The reckoning, p.26
The Reckoning, page 26
part #50 of The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series
The ground began to rumble and Soni looked immediately at Walter. The thrill of power lit his face like an added streetlamp. He looked at her and laughed. “How could you stand it?” Then his smile fell, and the earthquake died instantly. “Go on, Soni. Try to do something.”
She shook her head. “I already tried. No one can hear me anymore.”
“Bring me a Highlander!” Walter reached a hand out to Fisher and the man began stumbling forward with one hand still holding his wound. “If I take his life, can I bring him back again?”
Soni grabbed Fisher and pushed him behind her. “Ye can’t bring anyone back to life.”
“Oh? Why not? I have all your powers now, along with mine.”
He was right, but he was an old man. He didn’t have many years left to bargain with.
“I won’t let you practice on my Highlanders!”
Walter held out his hand to Wickham, then started humming the Summoning Song. Wickham stepped toward his brother, then stopped and smiled.
Walter screamed, “No!”
A hand-woven wreath sat on his head, and when he reached up to remove it, his sisters slipped smaller versions over his hands. Wickham rushed forward, grabbed Walter around the waist, and lifted him, holding him aloft while the sisters stripped off his shoes and replaced them with strange looking slippers.
Wickham set him down again, then held his arms down when Fisher joined them. The Highlander reached into his sporran and pulled out a necklace of black stones then, held it over Walter’s head.
“Last chance to say yer piece,” Fisher said. “I’m told ye’ll not be able to speak after I let this go.”
The monster’s gaze sought Soni. “Ivy! Think about Ivy!”
Fisher grunted. “No apologies, then?”
Walter’s eyes narrowed. He shook his head. And the necklace dropped onto his neck.
Wickham moved so he was in his brother’s line of sight. “Enjoy yer new power, Walter. For ye’ll have it for less than three days.”
Soni moved closer so she could hear. “I don’t understand.”
The Grandfather took pity on her. “He accepted yer power and yer debt along with it, including all the contracts and conditions with which it was multiplied.
“Ye knew this was going to happen?”
He pointed to the sisters. “Someone knew it would happen. They knew Walter was looking for ye, that he’d take ye if he could. It was their idea that he be given yer debt.”
Soni crossed her arms and looked at the twins. “Oh? Just how long ago did they know?”
“Before Wickham brought ye to me at the last equinox.”
Loretta pointed to the wreath on Walter’s head. “It’s a powerful mind-binder. The broom was harvested by a powerful witch and a Third!”
Lorraine joined in. “From a fairy hill, during a spring equinox, a Super Moon, and total solar eclipse that all fell on the same day.” She winked. “Now, we suggest a little duct tape for his wrists, to keep anything from slipping off. And we wove the sandals ourselves, with gloves of course. A pity we didn’t make them warmer.”
Loretta looked into Walter’s eyes and patted his cheek. “Just deserts, dear. I’m sorry you didn’t deserve better.”
Walter looked away. Loretta sighed and stepped aside so Lorraine could have a word.
“Oh!” She waved two Highlanders closer. “Could you fetch something from my car?” Then she whispered in one man’s ear. The pair returned a few minutes later with Charles Edward Stuart, fresh from the dungeon. “I believe you all know Charlie.”
The prince grumbled, but was careful to keep his lips tight.
Another Highlander covered in colorful Buchanan tartan pushed through the crowd to face their new arrival. With no ceremony at all, he made a quick loop and wrapped a tether around the prince’s wrists before leading him back into the forest of warriors.
Bonnie Prince Charlie, hog-tied.
Loretta waved a hand in the air. “You-who! Please don’t kill him!”
Shock was beginning to sink in at the same rate the cold rose from the ground and forced its way into Soni’s boots. Her Highlanders were free again, alive again! And she wasn’t going to die!
She wasn’t going to die!
She knew Simon stood right behind her, protecting her the only way he knew how. But she wasn’t ready to face him. Not yet. She’d gone and messed everything up, and she had to figure out how to fix it before she dared look at him again. Otherwise, she’d fall apart.
