found himself moving again before
he could decide on a decent camping sight.
Night fell, and he was still walking, trodding step after
step, sore and tired, his mind almost blank as whatever
force kept him going pushed him further into the hills. He
picked anything edible he could find as he went, chewing
just to keep something in his mouth, to trick himself into
thinking he was eating.
Then he froze, still in the process of chewing a bitter,
dried berry he had found. An ugly, terrifying and vaguely
familiar sensation had settled over him – of sound that
wasn’t sound, a feeling that made his heart clutch in his
chest and his hand instinctively close over his sword. He
swiveled his head around nervously, certain there was some
threat just out of reach, but found only a soft flickering
glow that seemed to come from within the ground itself, and
he remembered the MacGregors’ warning.
He took a few deep breaths, chastising himself for his
childish fears. It was only a cave, lit from some campfire
within. The smell of cooking meat wafted out to greet him
and his mouth flooded and his stomach rumbled in response.
He moved cautiously forward, parting the bushes that
shrouded the entrance and letting his eyes adjust to the
large and well-lit space. Torches were placed in niches in
the cavernous walls, and a well-made fire blazed merrily
under a spit where meat was cooking, its juices dripping
into the popping, snapping flames, the delicious smell
mixing with an underlying odor of smoke and dust and decay.
Carefully mortared arches and an old carved Celtic cross
identified the space as more than a cave, but its original
use had been long abandoned. The smoke and the wavering
torchlight seemed to wash the color out of the room, leaving
only the red-gold of dust of ages that covered everything,
including the robed figure sitting by the fire. The man
turned to eye his visitor and Duncan froze.
“It took you long enough.” The man’s speech was slow and
hoarse, as though his voice was rusty with disuse. “What’re
you lookin’ at?” he demanded. “Come by the fire. It’s ne’r
fit a day for man nor spirit.” He lifted the spit of meat,
delicately pulling a piece off and popping it into his
mouth.
“Aye,” Duncan agreed, moving a little closer to the food. If
he were polite and agreed with the old man, maybe he would
share a little of his dinner.
“Help yourself.” A scrawny hand gestured towards the food,
but as much as Duncan wanted it, some voice within urged
caution. The cave seemed eerie and almost unnatural, a place
out of time, as did the man by the fire, whose hair and
beard were long and unkempt, his face drawn and thin like
some long-dead corpse.
“I did not know anyone lived in these parts.” Duncan
cautiously moved closer to the food but kept his hand on his
sword.
“Aye. It’s a good place for a man to lose himself,” the old
man said, his eyes lighting up with a sly smile. “They
canna’ find you here, the ones who call you demon,” he added
with an ugly laugh.
“No one calls me demon!” The lie escaped Duncan’s lips
before he had a chance to think about it. Was there now some
mark on his face, some indelible brand that let everyone see
what he was?
“You been w’ nae home nor clan for three years, now,” the
old man observed, but the closer Duncan got to the food, the
less he really listened to the old man’s babble. Now the man
was almost singing to himself. “But that’s over,” he lilted.
“Soon he’ll find you.”
“Who?” Duncan's entire concentration was now on the food,
and he asked only to be polite. He knelt and tore a large
piece of meat off the spit, burning his fingers, but eager
to eat it before the crazy old man changed his mind and
chased him away.
“The one who will teach you what you need to know,” the man
answered in a sing-song voice, ending with a high, giggling
laugh.
“Who are you talkin’ about?” Duncan asked in disgust, mostly
at his own earlier fears of the harmless loon.
“Your kinsman, Connor MacLeod.” The man’s odd, light eyes
drilled into him as though he knew him.
Duncan paused with more meat halfway to his mouth. Then he
shook off the moment of strangeness. “Connor MacLeod is a
legend,” he scoffed.
“Oh, so you say, young Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”
The old man pronounced the name carefully and distinctly.
Duncan froze, the old man's words finally coming together in
his mind. He stood, backing away from the fire and from the
man’s eerie declaration. “How do you know my name?” he
demanded.
“Oh, I kine your name, Duncan MacLeod, and I kine your
destiny.”
“No man knows that,” Duncan insisted, even though the words
sparked an ominous thrill of a memory, or perhaps a snatch
of an old, bad dream.
The old man’s voice sank to a whisper and his eyes seemed to
focus on something only he could see. “What we are is
written in the wind long before we walk this world, the
roads we travel and where they lead us.”
At last things seemed to fall into place – the driving need
that had led him here, and all the old man’s strange
babbling. “You’re a seer!” Duncan whispered, kneeling so he
could see the man's face better in the flickering light.
