Chapter 21
There are two gates of Sleep,
one of which it is held is made of horn—
and by it real ghosts have easy egress;
the other shining fashioned of gleaming white ivory,
but deceptive are the visions the Underworld
sends that way to the light.
—The Aeneid, Book 6 (19 BC)
Virgil (70–19 BC)
Roman poet
Isobella fell into a deep, fitful sleep, tossing and twisting, tormented by nightmares. She was running down a long, dank corridor that was dripping with spiderwebs and followed by the heavy breathing of a red-eyed fiend lurking close behind.
“No!” She screamed, sitting straight up in bed and looking around the empty room. Embers still glowed faintly in the grate. Wet with perspiration and still breathing hard, she assured herself it was just a nightmare and nothing more. She frowned as a suspicious look settled across her face and she thought of the Black Douglas.
“You did this,” she whispered. “You brought me here and abandoned me, and I don’t know why.” The words sounded small and forlorn even to her.
She closed her eyes, hoping for a few hours of peacefulness instead of more wild adventures in strange, frightening places. Eventually, she fell into a deep sleep, lured by the ghostly music of a bagpipe. The tapestry at the window billowed out and a great wind blew into the room, and then everything grew still. A sweet fragrance surrounded her, and she saw that the candlestick on the bedside table had fallen over. She stared at it, puzzled. Was this a dream, or was it real?
She could not tell the difference.
She could hear herself speaking, but the sound seemed to come from far away. “I know you are in here, and I wouldn’t show my face either, if I were you. How could you do something like this? And to a Douglas… I thought you were our friend, a member of the family, a chivalrous knight, and beloved protector. Well, something has certainly gone wrong, if this is your idea of being a protector. I have never felt so alienated in all my life.”
She looked around. She knew he was here, although she couldn’t see the faintest hint of a green vapor. “Are you afraid to show your true self?”
The room began to spin, and she would have smiled if she had the energy, for even a man’s ghost would spring to action when his masculinity was insulted. The spinning stopped and everything stilled. The faintest wisp of green vapor finally drifted through the open window.
“Go ahead, slink into the room and offer me your lame excuses.”
The ghost bubbled up at the foot of her bed, nothing more than an obscure shadow, glowing with light. She watched it become a glittering haze and then, at last, a solid shape in the figure of the Black Douglas.
“I dinna slink!”
She was shocked by his sudden appearance. All tall and powerful, with a scowl on his face. She couldn’t think of anything to say, except “Am I dreaming?”
“Do ye wish to be?”
“No.”
“Then ye have yer wish. This is reality, lass, and no dream, for I am here in all my ghostly splendor.”
She burst out laughing. He was so—human sometimes, but she had questions and he had answers and she wanted them. “Could I have a moment of your time for an interview?”
“Mayhap, if ye dinna ask any questions.”
She frowned. How can I have an interview without any questions? “Where is my sister?”
“Dinna worrit. She is safe.”
“Where?”
“Ye will ken when the time is ripe.”
“It is easy for you to be nonchalant. You aren’t the one who has been rudely thrust among strangers.”
He grinned wickedly. “Strangers, are they? ’Twould seem ye are doing quite a bit to make yersel’ friendly wi’ some o’ the inhabitants of Màrrach—one in particular.”
“Have you been spying on me? That’s quite ignoble of you. It should be against the rules of ghosting.”
“Mayhap, but there are few enjoyments left for a ghost. ’Twould be a dastardly thing to rob me of the memories it evokes, but have no fear. I dinna invade yer most private moments.”
Now she felt like a heel. “Why did you yank us back in time without asking if we wanted to come?”
“’Twas yer fate. Mayhap it was not.”
Talking to him was like talking to an oracle. “My fate? Who told you that?”
His eyes gleamed, and she felt warmed by the glow. “That is a secret ye canna have an answer to.”
“When can we go home?”
He shrugged. “Today, I have no answers.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have only questions.”
She counted to ten. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Aye, and there ye have it.”
“That isn’t fair!”
“I dinna make the rules, but I do obey them.”
Up went her brows in surprise. “You have rules?”
“Aye, there are rules for everything in the universe.”
“But you’re a ghost, aren’t you? You come and go at will.”
“Aye, ’tis true that I am, well enough, but I am no’ God. There are some things I dinna ken and some things I canna do. Like ye, I have my limits.”
“Well, I find that depressing, and for your information, I’m having a miserable time here. They aren’t being very nice to me.”
He laughed. “’Twould seem I would have to disagree wi’ ye, lass. I seem to remember Alysandir going out of his way to be accommodating, and he might have been even nicer to ye if ye hadna done yer best to cool his ardor.”