She hadn’t noticed how cold the rest of her was until Wickham stepped close and lent her the heat from his body. “My brother seems to think ye ken something about Ivy?”
Soni looked at Walter and shook her head. “I’ve seen his thoughts. He tried to convince me that it was he who loved her best and it was you who stole her away from him. He claimed he wanted my power so he could win her back again.”
Wickham looked horrified, but she quickly put a reassuring hand on his arm.
“It was all a lie. He only wanted my power to extend his life and torment you. He didn’t realize that ye’re the only one with power to do that. And maybe The Grandfather.”
“So he never really loved Ivy?”
“No. He wanted her only because ye wanted her. When she refused him and went back to Wyoming to have her baby, he wanted her even more. But he hated her too, and he blamed ye for all of it. He thought everything came easily to you. Everyone came easily to you. Ye haunted him even when he thought he was free of you.”
Wickham shook his head as if trying to keep those words from finding purchase in his head. “Do ye happen to ken what hour ye were born?”
“My birth certificate says four in the morning.”
He turned back to Walter. “Well, then, brother. Ye’ve got two days and nearly six hours to live. But I don’t think I’ll turn ye loose to go hunt my wife.” Walter still didn’t seem to understand, so Wickham explained again. “The contract, which ye’ve just accepted, along with her powers, comes due in fifty-four hours. Seventy-nine years will be collected from ye, all in a go.” He grabbed Walter’s arm and faced the rest. “Walter will take his leave now. Ye’ll not be seeing him again.”
Soni blinked and the brothers were gone.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Wickham was careful to arrive in the past a wee while after he and Soni had left it. He found the gypsies about 30 miles from where they’d parted ways that night in 1741. Rollo and his company were camped at Dalmally, on the far side of Loch Awe, just down the shore from Kilchurn Castle. Their camp was alive with activity around a much cheerier campfire than their last. It was a celebration, obviously, of their newfound freedom.
It took a minute for the gypsies to notice him and Walter standing in their midst. Bodies scurried away, leaving a clear path between them and the fire. Rollo jumped to his feet and nervously stepped forward. “What would you have of us…my lord?” He’d been about to say witch, but reconsidered. He glanced back and forth between them, comparing them. “We regret what we were compelled to do—”
“Ye owe me a small debt, aye?” From where he held Walter’s arm, he could feel his brother’s fear, but he ignored it, much like Walter had ignored his own when he’d sealed him in the tunnel ages ago. But it wasn’t revenge he’d been after. He only wanted his family—all his Muir family—to be safe.
Rollo nodded. “You need only name it.” The rest of the camp relaxed slightly, realizing they weren’t going to be slaughtered. But there was still a chance they’d be punished.
“This is my brother,” Wickham said. “I need ye to watch over him for three days. Keep him confined for three full days. That is all I ask.”
Rollo eyed Walter from head to toe, noting the stones and the wreaths that resembled the weapons they’d once used against Wickham and Soni. “Another witch, then? And blood kin, too.” He shrugged. “If you are certain you want this, your favor is cheerfully granted. Is there anything else we humble gypsies can do for you?”
Wickham shook his head. “It is not such an easy favor. This man is far more powerful than Meralda and much more dangerous. But I trust you can contain him?”
Rollo glanced at the road. “Will others seek him out?”
Wickham looked Walter in the eye. “No one will come after him.” To Rollo, he added, “And if he still lives, when the third day is through, it would be best to dispatch him…just as ye did Meralda.”
The tall gypsy frowned and nodded vaguely, then his face cleared and his nod was more enthusiastic. “Just as you say, my lord.”
Even if Rollo hoped to use Walter to hunt for other witches, he’d be sorely disappointed when they found his brother dead in two and a half days—from 79 years being collected all at a go.
“Ye must vow to me, that ye’ll do as I ask. And remember, dire consequences will follow if ye break a promise made to a witch.”
