Forging the Blade/The Wilderness Years, Chap 2, pt. 1/2
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Sat, 5 May 2001 21:39:27 -0400
Forging the Blade
by MacGeorge
The Wilderness Years
See Part 0 for acknowledgements and disclaimers.
Chapter Two, Part 1
As the last distant rumble of his disappearing clan faded
away, the agony of the wound that had ripped him open and
bled him out blossomed afresh. Duncan's knees buckled and he
found himself kneeling in the dirt, clutching again at his
belly, choking for air. But there was no wound, no blood.
Then why did he feel like he was dying all over again? Was
this the hell the priests talked about?
He folded over, his forehead in the dirt, his eyes tightly
shut, hoping this time maybe he really would die. Please
God, let it be that in his final death throes he was only
seeing pain-induced visions. That he hadn't somehow managed
to so shame and disgust his father and his entire clan that
they had abandoned him, rejected him, thrust him out of
their lives, out of his own life.
The smell of dust, of smoke, of blood, of the scent of his
own sweat and fear filled his nostrils, cramping his stomach
even more. And still he didn't die. At last he realized
that the pain wasn't in his gut. It was in his chest where
his heart felt like it was being slowly crushed in a giant's
hand. He lay there, folded over in the dirt for a long
time, hoping, praying that - any minute now - he was going
to die like he was supposed to.
It got darker. The smoke from the fires that had been set
began to drift away and he could hear footsteps.
"Tis an evil spirit!" whispered voices all around him. He
didn't move. Maybe it was another vision. Not real. Maybe
they would go away.
"He came back from the dead!" a woman's voice said. "I saw
it! Then his own father called him demon!"
A booted foot slammed into him, rolling him onto his side
and he finally dared open his eyes. A small circle of
tattered and smoke-stained villagers had formed around him,
staring at him wide-eyed, like he was some newborn deformed,
two-headed lamb that had brought the shadow of an evil omen
into their midst.
"I'm nay a demon!" he growled at them. "I am Duncan MacLeod
of the Clan MacLeod!"
The villagers looked at each other. "Nay," said the man who
had kicked him. "I heard the MacLeods talking. Ye're
a...banshee...a Dusii."
The women in the group gathered their skirts, stepping back
even further. "Aye, look at him," the man went on, warming
to his audience, "That face is meant to seduce our women, to
steal their souls."
One of the women picked up a rock and threw it at him,
cursing. It hit his shoulder and he scrabbled away on all
fours, tripping on his plaid and landing in the dirt again.
"Begone, demon!" she yelled. "Go back to the depths of hell
from whence ye came!" Someone else pelted something at him,
and he scrambled to his feet, finally turning and running,
their shouts and curses echoing behind him.
He ran until the village was far behind him, the sounds of
shouts and curses faded, the distant noise of battle long
gone. He gradually slowed, then stopped, leaning over to
grasp his knees, gasping for air. His breath eventually
calmed, but not the painful thunder of his heart. He looked
back at the village, barely visible in the gathering
darkness, then towards the battleground of Glen Garven. He
didn't know what to do. Had nowhere to go. No one to turn
to. At last he turned northwest, putting one foot in front
of the other, instinctively heading towards the only home he
had ever known.
Hours passed and still he walked, the steady movement the
only thing he knew to do until light began to show the
shapes of hills and valleys, and he saw he was only a few
miles from home - a place he was no longer welcome. His
feet were sore, he was thirsty and tired and cold. His
shirt was in bloody rags, his cloak was gone, his weapons
lost. There was a small creek up in the hills where he used
to take the sheep when he was still a lad. There was also a
small shelter up there, built so the herdsman would be
protected in sudden bad weather. They were the first
rational, practical thoughts he had had since...since he'd
died.
But...but...if he had died...was dead...why was he hungry?
Why was he so cold, footsore, thirsty and tired? Why had he
been abandoned, somewhere between life and death? Was he
truly a demon, as his father had proclaimed? If so, why
didn't he feel any different? He had no desire to harm
anyone, no sudden evil yearnings.
He stumbled, his foot striking a rock he had been too tired
to see and he fell, scraping his hands and knees on the
rough stones. His throat closed and a tear escaped, cooling
instantly as it rolled down his face. He swept it away, his
face hot with shame. He hugged his knees, and put his head
down, too tired to rise and not certain any destination was
worth the effort.