She gasped. “You were spying on us? That is ill mannered and uncivilized. Have you no shame?”
“’Twasn’t spying, but I have a way of knowing what happens to ye.”
“Is there anything I do that you don’t know about?”
“Not verra much, but dinna worrit aboot it. Bide yer time, lass. Have ye nae heard that Rome wasna built in a day? These things take time, ye ken.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “What things?”
“Ye will—”
“Know when the time comes. Is that the only response you have?”
“Aye, for now.”
“Were you this hard on Meleri?”
“I fear she would tell ye it was so.”
“And did she complain about it as I do?”
“Aye, she did, and it seems the family trait has been passed doon to ye remarkably intact.”
“Was she ever angry with you?”
“Aye, most of the time.”
“Were you friends?”
“The best friendship has to offer, in spite of her tendency to ask too many questions, a lot like ye.”
“Maybe I inherited that from her as well.”
He grinned. “Mayhap ye did.”
“What kind of questions were they? General? Specific?”
“Weel, she once asked me what I liked aboot being a ghost.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That ye never have to open doors and yer feet never ache.”
She laughed. “Did she accuse you of things that were not true?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“Such as?”
“She liked to think I had affections for the Countess of Sussex and that it was the reason why the countess’s Van Dyke portrait was never found.”
“Did you have affections for the countess?”
His eyes were twinkled merrily again. “My time is up, and I must leave ye now.”
“You aren’t going to help me, are you?”
“’Tis not always smooth sailing. Life is riddled with doubts. Truth will come to light. ’Twould be better if ye stopped fighting it. ’Twill be over soon.”
“It is not my way to surrender.”
“Conquer or capitulate. It is the end result that counts.”
She felt lost in a cloud of gloom. “I think I will die in this place.”
He had the audacity to laugh. “I will remind ye of that one day.”
“It better be soon,” she said glumly. “My days are numbered.”
“Be of good cheer, or dinna be of good cheer. That is for ye to decide.” He stepped closer, removed his gauntlet and placed his hand along the side of her cheek. It was an odd sensation for he was still a ghostly form, yet she could feel the warmth of his hand.
“There are answers aplenty, and whys and wherefores abound, but naught are forthcoming at the present. ’Twill not be long now, lass. Have faith, and remember anything is possible if ye believe. Go back to sleep and dinna think too much aboot that which ye canna change.
“I didna bring ye back to torture ye, and I didna separate ye from yer sister to bring harm to either of ye. Mayhap there will be some trial by fire, and ye will come out the better for it. The future suffers no threat, even when the present is unbearable. Rest now, and dinna worrit that ye canna remember everything when ye awake.”
Later, when she did wake up, she had a vague sort of assurance that he had been there in her room, but some of the details were fuzzy and nebulous, like one feels when awaking from surgery. It was as if she had been there, but she really hadn’t. And she had a warm feeling that Elisabeth was being well cared for in a situation similar to her own. Or was that just because she wanted it to be true? Anything is possible if you believe.
But then, the opposite is also true.
When she went down to breakfast the next morning, she made two discoveries: Alysandir had gone hunting for several days, and she had no appetite.
Marion asked why she wasn’t eating.
“My throat feels raw. I’m just not hungry.”
“Ye should lay doon. ’Tis an illness aboot that has affected many in the castle. It willna last overlong. I will tell Mistress MacMorran to keep a watch over ye.”
Isobella returned to her room and went to bed. She slept until Mistress MacMorran carried a supper tray in to her and said, “’Tis a nice, thick broth to give ye strength and some cold milk to ease the burning in yer throat.”
Isobella thanked her and ate a little broth and drank all of the milk, which felt wonderfully cool. Then she slept. She vaguely remembered Sybilla and Marion coming by and Mistress MacMorran bringing her a tray, of which she ate little. By the third day, she felt wretched and wondered if she was dying. Was it her fate to come back five hundred years to die in a foreign land among strangers? Or if this was not death, then perhaps insanity? That was possible. Nothing made sense anymore.
She had a vision that she was back home on the Blanco River. She and Elisabeth were young girls again, swinging on a rope out over the water. When they let go of the rope, they fell with a splash into the cool, clear river. Laughing hard, they swallowed a bucket of water, only to stagger out and swing again.
She could almost feel the water, so cool, going down her parched throat… She swallowed and then frowned when she felt something press against her lips. Her mouth tasted sweetness, but it wasn’t water. It was something almost as delicious as a Mexican vanilla cone at Amy’s Ice Cream in Austin.