Rollo put his hand over his heart and inclined his head. “I vow I will keep this man confined and powerless for three days. And I will remove his head before the sun rises thereafter.
Walter’s body jerked slightly under the immobilizing stones. Wickham only felt it because he still held onto his brother’s arm. And he continued to hold him until four gypsies came forward to take over, each one focused on keeping the garland on Walter’s limbs.
Finally, he let go and stepped back. “Goodbye, brother. It might not have been your destiny to die here. But today, Fate will dance to my tune.”
He wasn’t a fool, however. He’d ask Fate nicely first…
Back at Culloden…
Soni was glad to see the last of Walter, but the moment would feel more complete with Wickham there. She looked up into Simon’s eyes. “Don’t worry. My uncle will be back in a minute. I’m sure he’ll know what to do.”
Simon shook his head slowly. “There is nothing to do, lass, but say one last goodbye.”
“No!” She reached out to take a hold of his arms, and by some miracle, her hands stopped where his arms began, even though his image wasn’t solid! “Hurry, Simon! Hold me!” When his arms settled around her, the sensation continued, and she sobbed against him.
His chest rose and fell, then the rumble of his voice filled the hollow. “Before my bones I let them lie...” His voice broke, but he sang on, even though she tried to stop him with her fingers pressed against his lips. She didn’t want to hear it! He wasn’t going anywhere!
The former ghosts dragged their caps from their heads and bowed their heads.
“Before my spirit I let fly
Long, I bid ye, dinnae cry
For I’m a’ goin’, gone
A shroud for warmth be all I need
A grave but deeper than for seed
For stone or tomb I’d call it greed
For I’m a’ goin’, gone
The waste of life will not be mine, imagined that I haunt yer days
Ye mustn’t lose a drop of time on me
Look not for signs that I yet bide, turn not yer thoughts back to my face
Ye mustn’t toast a drop of wine to me
Ye’ll prove yer love with just a tear
The rest will be but wasted here
Nae final words will reach my ear
For I’m a’ goin’, gone”
He paused, took a rattling, ghostly breath, then continued.
Toss yer thistle on the ground
Lift thy eyes and turn ye ‘round
From me ye’ll ne’er hear a sound
For I’m a’ goin’, gone
Oh, I’m a’ goin’, gone
Even with her eyes shut tight against the truth, tears seeped out the corners and wet her cheeks. Simon pressed a kiss on the top of her head. When the tangible pressure faded, she let her arms fall away, then opened her eyes.
An obnoxiously bright light shone from thirty feet away. It was a rent in the fabric of the night with the light of day glowing from within.
She panicked. Simon couldn’t leave! They had to wait for Wickham. He’d know what to—
But Simon was gone. The space in front of her was empty. Her aunts stood beyond, weeping and clinging to each other. Though Soni turned, again and again, there was no trace of him. And still, the rent in the air remained.
From among the mob of Highlanders, there were grunts and grumbles as men stepped aside or were pushed. Bonnie Prince Charlie escaped the crush and sprinted toward the light. He crossed himself as he stumbled across the snow-covered grass. When he reached the bright opening, his triumphant laugh sounded more like a whimper. With delicate fingers, he tested the edges, then stepped into the light. The rent snapped closed behind him, then was gone.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” someone grumbled behind her.
It had all happened so fast, Soni hadn’t noticed the strength draining from her legs. She watched, detached, as the cold ground slowly came up to meet her. Her exhaled breath created a white cloud and space for her chest to collapse. She would need to die quickly if she were to catch up with Simon…
The sisters knelt beside her, demanding attention she didn’t have left to give, wrapping a plaid blanket around her shoulders, tucking her filthy cloak between her knee and the cold ground.
“Go away,” she whispered. “Leave me be.”
They were chattering at her, but blood rushing in her ears muffled the words. If she closed her eyes, she could ignore them…
Chapter Forty-Eight
Culloden Moor, April 16, 1746…again.