“I have waited in this place for 600 years for you!” the man
declared.
Whatever else the man was, he clearly was insane and Duncan
carefully checked behind him to make sure the cave mouth was
close. Then the hermit moved with a strength and suppleness
that belied his age, suddenly grabbing at the pile of
discarded bones by the fire, startling Duncan into jumping
up and backing away.
“The bones!” the hermit whispered as he crouched, fingering
the well worn remains. “The bones will tell your destiny.”
He tossed them in the air then studied the patterns they
made as they fell in the dust. “Aye, you’re blessed and
you’re cursed.”
Duncan looked at the random scattering of old bones in
confusion, wondering how anything could be known from them,
for surely he was cursed. But blessed?
“When your time comes you must be prepared to face an evil
beyond any you can imagine,” the hermit intoned, then his
voice lowered, echoing oddly against the rocks of the cave.
“And evil is n’or the color black. Tis the color of blood.
Every thousand years he comes, and he must be fought. Long
ago I did my part. But now the responsibility is yours.”
“What responsibility?” Duncan scoffed. “I have no clan, no
people. No place.” The seer could not be speaking of him,
since a clanless wanderer was of no use to anyone.
But the hermit stood smoothly and the heavy mantle of age
seemed to fall away. “But you have your destiny!” he assured
him in a ringing voice. “Raise that blade!” he demanded, and
put his hand to his own throat. “Strike here. Take my head.
Taste the truth of what you are!”
“Och, you are mad,” Duncan breathed in horror, backing away.
“I have no quarrel with you!”
“No, listen. Listen!” the man insisted. “My road is ending,
but yours has far to go.” He reached out with a powerful
hand and grabbed Duncan’s shirt. “Take my head!”
“No!” Duncan pushed away, and turned to go, but the
distinctive sound of metal against stone made him turn back
and he saw the man, whom he could no longer call old because
he moved like a seasoned warrior, was threatening him with
an ancient sword.
“You must kill me, Highlander!” he shouted as he charged.
Duncan yanked his sword from its scabbard, ducking around
the cave’s irregular formations and blocking blows as the
hermit swung at him. All Duncan wanted was to get away. The
very thought of killing this crazy seer made his blood run
cold.
“Come back here, ya wee scamp! You’re a disgrace to your
clan,” the hermit taunted, moving far more quickly and
easily than Duncan would have expected. They traded blows as
Duncan fended the man off, backing away and ducking. But
suddenly the hermit had grabbed hold of Duncan’s blade with
a bare hand, yanking it up to his beard-shrouded neck. There
was a look of wild triumph in the crazy man’s eyes and
Duncan would have pulled his blade away, but doing so would
have severed the hermit’s fingers.
They froze, and for a brief second, Duncan hoped that the
hermit had found some measure of sanity. Then the man’s
mouth widened into a parody of a grin. “Yes!” he whispered,
and Duncan’s blade jerked in his hand.
It happened so quickly, and so slowly, as though the nature
of time itself moved and shifted. The hermit’s head toppled
impossibly away from his shoulders, then the body wavered
and tipped, collapsing with a puff of ancient dust.
Duncan just stared at the rolling head and the headless
body, dumbfounded and sickened.
A low moaning noise filled the cave, echoing through its
chambers as the wind picked up, swirling around him, blowing
the fire of the torches until their light distorted the
cave’s many shadows and it seemed they moved and danced with
malevolent life.
A spear of lightening flashed inside the cave and Duncan
gasped and cried out at the snapping tendrils of energy
flailing on and around him. Then the bolts of energy struck
again, and it felt like he was set afire. It was in him, it
was burning on and under his skin and behind his eyes in
searing flashes of pain beyond any he had ever known was
possible. He was cast about like a child in a tempest, his
muscles contracting of their own accord, his sword and his
scabbard thrown into contact above his head where they
seemed to attract even more of the energy that then ran down
into his body, filling him and filling him and filling him
until he screamed in terror and agony.
Surely hell had finally opened up and swallowed him whole.
Fire lit up in a wide circle around him and he was thrown at
last to his knees, then onto his back where he lay, helpless
and still thrashing uselessly, aware only of the horrifying,
utterly alien visions that flooded his mind. Visions of
blood and death, of great evil and overwhelming power, and
he could not tell whether the evil was within himself, or
was something – as the crazy hermit had insisted – he was
supposed to fight in some epic battle. But it mattered not.
Nothing mattered.
Nothing.
~~~~~~
Cont. in Chapter 7, part 2.