He sat for a few minutes, feeling numb and lost, but some
stubborn urge pushed him to his feet again. Whether his
father acknowledged him or not, he was still Duncan MacLeod
of the Clan MacLeod. A destination, a goal, was a
fundamental part of his life. He would keep going. He
would find an answer.
~~~~~~~
Two more days of squatting in the small herdsman's lean-to,
eating naught but a few wild herbs, some nearly rotted nuts
and two or three field mice he had managed to snare with the
tattered threads of his torn shirt, and he was no nearer to
understanding what had happened. Only hungrier, and
constantly cold. He had water, but little else, and his
days were spent in a futile search for food while avoiding
any chance encounters with any villagers. His nights were
spent in sleepless misery, his back pressed against the
rough slats of the three-sided structure, hugging himself
for warmth from the cold wind and frequent rain.
His strength was fading fast, and without a weapon or a
decent cloak...well, he may be dead already, but his misery
would only get worse. He had no skein to carry water, so he
drank as much as his stomach would hold from the small, icy
stream that had drawn him to the spot, and set out long
before first light, reaching Jean MacClure's small croft
near dawn.
He crouched at the top of the rise, wrapping his arms around
himself as best he could against the cold. The light inside
the cabin grew, glowing warm in the distance. At last Jean
emerged, her thick shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders,
then tied around her waist. Well-practiced movements were
sure and graceful as she fed their two pigs, as well as the
one old pony they kept for pulling the cart that transported
a small crop of vegetables to the village market twice a
week.
She turned to head back into the house, her gaze scanning
the horizon - and she stopped, looking straight at him. He
stayed very still, not knowing what to expect, whether she
would throw a rock at him and curse him as the others had,
or...maybe it had all been a terrible dream. Maybe she
would invite him in, take him into her arms, and he could
warm himself at her fire, rest and eat and return to his
father's house, and...She backed up a few steps, turned and
went back inside, closing the door firmly behind her.
The sun was peeking above the horizon when Caitlin, Jean's
eight-year-old daughter, came out the door, carrying the
household chamber pot to empty. She looked in Duncan's
direction several times, but kept to her chore, disappearing
behind the house, then returning. She paused and put the
pot down, walked solemnly up to within a few feet of him and
stopped.
"Hello," she said softly, raising her small hand in a shy
wave. She had always thrown herself into his arms for him
to swing her around while she giggled and squealed with
delight.
"Hel..." his voice cracked and he had to clear it before he
could speak. "Hello," he managed at last.
"Mother said to pretend you weren't there, but you are
there, so I just wanted to know what the game was, and when
you were going to come in," Catrina announced in one long
breath. She had always had a will as strong as her
mother's, and an insatiable curiosity.
"I'm not coming in this time, lass. I just stopped by to
see if you all were well. Tell your mother I...no, just go
on back inside, and I'll be on my way." He stood, swaying a
little before the earth seemed solid underneath his feet.
The door to the hut opened. "Cat!" Jean called. "Get back
in the house!"
"But Mother..."
"I said get back in the house now!" Jean demanded, her arms
crossed and her chin raised high.
"It's alright, Jean," Duncan said. "I'll just be leaving.
I did'na mean to frighten you."
Caitlin had already started back to the house, but kept
looking back and forth between her mother and the man she
had begun to think of almost as a father. "But 'tis just
Duncan, Mother! Why does'na he...?"
"Quiet, daughter!" Jean hissed. "Just get in the house."
The girl went inside and Jean stood, watching him.
There were so many things he wanted to say, wanted to ask,
but he couldn't stand the look on her face, just couldn't
bear it another moment, so he turned away, not having any
idea where he would go next, what he would do.
"Duncan, wait!"
He stopped but didn't turn around. If she was going to
curse him or throw something at him, he didn't want to see.
"Just...wait there a minute," she said, her voice breaking.
He turned, but she was headed back into the house. He stood
there awhile, viewing the windswept, rocky hills. He had
finally stopped shivering, hardly even felt the cold
anymore. It was so very like only a few mornings before,
when he had stood in this same spot, alive and well and
wondering what the day would bring. And now...