Simon stood on the front line of the Jacobite ranks with the Camerons to his right. By midday, they faced a mean-spirited rain and the Hanoverian army. Charles Edward Stuart had been taken away from the field for his own safety, so the only thing left to inspire was the Appin Banner—a yellow saltire on a sea of blue silk, held aloft by Dugald Stewart, who stood just off to Simon’s left.
Simon told himself the witch’s prophecy had only been a nightmare, that Aunt Stella wasn’t a witch at all. And if he hadn’t dwelt upon it so often, the dream might have faded by now. And with the enemy licking their chops, it was no time to dwell on silly phantoms swimming in a ball of water.
Just the same, he was prepared to give his life for the defense of Appin. And if it came to it, he would keep a weathered eye out for that stairway to Heaven itself. “Dinnae forget me, Father,” he whispered.
His heart leapt into his throat at the first explosion of artillery fire from the enemy. Poised like cats ready to pounce, he and his comrades found themselves waiting…and waiting, unable to fight until the order was given. But who would give it, with Prince Charlie gone?
Jacobites dropped after each round of cannon and musket fire, and still, the order was not given.
This is madness! Lambs to the slaughter! The witch was right!
The only thing arising from the Jacobite army was the frustrating demand for an order. Give the order! Give the order! But the Highlanders continued raining to the ground like heavy leaves in October. It couldn’t go on!
More smoke rose. More men fell. And still, nothing.
Finally, there was movement on the line. And all those poised fighters leapt forward, joints and sinew ripping out of their frozen stance. Simon brought his musket up, aimed, and got off a shot before anyone might step in his way. The red-clad soldiers began to fall. Not many, but at least it was something.
Round shot whizzed by him, but he spared not a glance, so engrossed was he on reloading. Again, he brought the weapon up to his shoulder. “Fire!” The shout came from his own chest, in case others needed his encouragement. No one bothered to argue. His fellows gratefully returned fire. The Appin Banner fell, along with Dugald Stuart, but it was taken up again. John McLaren fell beside him without so much as a groan.
Thirteen lies to thirteen mothers. Fourteen if he counted his own…
The devils fired twice more before he could reload. How could that be? They’d be slaughtered!
He fired again, then swung his weapon onto his back, pulled his targe over his middle, and raised his sword. It was no time to be timid. He had a witch to prove wrong! He prepared to bellow a charge but someone at the rear finally did their duty and beat him to it. The stomp of boots behind him gave all the encouragement he needed, and he ran full bore toward the line of red uniforms. He had to reach the bastards before they could reload.
The roar of stomping boots was drowned out by booming cannon and the higher pitch of blades clashing. The single enemy directly before him moved with uncanny speed, swinging the end of his loaded gun around, then up to aim it at Simon. After three quick strides, Simon’s blade came down to cleave the bastard between neck and shoulder. The musket fired into the mud.
The moor grabbed at his boots and held. First one foot, then the other. He lost his balance and fell to the right. But he’d crawl if he had to.
Simon grasped the turf and held, then lifted himself and looked for another Redcoat. Not ten feet away, one stood over a fallen McLaren and shot him in the back. Simon’s rage rose up to choke him. His next fight was clear. He pulled on the handle of his blade, but it had bit deep into enemy bone and resisted. While he struggled to free it, the heartless one reloaded, glancing between his task and Simon as he did so.
In one movement, Simon freed the blade and held it high over his head, then hurried to close the distance. A Highlander stepped into his path, his own blade raised as he rushed the murderous bastard. His sword slashed down and left, separating the other man’s head from his bright red uniform. With a quick pivot, he faced Simon.
It was Soncerae’s uncle!
“Wickham?”
“I’ve come to collect ye. No time to explain.” With sword at the ready, he glanced from side to side, prepared to fight again. “Ye’re about to die, Simon. Take hold of my arm and live.” He nodded at his shoulder. “Take hold!”
A witch will come to free ye…
Simon slapped his hand around Wickham’s forearm and wondered why it was necessary when the man only needed to lead the way. He wasn’t a coward, he would stay and fight, but he couldn’t dismiss Wickham’s conviction that he was about to die.