“Drink a little more, lass… verra, verra slowly now.”
A male voice, vaguely familiar. Gradually she became more aware, but her perception was still fuzzy. What is he feeding me? Is it poison? She turned her head away and slapped at his hand.
“Why are you trying to poison me? Can’t you see I’m dying?”
He chuckled. “Nay, lass, dinna worrit aboot dying. ’Tis only a sickness that comes every year. ’Twill no’ kill ye, even if it feels like it will.”
She was surprised that she could not remember how long she had been ill, for each day seemed to bleed into the next. What was it he had said? A sickness that comes every year? Body aches, stuffy nose, fever, chills, sore throat, headache. All I have is a Renaissance version of the flu?
“Drink this. ’Twill make ye feel better.”
“What are you giving me?”
“Milk and honey. ’Twill nourish ye back to health.”
He shoved the cup at her again. “Drink it doon, lass.”
She opened her eyes, and the blur of his face sharpened. “Gavin,” she said. He pushed the cup against her lips. She had to drink it, drown in it, or end up wearing it. After three gulps, she turned her head away.
“I am Grim, Alysandir’s younger brother,” he said proudly. “I am the ninth of twelve bairns. Gavin and I are twins, but he is number eight because he was born first.”
Grim, she thought. Boy, did they ever misname him, for a happier, jollier looking guy she had yet to see. He had Alysandir’s dark coloring, but his eyes were a silver-blue.
“Ye are feeling a wee bit better now.”
“A wee bit,” she said. “Has Alysandir returned?”
“Nay, he hasna.”
“Why are you here instead of Mistress MacMorran or Sybilla and Marion?”
“They are sick wi’ the same thing that ails ye. Many in the castle are sick. Those of us who are well are helping oot.” He stood and smiled down at her. “Rest now. Ye will be feeling more like yersel’ on the morrow.”
Isobella nodded weakly. “Thank you, Grim.”
She was asleep before he was out the door.
***
Two days later, she was feeling good as new and wanted nothing more than to be outside. She yearned to feel the sun upon her skin and to inhale the fresh air blowing in from the Atlantic.
After a breakfast of smoked haddock and a poached egg, she walked toward a wild grey-blue sea beneath the rosy fingers of a grey-blue dawn spreading above her. She was accompanied by the sound of a narrow waterfall spilling out the rocky crag of old, moss-covered stones at the base of Màrrach. She paused to study the wide crescent beach of white sand that began at the base of rocky outcroppings and extended as far as her eye could see. Until it seemed to melt into mist and tall beach grass.
The sky was growing lighter now, and her feet sank into sandy heather. Shorebirds, angry at her intrusion, cried out and flapped away, swallowed by the sky. She watched them go, as she recalled a story of how the ancients had believed that when one’s parents died, there was nothing between the child and the sky.
She felt as if she had been hurled back to a time when the earth was new and unspoiled. She felt peaceful and at home, as if it was a place she had once known and left behind. Were her ancient Celtic ancestors calling her home?
She was filled with a wild sort of freedom, and had it not been for her caution over her newly healed ankle, she would have left the grass and run down the beach, searching for the throbbing heart of this magical place. Perhaps, like Alice, she would fall down the rabbit hole, down, down, down to the beginning of time.
Had she entered another dream?
She stood on a hill and looked out over the sea, and spotting a boat, she thought of how Odysseus must have felt, so enchanted that he did not return to Ithaca for ten years. Here she stood—the sentinel, with one foot in the past and one in the present. How like a book life is, she thought, where one turns the pages that turn into chapters, and the preceding pages hold clues to all the ones that follow.
Quite by accident, she stumbled upon an ancient burial site and something stirred deep within her soul. She paused and looked around, seeing how the sun cast a mellow glow upon the weathered, blackened stones, the cairns covered with lichen and moss. Something strong and powerful rose up within her, and she was filled with reverence and awe at the reality of walking upon the same ground where the Celts had walked.
She was about to turn back when she saw a low, stone fence around some of the standing stones and what appeared to be more recent burial slabs. The plot was terribly overgrown, and feeling the need for exercise, she began to pull weeds.
It was almost dark by the time she returned to the castle, too tired to join the others at supper in the Great Hall. As she made her way up to her room, she thought of all that had happened in the ten days since she arrived. In many ways it seemed much longer.
Later, when she went to bed, she decided that she had overdid it, for her back ached abominably and her knees, too. And her hands—she should have worn gloves. But her soul stirred with joy over the things she learned that day. She closed her eyes, and the damp breath of the Atlantic blew into her bedchamber, the past calling to her, deep, dark, and mysterious.