Jean emerged, her arms holding a large bundle. She
approached, but stopped several feet away, put the bundle on
the ground and backed off.
"It...it's not much. A few things of Robbie's I never had
the heart to part with, a pair of breeches and some pelts he
had left behind, his dirk and some bread." She shrugged
uncomfortably when he started to say something. "I know I
shouldn't. Everyone says you've been banned from the Clan,
that you're evil, that you rose from the dead, that to speak
to you is to risk being cursed by God and by the Clan," her
voice caught in a sob. "I dinna know what to believe, but I
canna risk the children, Duncan! Please, you must
understand! If they know I've helped you..."
"Hush, Jean," he started to move to her, to comfort her, but
she backed off with a sharp intake of breath, and he froze
in place. "I don't know what happened, or why it happened.
I don't feel any different. I just...I just wish I
understood what I did to cause all this." He couldn't think
of anything else to say that wouldn't sound like shameful
self pity, like he was begging for sympathy. "But I don't
wish to put you or the bairns in any danger."
She nodded, tears now streaming down her face and it was all
Duncan could do to hold back his own. She backed off as he
came forward to pick up the bundle. Then she turned and
headed back towards the house.
"Jean!" he couldn't help himself from calling her, unwilling
yet to relinquish a precious moment of human contact. She
stopped, but didn't turn around. "If...if you have a chance
to see my mother, if you could tell her..." Tell her what?
If he wasn't her son any longer, what was there to say?
"Tell her I love her," he finally said.
But Jean just nodded, her head jerking up and down. She
answered very softly, but Duncan thought she said, "I'll
try," before she disappeared back into the house.
~~~~~~~
The luxury of the old, musty, moth-eaten pelts seemed like a
miracle as great as the mysterious disappearance of his
wounds. He pulled on the breeches, belting them with a
braided rope he made of some remnants of his ruined shirt
and pulled the pelts over his shoulders for wamth, examining
them with a practiced eye to see how he might eventually
piece them together. He would use his torn and bloodied
plaid as a carryall and a ground cover, and tucked the most
precious gift, the knife, carefully away into his makeshift
belt. It was dull, but he knew where to find stones that
would sharpen its edge.
With it, he could strip and trim branches to make a better
shelter, perhaps even carve a bow and make some arrows. He
could skin animals and use their pelts and hides for water
skeins and leather goods. Suddenly, the work of survival
didn't seem quite so insurmountable. It was also something
to occupy his thoughts other than his abandonment by
everyone he knew, his lack of clan, or family, or friends.
The bread was stale and hard, but tasted as good as any his
mother had ever made.
He would live. He would survive. And ultimately he would
show them all that they were wrong. He was no demon. He
would prove it to them and they would have to take him
back. Mayhap this was some kind of test to see if he had
what it took to overcome whatever was put in his path.
Well, they would learn about the will and determination of
Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.
~~~~~~~
The initial burst of certainty was followed by long, hard
days and weeks of barely finding enough to eat, of having
little energy for building a better shelter, for making
better snares, for finding the right wood to carve a bow or
fashion arrows. Even so, each day passed with a little more
done, despite a recurring wish in the depths of another
cold, lonely, hungry night that the dawn would not come,
that his life somehow would end as it should have, that he
had truly died in his father's arms, covered in the blood of
honorable battle.
But whatever wishes or nightmares his darkest of dreams
brought, the dawn always came and the harsh chill of winter
gradually gave way to a cold, wet Spring. The lean-to made
him vulnerable to discovery, so he moved to a shallow cave a
little further up in the hills, protected from casual view
by surrounding bushes. He cleared away a small area around
the makeshift shelter, using pine branches to build further
protection from the wind, although the only real shelter
from the rain was in a small area right under the
overhanging rock.
He tried to keep a fire going just under the overhang, and
lived mostly on rabbits, field mice, and an occasional
bird. A few times, at night, he snuck down to the village
to scoop up leftover grain that had been left for the
animals. If he washed most of the dirt away and soaked
them, mixing them with water on a small concave rock he lay
in the fire, he could make a crude, barely edible gruel.
