Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The memory of a MacInnis is stored in his veins.
More than five hundred years after the MacDonalds ran them off the isles of Skye, the insult is remembered and passed on in the blood.
So it was no wonder that, when Callum and Sarah MacInnis were killed trying to stop reivers, the blade they found in Callum’s gullet had a MacDonald mark on the hilt.
The couple’s only child, Cian, was taken to the Cairngorms and put into the care of his father’s mother, Hannah, an old woman who wondered at her purpose in life until this wee’un crossed her threshold and well and truly took hold of her heart.
As for Cian’s heart, she helped him heal slowly, encouraging him to share his memories of his parents, never chiding him for speaking of the dead as some do.
And when a chair would rock of its own accord, and he’d wonder if it might be his mother or father come to visit, Hannah would hum and nod and allow the chair to rock until Cian and the ghostie were satisfied.
When he was nearly grown, she reckoned he should try some schooling at the University in Edinburgh, so as not to waste his talents, as taught in the bible.
And it was there, in those streets, where he was caught up in the Jacobite cause.
He wondered if his gran even knew about “the king across the water,” and how his god-given throne had been taken.
Living in the tiny village of Balnacoorie, how could she know that every loyal Scot was needed to put a Stuart’s arse back on the throne? And that included him.
He sent her a coded message days before the Battle of Culloden, ending with his promise to hurry home the moment his duties to king and country were finished. Little did he know it would be finished too quickly, long before the message reached Balnacoorie…
In the history of consequential errors, Prince Charles Edward Stuart made one of the most notorious ones when he chose Drummossie Moor (Culloden) for the battle.
He made many others that day as well, including listening to his officers’ advice and missing the moment when he should have been there to order his army to charge.
Instead, they stood ready—and hundreds were felled, still awaiting permission to move.
Once everyone was engaged, it was obvious that the hungry, weary Jacobites were doomed.
Bogged down in the mud, unable to attack, they were picked off by guns when they could have beaten Cumberland’s forces in hand-to-hand warfare.
The cleverness and proven skills of nearly 1500 Jacobite warriors were buried there, along with their bodies.
A mere fifty of Cumberland’s men died.
In the midst of the carnage, Cian MacInnis stood waiting for the whistling ball that would have his name on it. He struggled, with others, to stay clear of the grasping, clawing mud while keeping his targe and sword up and ready.
To his right, a tall blond from the Appin men lifted his rifle and shot, then hurried to reload. The Redcoat he’d aimed at dropped like a heavy sack. But for each government man who fell, dozens of Jacobites would fall in the next breath.
The blond was obviously a better aim, so Cian reckoned it would be better to load for him. If only he could get close enough.
The blond again brought the weapon to his shoulder and bellowed, “Fire!” All around them, Appin men fired, glad of the order no matter who’d given it.
Next, the Appin Bannerman dropped, but the flag was taken up again.
Yet another Appin man fell dead beside the blond, who spared only a glance, then fired again.
With a look of frustration, the young man swung his weapon onto his back, pulled his targe over his middle, and raised his sword.
Someone at the rear finally gave the order to charge, so Cian jumped to obey, joining the blond and his fellows as they ran full out for the red line of enemies who worried only about reloading.
Cannon fired from both sides, pounding nearly as loudly as Cian’s own heart as he chose a target and rushed to attack.
The bastard grasped his gun with both hands and lunged, aiming his bayonet below Cian’s targe.
But with the length of his razor-sharp sword, Cian was able to break the man’s weapon beyond where the metal was attached.
With the Highlander’s help, the nasty blade turned back to find its home in its master’s heart.
So many more Redcoats to kill. But they were far back, loading, firing, and loading again. And between him and them, a river of mud.
To his right, the big blond cut a foe nearly in half before the blighter could take aim. The round shot fired into the mud. But the tactic had drawn the Jacobite warrior into the black quicksand. He tipped to the side, then clawed at the ground to free himself.
Cian watched a cocky bastard in flawless red pick his way across the line, as if he expected no man would dare touch him. He came to stand above a fallen Jacobite crawling back to safety. The former pointed his weapon at the man’s back and fired.
Cian felt it, as if the shot had gone into his own back, and wanted nothing more in this world than to rip the bastard into tiny pieces.
The devil looked about for another man to murder and noticed the blond, now free of the mud, struggling to free his blade from his last opponent. The bastard smiled while his quick hands reloaded, his attention moving back and forth between his weapon and his next victim.
Cian hurried to intervene but stopped cold, unable to believe his eyes. The blond’s blade had come free. He rushed forward but was forced to stop when a fancy-dressed Highlander in a dark kilt appeared out of…out of nothing!
Cian hadn’t so much as blinked. The man was suddenly there.
With his back to the blond and his sword raised, the stranger rushed to avenge a murder he hadn’t been witness to. His blade slashed down and to the left, cutting off the Redcoat’s head and spinning it off his shoulders.
A death too quick, too painless.
After tipping and falling into the wet mud, that flawless red coat was no longer flawless.
The fancy Highlander spun around and faced the blond, who recognized him by name. “Wickham!”
“I’ve come to collect ye,” that one said. “No time to explain. Ye’re about to die, Simon. Take hold of my arm and live.” He nodded sharply. “Take hold!”
Cian had witnessed true magic when the man appeared. If he had some other magic that could save the one, could he save Cian as well?
In two fast strides, he reached the pair.
The tall one wrapped his hand around the druid’s arm, who suddenly pushed him aside and stepped forward to shield the lad.
His body convulsed when a ball hit him in the chest and sent him backward into the blond one’s arms. The latter struggled to keep him upright.
