Forging the Blade/Wilderness Years, Chap. 7, Part 2/2
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Sat, 9 Jun 2001 20:02:37 -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, Part 2
~~~~~~~
Pain…thirst…hunger.
.
Cool…darkness…voices.
Cloth…sleep…food.
A hand…a light…a taste.
A voice, gentle and soothing.
“Come on, lad, you can do it. That’s it. A little more. One
more spoonful.”
A round face swam in and out of focus.
“Well, God be praised, lad. Are you looking at me?”
Duncan reached out to see if the face was real.
“You are! Father Andrew, he’s looking at me!”
Another face peered at him, this one darker, narrower. A
hand waved in front of his eyes. “Can you see me, son?” the
second face asked.
Duncan tried to answer, but his throat wasn’t working very
well, so he nodded, and the dark face smiled broadly. “We
were beginning to worry about you, lad. Here,” a
brown-draped arm held up a cup, urging him to drink.
Duncan’s lips felt oddly numb, and the room tilted
sickeningly as a strong arm helped him sit up and drink.
The liquid helped lubricate his throat and he finally
managed to speak. “What happened? Where am I?”
“You are at the kirk in Strathconnon,” the monk explained
slowly. “We found you collapsed in the kirkyard three days
ago. You have lain here since, raving about fire and swords
and pain, but the last day or so, you finally seemed to
sleep for awhile. Mrs. Cochrane here was just trying to feed
you some soup.”
Duncan just stared at him, then let his eyes wander over the
dusty, crowded room. He was lying on a cot. There was a
table to one side holding one candle, a bowl of what smelled
like soup, and a carafe of water. Barrels, old chests and
sacks of grain were piled against one wall and crowding the
floor space, and the round-faced woman who he had first seen
was standing by the door, looking quite pleased with
herself.
“Do you remember any of what happened?” the priest asked.
"Folks said there was some sort of storm in Strathconnon
Forest a few nights back, that the earth shook from the
thunder and that some of the caves up in the hills
collapsed."
Duncan thought back for a minute, but his heart began to
speed and the air in the room grew very thin and cold, and
he shivered. The woman and the priest glanced at each other.
“It’s all right, lad. You don’t need to think about it now.
Just rest.” They left almost soundlessly, but Duncan was
grateful they had not taken the lit candle. He had never
been afraid of the dark before, but for some reason the soft
glow gave him some comfort.
He lay back on the cot. What had happened? He closed his
eyes, reconstructing events, his meeting with the
MacGregors, then he had gone to Strathconnon Forest, had
been looking for shelter for the night and seen a cave…
His heart started pounding again and he had to swallow from
the cup of water left on the table to counter the painful
dryness in his throat, holding it with both hands when he
shook so hard he was afraid it would spill. He didn’t want
to think about what had happened. It was something awful,
something…
He grabbed his head with a small cry. No. He wouldn’t think
about it. That crazy old man. The flames. The visions of
blood and death. The bolts of energy searing his flesh. He
had heard of rape, had even seen its aftermath, but now he
knew. He wrapped his arms around his knees and rocked,
keening softly to himself, trying to block out the visions
that had burned themselves into his eyelids. This was the
final proof then, of what he was, of what his life was to
be.
He closed his eyes and rocked some more, trying desperately
not to think about it.
~~~~~~~
Duncan had been put on a cot in a spare storeroom of the
chuch while the priest and one of the local village women
tended to his needs, since whenever they tried to take him
out of the church, his ravings would grow frantic and he
would start to fight them. Even now that his mind had
cleared, he was loathe to leave the building, even though he
knew in his heart that it was the last place he ought to be.
The visions he had seen, what he had…done. Slowly the
details came back to him, startling him with snatches of
memory that made his blood run cold, leaving him shivering
and rocking on his small pallet.
But whatever had happened, his body recovered with
remarkable speed, and soon he found himself pacing the small
cell, needing to move, his muscles twitching. The very air
seemed to caress his skin and he was more acutely aware than
ever of his isolation, his enforced celibacy, his
deprivation of touch, of taste, of smell – every sense
seemed enhanced, every color more vivid and hearing the
sounds of voices in the church, he was drawn to the door of
his storeroom and across the hallway.
“I know they’re in the area, Father. You have a duty to tell
me if you’ve seen them,” a voice demanded.
“My duty, sir, is to God,” he heard Father Andrew say in a
tight, snappish tone.