But it wasn't really the cast-off grain that kept him coming
back to Glenfinnan. He usually found himself squatting in
the dark at the edge of the village, listening to the
distant murmur of familiar voices. He had never before
appreciated how comforting the sound of another human voice
was, and once he almost fell asleep sitting under the window
of his parent's home, just listening. Oh, they didn't talk
much, not like the back and forth joking and banter he was
used to hearing. And his name was never mentioned. After
all, he officially did not exist. And his mother rarely
spoke. When she did, there was a mournful tone to her voice
that made Duncan's heart ache.
On his third or fourth visit, he was surprised and wary when
he found a dark bundle on the ground beneath the window. He
knelt, not sure what might be hidden in the shadows, but a
touch of his hand found cloth, and he unfolded his own
cloak, and beneath it his claymore and dirk and one of his
old plaids. Rolled inside the cloak was a loaf of fresh
bread and a small haunch of venison. Duncan sank to the
ground, slowly pulling the cloth to his chest, and for the
first time, he let the tears go, flowing silently down his
cheeks, soaking into the familiar material. He had been so
careful to stay hidden. He had no idea how his mother had
known he had come.
He sat for a long time, unaware of anything but the aching
in his chest and the heat behind his eyes, until raised
voices finally claimed his attention. There were men inside
his father's house.
"The damned thing ruined half our garden!" Duncan recognized
Neil MacGreggor's voice. He had been the bane of his
growing up years, constantly playing cruel jokes on his
younger kinsmen, teasing he and his cousin Robert
unmercifully.
"And ran after my little Bridget," another voice added.
"She fell and could have been killed if her brothers had'na
been there to throw rocks and sticks to chase it off." That
sounded like Donald MacAndie, whose croft was a mile or so
from the village.
"All right, all right," he heard his father's familiar gruff
voice say. Neil, you and I will ride out tomorrow to see if
we can find the old tusker's lair. Once we find where it
holes up, we'll form a hunting party and kill the damn
thing. Might be big enough for a real roasting, eh?" he
offered, but it did not sound as though his heart was in the
hunt. Usually, the opportunity for a joint hunt was a cause
for excitement, then celebration and a feast when the beast
was finally brought down. It was the kind of foray Duncan
would have led in the past. But the mood of the meeting
sounded somber, even grim. Perhaps, Duncan speculated, they
had lost a few too many men to the battle with the
Campbells. Even now, he had no idea how that confrontation
had ended.
Duncan slipped away, chewing on the food and clutching his
cloak, claymore and dirk like precious relics, and an
outrageous idea formed. He could not have considered it
before, but with his sword now in his possession, it was a
possibility. What if he tracked down the tusker? What if
he killed the wild boar himself and presented it to the
village? Would that not prove he was no demon?
But finding and killing a rogue boar was a task best done in
a group, using spears to keep the animal's sharp tusks at a
distance. His mind worked on the problem as he made his way
back to his small shelter.
Days and nights blended into one long, frustrating
struggle. He slept in snatches, mostly during the day,
prowling the area around Glenfinnen at night when he was
less likely to encounter any villagers. He had considered
himself a fair hunter, but searching for the trail of the
wild boar that was roaming the area, tearing up gardens and
making a general nuisance of himself, was proving
difficult. He could not easily see any tracks in the dark
of night, and his quest to kill the boar meant he had less
time and energy for hunting for himself. He knew he was
getting thin, could feel the bones of his face far more
prominently when he periodically scraped off his stubborn
whiskers. But when he caught the boar and presented it to
his father, he didn't want to look like some clanless wild
man.
He imagined putting on his plaid, his cloak swinging from
his shoulders, with his claymore visible at his waist. He
would walk into the center of the village, carrying the
prize of the hideous beast's head to lay at his father's
doorstep as everyone came out to watch. The entire village
would be looking on in amazement and gratitude. His father
would inspect the huge boar in admiration, but Duncan would
just turn and stride away.
But his father would call him back, begging him to stay. I
was wrong, he would say. Please forgive me. Duncan would
hesitate and turn, staring at them all until they lowered
their eyes in shame for having mistreated him so. Do ye
still believe me a demon? he would demand. And his father
would come to him, gather him in his arms and whisper, No.
You are and always have been my son. Then everyone would
gather around...
Duncan shook himself from his daydream. He ached with
weariness, and hunger was so ever-present now, he hardly
noticed it anymore. He had fallen asleep near a trail he
thought the boar sometimes used, and the sun was well up.