Cian grabbed the druid’s arm to help…and the battle ended.
The whistling balls stopped mid-flight. The echoes of the cannons were swallowed by a silence more powerful. Even the shouting ceased mid-word. Or so Cian thought.
As it happened, the battle raged on without the three of them. It was they who had been swallowed up and spit out…not elsewhere, but else-when.
It was all impossible, obviously. Just a story Cian told to entertain me or maybe scare me away so I would never come back. And I could have lived with that…if it weren’t for the names in an old bible, a book of poetry, and a headstone in a clearing.
Of course he could be messing with me, pretending to be some ancestor with the same name, with a grandma who shared the same name of his own. Or he might just be crazy and believed he was over 300 years old.
He was either a big fat liar, or he was crazy. Or he really had traveled through time.
I didn’t want him to be either of the first two. I really really couldn’t handle either one of those. So…did I have a choice?
I did not.
Maybe the Matty of a few months ago would have believed he was lying about everything.
She would have played along until she could get back to civilization, and then put it all behind her without needing to know why he’d done it, or how sane he was.
But I wasn’t that Matty anymore. My mind, body, and soul no longer revolved around a kitchen and a dining room full of customers that took precedence over everything but breathing in and out, and sometimes, not even that.
I actually cared about something outside of Sugarbush, Vermont.
Or rather…someone.
I appreciated the time he’d given me to absorb the story up to that point. He’d removed my braids and toyed with my hair while he’d told it. Maybe to distract me a little? Maybe to make sure I took it in one bite at a time.
To let him know that I had chosen to believe him, I took his arms and wrapped them tighter around me. He gave me a brief squeeze that said he maybe understood—a hopeful squeeze.
“Not elsewhere, but else-when,” I repeated, to clarify. “So, you’re saying you were still on the battlefield, but at a different time.”
“Aye. Yer time, nigh eight years ago.”
“How did you know? Did they tell you?”
He didn’t answer right away. I figured he didn’t want to tell me more.
But he took a deep breath and kept going.
“Mornin’ had changed to night. We stood in the dark.
Highlanders moved to surround us, but these men were clean and hale, weapons in their sheaths, not in their hands, as if the battle was ahead of and not behind us.
I wondered if I was still sleepin’ and the real battle would commence after the sun rose.
“But that small band of men were the only ones on the moor. No fires burned on either side of the battle lines. The enemy werenae celebratin’ Cumberland’s birthday, as they had.
Somethin’ was horribly amiss. And it wasn’t just the things that were missin’ that told me so.
I saw things that shouldnae have been there.
Tall poles with fireless lights on them.
Hard paths that hadn’t been there moments before.
“And I tasted something entirely foreign in my mouth. I believe it was the taste of magic. And I’ve not tasted it since.
Obviously, I was yet in a battle state of mind.
And before anyone might realize I was an intruder among them, I hoped to escape into the night.
I helped Simon lower the traveler to the ground, then backed away.
“Alas, the druid’s eyes flicked open and he saw me.
He was confused. Didnae recognize me. But then his arm shot up and caught the hem of my kilt and he studied it.
As soon as he released it, I fled. I hadnae gone far when I heard them all cheerin’ and celebratin’ that the downed man would survive.
When I looked back, he was on his feet again.
That was when I tucked tail and ran for home. ”
There it was. That’s what he was ashamed of. He’d run off instead of staying and asking questions.
“You probably thought they’d send you back.”
He gasped, then turned my shoulders so he could see my face. “Just so! Just so! Any man would have done the same.” He turned me away from him again and pulled me back against his chest, more cheerful than I’d ever seen him.
I laughed. “Nothing wrong with self-preservation.”
“Aye. The Highland way. Be canny. Live to fight another day.”
“So, this is why you’re paranoid. I probably would be too. But I wonder…”
“What is it ye wonder?”
“I wonder about, you know, the quality of a life lived all alone.”
“Auch, I am nae alone. I have John.”
“John. From the sketchbook?”
He grabbed it and flipped it open to John’s picture.
“I meet him at his armory. Sell him m’ carvings, and he has the shoppin’ ready for me.
The trade is never fair. He sends fine things along that he thinks I need.
When his wife was still among us, she would send things too, though we only met a few times.
Both of them generous to a fault, as they say. ”
“How often do you see him?”
“First Saturday of each month. He’s taught me much. Gave me books so I could educate myself and learn the history of the past three hundred years. And of course, I’m able to practice the new English.”
“New English?”
“Weel, ye couldnae understand much if I spoke the Old English or the Gaelic, aye?”
“Gotcha. I’m a little surprised that your friend hasn’t convinced you to move into town and have a normal life.”
“John understands the danger.”
“The danger of the time traveler finding you and sending you back?”
“Aye. If I were to find myself toeing that muddy line again, I would be among the fifteen hundred, sure. I fought beside the Appins, and all of them fell. I would be just another set of bones in one of the mass graves. There would have been no one to return m’ body to Balnacoorie.”
“Well, I’m glad you got out of there. I wonder, though, if you could convince him to let you stay. Maybe he doesn’t even care.”
“Aye, he does. About the time I met John, he came to Aviemore, asking about MacInnis plaid. Asking about family lines and family members who might have fought at Culloden. For years, he posted rewards for information, claimed to be writing a book about the battle. John keeps an eye out. The man gave up for a long while. But then…”
“Then?”
“Someone claimed that the Ghost of Glenmore wears the plaid he seeks.”
“Who is the Ghost of Glenmore?”
He shrugged. “I am.”