“And to the King,” the other voice insisted.
“And to his subjects, my lord,” Father Andrew stubbornly
insisted.
Duncan looked around the edge of the archway and saw Father
Andrew standing in the nave of the chapel, his arms crossed
tightly over his chest, facing a man whose shoulders were
covered in a dark, heavily embroidered cloak. A leather and
silver scabbard could be seen at his side, and tooled
leather boots protected his feet. The soft, dark blue velvet
hat was decorated by a huge, exotic black feather that
drifted with even the slightest movement.
Father Andrew’s eyes flickered over the other man’s shoulder
as he spotted Duncan, and with a small, discrete gesture of
his hand, the priest warned Duncan to stay out of sight.
“Do not think your priestly robes will protect you if I find
you have been harboring those criminals,” the noble
insisted.
“It is not robes that protect me, my Lord, but the spirit of
God and his son, Jesus Christ,” the priest announced, his
chin held high.
Duncan ducked back as the man gave a small growl of
frustration and spun on his heel. Duncan emerged a few
seconds later after he heard the door of the church booming
closed behind the unwelcome visitor. Father Andrew gave him
a tight smile, and Duncan noticed the priest was trembling
slightly, his face pale and shiny with sweat.
“Are you all right, Father?”
Father Andrew nodded, then blew out a deep breath. “Never
get involved in politics, young man. Tis bad for the
health.”
“Aye, no doubt,” Duncan agreed. He looked carefully out the
crack between the hinge and the door to the sanctuary, to
see the nobleman who had been harassing Father Andrew mount
an impressive chestnut stallion held by one of a dozen
heavily armed men, most in the rich colors of the Campbell
or MacKinnon tartans.
“Tis young Jamie Campbell, the Earl of Argyle’s second son.
He wants to make a name for himself and is convinced there
are MacGregor’s in the area who have not abided by the
proscription,” Father Andrew told him, waving him into the
back of the Sanctuary, and through a door onto a covered
passageway that led to a small cottage. The priest opened
the door and gestured Duncan in.
The inside was sparsely furnished, but cheery nonetheless.
The smell of spices and meat filled the air and Duncan’s
stomach grumbled loudly and he flushed in embarrassment,
drawing an amused look from Father Andrew. “No need to be
shy about it, lad. You’ve hardly eaten for days, and you
look like you’ve traveled a hard road. Sit,” he added,
waving him into a chair.
“Father,” Duncan began, wondering how quickly he could
leave. If even the old hermit had seen he was a demon,
surely a man of God would soon sense what he was. “Tis kind
of ye to take me in and all, but you needn’t…”
“Oh, sit, lad!” Father Andrew insisted over his shoulder. He
was already serving up thick stew into bowls and cutting of
a large piece of bread for each of them. “Mrs. Cochrane has
been dithering over you for days, wondering whatever
happened to so distress “such a ‘bra lad,”” he grinned as he
put the bowls and bread on the table, and pulled up a chair
for himself. “If you’re not careful, I swear the good woman
will be taking you home to meet her daughters. She’s got
three of them, you know, and none of them married.” He
eagerly dipped his spoon into his bowl and ate a large
mouthful, so Duncan hesitantly echoed his actions.
“So, tell me where you’re from and how you came to be
wandering in my graveyard,” Father Andrew finally
instructed, and when Duncan looked up, the man’s dark eyes
were studying him curiously.
“I…I honestly don’t know how I came to be here, Father,”
Duncan answered slowly. It wasn’t a lie. He remembered
nothing after the flames had circled him and the lightening
had thrown him to the ground.
They ate in silence for a moment.
“Can you tell me where you’re from?” the priest asked gently
at last. “You can speak freely here, lad. I’m no friend of
the English King.”
Duncan shrugged. “I’m originally from Glenfinnan. I…I was
accused of…I don’t even know how to explain it, but there
are those who said I was evil, and I was…cast out. I thought
surely you could…could see it on me, like a brand.”
Father Andrew was silent again for a long while, until both
men had finished their stew, and sopped up the gravy with
the bread. Then he sat back and crossed his arms, studying
his guest. “It has been my experience that evil comes in all
shapes and sizes, as does good, but that it doesna’ usually
take refuge on consecrated ground. Do you think you are
evil?”