Something had awakened him, but he would have to be careful
now to avoid being seen.
He crept out of the small, concealing screen of bushes,
watching warily for other signs of life. A rustle of sound
across the trail drew his attention, and he slowly stood.
There the beast was, rooting in the soft soil among the
brambles of a wild blueberry bush that had yet to flower.
It was a hefty monster, and ugly. The grey-black hairy hide
was marked with scars, its deadly, menacing tusks stained a
dingy yellow. The animal jerked its head up, its ears
twitching nervously and Duncan froze in the act of drawing
his sword.
Small eyes rolled, the boar snorted, grunted and darted away
under the bush with remarkable speed as voices and the
gentle vibration of approaching horses gave away what had
spooked him.
With a low curse, Duncan slipped back into the bushes before
he could be seen, crouching low, listening as the group
approached. It sounded like at least two, probably three
riders. The horses began to dance and whinny nervously.
"Eh, they smell a tusker!" The voice sent Duncan's heart
straight into his throat.
"Aye!" someone responded.
"Steady, lads," his father murmured, either to the horses or
to his men.
Duncan didn't think about it, it just happened, and he found
himself standing in the path of the oncoming riders.
"Father."
Whether because of his sudden appearance or the lingering
scent of the wild boar, the horses reared, and danced away.
"It's the devil!" Neil MacGreggor screeched, barely
controlling his mount. He had never been a good horseman
and was in danger of losing his seat, but Duncan only had
eyes for Iain MacLeod, who reined in his nervous horse with
ease, looking past him as though he were invisible.
"Father, 'tis me. Duncan."
Their eyes finally met and Duncan stepped forward, quieting
his father's gelding with a touch as the other two riders
dashed away in panic. "You know me, do you not?" Duncan
whispered to the animal, smiling wistfully at the horse's
easy acceptance of his familiar presence. "He recognizes
me, but my own flesh and blood does not?" He glanced up,
but his father was stone-faced, so he continued addressing
the horse sadly. "They let me wander away from all men."
"Ye'll not belay me thus, be ye from heaven or hell!" his
father growled, yanking at the reins to pull away.
The resentment and hurt and anger welled up like a sickness,
almost clogging Duncan's throat. "I Am Your Son!" Duncan
shouted.
"NO!" Ian spat back at him. "And you never were! The night
my lady wife gave birth to my only son, stillborn, was
brought into the chamber a boy child to replace that which
was lost!"
"I do not believe you!" Duncan answered defiantly, but his
father's words struck him like a fist, reaching inside and
squeezing his heart.
"Tis the truth! Or God strike me dead! And when the
midwife looked into your eyes - aye, for it was you the
peasant brought in - she cringed back in fear, and said you
were a changeling, left by the forest demons, and we should
cast you out for the dogs!"
"But you did'na," Duncan was pleading now, looking into his
father's face, trying to find some remnant of the love he
had always taken for granted.
"No. I saw the look on my lady's face and I took you in and
banished the midwife, may God forgive me. I buried my wee
son and put you in his place, and no man ever knew you were
not of my blood. You were my heir!"
Duncan wasn't sure if his father was angry or remorseful
that he had ignored his son's true origins for the past
quarter century. "Then where do I come from?" Duncan
demanded.
Iain yanked on the reins and the horse reared, backing away
as Iain MacLeod just shook his head, his expression
unreadable. Regret, anger, fear...Duncan couldn't tell.
"Where do I come from?!"
The Clan Chieftain wheeled his horse around, kicking hard
and urging the animal to a gallop.
"Where Do I Come From!?" Duncan ran after him. WHERE DO I
COME FROM?!! WHERE?" Duncan screamed after his father with
all the anguish that had he had swallowed from the day his
father had first denied him.
His father was wrong. Had to be wrong. He knew who he was,
who he had always been, no matter the circumstances of his
birth. Duncan reached for his claymore, the one his father
had bestowed upon him on his sixteenth birthday. He raised
it defiantly at his father's disappearing shadow. "I AM
DUNCAN MACLEOD OF THE CLAN MACLEOD!!" he proclaimed.
But there was no one there to hear.
Continued in Chapter Two, Part 2