Duncan closed his eyes, but all he could see was the old
hermit’s head rolling off of his shoulders. “I don’t know. I
don’t want to be. I was told my destiny was to fight some
great evil, but then…” A shudder wracked his body and he
couldn’t say any more.
“Well, there is much evil in the world to do battle
against,” the priest stated grimly. “Yon young nobleman for
one, may God forgive me for saying so.”
“Why?”
“Jamie Campbell is determined to outstrip his brother,
Archibald, who is destined to be the next Earl. Young
Archibald, frankly, is less inclined to play toady to the
King, and thus has left an opening for his younger brother.
Jamie has already convinced the King to make him the Baron
Kintyre, and his ambition to be a force in the Clans has
made him ruthless. I have seen him execute MacGregor men on
the spot, and whip and sell into slavery women and children
whose husbands refused to denounce and set aside their
Gregor heritage.”
“And does no one stop him?” Duncan demanded, shocked that
any Highlander would enslave his own people.
“Who is to stop him? He has the King’s proscription behind
him, and usually at least a dozen armed men.”
“No Highland man would stand by and let that happen!”
Father Andrew raised an amused eyebrow at him. “If I didn’t
know better, lad, I’d say you would be speaking treason.”
“Tis not treason to protect your clan!” Duncan snapped. He
had not been surprised the small family of MacGregors he had
met were wary, but he had not realized they were in such
immediate danger. He sat for a minute, enduring the father’s
indulgent smile, when a quiet realization washed over him.
It suddenly seemed so utterly clear and obvious, he felt
stupid for not having seen it before. “They are gathering,
aren’t they?” he asked the priest.
“Gathering?”
“Aye. A gathering. The clanless, the outlaws, especially the
MacGregors. To fight the Campbells, to defend their
families.”
“Well, I wouldna’ know about tha’,” the priest quickly
turned away to tidy up from their meal.
“Father,” Duncan formed the words carefully, the ideas
clarifying in his mind as he spoke. “I have no clan, I have
no gifts, no talents, no property. All I have is my sword
and this…ability…to survive. Don’t you see, that’s what I am
supposed to do! That’s what the seer must have meant.”
Father Andrew was now studying him with concern. “Easy,
lad,” he came over and put a hand gently on Duncan’s
shoulder. “I know you’ve had a hard time of it, but perhaps
you’re still not thinking clearly. You should rest…”
“Nay!” Duncan stood, suddenly energized, his purpose clear
for the first time in three years. “You must tell me where I
can find them, Father. For this is one thing I can do, and
do well, to fight for those who otherwise have few to defend
them. To die in place of those who have others to care for,
and who care for them.”
“Och, I’ll hear no talk of dying, lad,” Father Andrew’s dark
eyebrows crowded together under the shaggy line of thick
graying hair that fell over his forehead.
Duncan laughed, but that only increased the priest’s obvious
concern. “But that’s why this is what is meant to be, did ye
not know? Had ye not realized what I am? I’m Duncan MacLeod
of the Clan MacLeod, who was killed at Glen Garven, but
refused to die!” Duncan spread his arms, able to smile about
what had happened for the very first time since that dark,
horrible day. But Father Andrew’s face paled and he stepped
back and crossed himself.
That made Duncan chuckle even more, for reasons he could not
have explained. “Dinna’ fash yourself, Father. I just need
to know where the MacGregors or their defenders are
gathering and I’ll trouble you no more.”
Father Andrew had backed to the wall, his lips pressed
tightly together. A bright spot of color had appeared on
each cheek and he was blinking rapidly, but after a moment,
he slowly nodded. “Very well, then,” he said softly. “You’ll
find them in the mountains north of Scardroy.”
Duncan nodded. “You may not want thanks from such as I, but
you have them nonetheless. No doubt I came here because it
felt safe, and you gave me shelter and care when I needed it
most.” He held out his hand, but the priest hesitated, so
Duncan took it back and just nodded, then headed back to the
storeroom to collect his sword and other belongings before
he headed off, his purpose clear at last.
He was outside the church, standing in the dusty road that
ran through the center of the village, checking the sun to
determine his direction when he heard a voice behind him.
“God go with you, Duncan MacLeod.”
He turned, and saw Father Andrew framed in the doorway of
the sanctuary, one hand raised in benediction. He smiled. “I
know not whether tis God or the Devil who travels with me,
Father, but I thank you anyway.” Father Andrew nodded with a
tight smile before he gently closed the church door.
To Be Continued....