CHAPTER 4 #2
“Why, I told you, laddie,” Owen reminded him.
“We’re preparing for the witch. Do forgive, my dear,” he apologized, patting Gwendolyn’s hand.
“A frightful mess, I know, and the stench is absolutely abominable. But we have to make certain the old hag can’t cast spells on the lot of us, now, don’t we?
We MacDunns must show her we will not be subject to her wicked mischief.
Why, I remember when I was just a wee thing, there was a witch who came here and tried to turn our laird into a goat.
The spell didn’t quite take, but for years afterward poor old MacDunn had the most dreadful habit of gnawing on the table at mealtimes.
Completely destroyed one perfectly fine table within a year. Do you remember that, MacDunn?”
“I wasn’t born then.”
Owen frowned, considering. “No, of course not.” He swept his gaze appraisingly over the rest of them. “None of you were,” he decided. “Oh, well. No matter.”
“I’ve really got it, this time!”
Gwendolyn turned to see a thin, dour-faced little man enter the hall carrying a bubbling silver cup.
He appeared to be very close in age to Owen, with thin scraggly white hair circling his virtually bald head, and a heavily creased face that seemed to be screwed into a permanent mask of disapproval.
“Here, now, MacDunn, we must get the witch to drink this at once,” he instructed, indicating the dark green potion that was frothing grotesquely down the sides of the goblet.
“Why, Lachlan?” asked Alex.
Lachlan glanced suspiciously at Gwendolyn, wondering whether she could be trusted.
Deciding she could, he lowered his voice and explained, “This elixir I made will prove whether or not the witch really is a witch. If she is, her evil powers will protect her from the effects of the poison. That is how we will know for sure!” he finished triumphantly.
“And what if she is not a witch?” Alex inquired.
Lachlan regarded him in bewilderment. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if you give that ghastly-looking concoction to someone who is not protected by evil powers?”
Lachlan scratched his bald head, baffled. “You said you were going to get a witch, MacDunn,” he pointed out, sounding somewhat defensive. “You never said anything about getting someone who only might be a witch. Might being a witch and being a witch are two entirely different things.”
“He’s right, laddie,” Owen agreed, nodding. “You can’t argue with that.”
“Blast it! That’s it!” roared an infuriated voice from the corridor. “I’ve had just about all any mortal man can take!”
Gwendolyn turned to see yet another white-haired man burst into the hall.
“MacDunn, thank God you’re back. You’ve got to do something about the frightful mess they’re making of the castle,” he said, glaring at Owen and Lachlan.
“You can’t walk anywhere without stepping in slime, there’s no light and even less air, and not even a man’s private chamber is safe.
The vapors in my room were so thick this morning, I thought I’d fallen asleep naked in the bloody smokehouse! ”
“You’re exaggerating, Reginald,” scolded a smiling woman with an ample bosom and neatly arranged gray hair, who entered the hall behind him.
“No, by God, I’m not, Marjorie,” Reginald returned. “And it’s a sad day in a man’s life when his very own wife tries to smoke him to death while he sleeps!”
Apparently untroubled by his anger, Marjorie bustled past the group of them with an armful of dried grasses, which she promptly heaved into one of the fireplaces. Fresh smoke began to spew thickly into the room.
“There, now, do you see?” demanded Reginald. “Day and night they’ve been at this. Burning and draping, stewing and sliming, until this castle and everything in it stinks like rotten herring. I tell you, it’s enough to drive a man stark, raving mad!”
Owen’s and Lachlan’s eyes grew wide.
“Your pardon, MacDunn,” Reginald apologized hastily. “It was merely a figure of speech.”
“I know,” said Alex.
“Well, then, now that everything is ready, where is the witch?” asked Owen brightly, rubbing his gnarled hands together with anticipation. He looked around the room and frowned. “You did remember to bring her, didn’t you laddie?”
“Yes,” Alex assured him. “I did.”
“Thank God,” said Reginald. “I would hate to think I had endured all of this for nothing.”
“Send the old hag in,” ordered Lachlan, who was carefully trying to avoid having any of his frothing potion spill onto his hand. “This elixir works best while it’s still fresh.”
“She is already here,” proclaimed a thin, crackling voice.
A hush gripped the hall as a ghostly apparition began to emerge from the thick shroud of smoke still swirling at the opposite end.
As the specter drew closer, Gwendolyn saw it was actually an ancient old woman with a silvery veil of hair that seemed to float around her as she moved.
She wore a magnificent robe of scarlet silk trimmed with gold, and walked with the assistance of a dark, elegantly carved staff.
Though her carriage was bent and her body frail, a remarkable energy emanated from her, which seemed to dissipate the smoke as she moved through it.
Her skin was pale and webbed by time, yet it had a softness and luminosity that Gwendolyn could not recall in any other woman of such advanced years.
On reaching Gwendolyn she stopped, leaned against her staff, and studied her a long, silent moment.
Gwendolyn returned her scrutiny with deliberate calm.
The woman’s eyes were of the deepest green, and they sparkled with an intriguing combination of wisdom, merriment, and something more, as if she had seen more of life than she might have wished, but had yet to be conquered by it.
“You did well, Alex,” she finally stated. “She holds great power within her spirit. But you must treat her with care,” she added, her gaze still locked on Gwendolyn. “She is strong, but she has been injured. Her wounds have yet to heal.”
Gwendolyn controlled her urge to smile. How many years, she wondered, had this eccentric old woman fabricated fanciful stories and visions for the MacDunns?
Of course it was to Gwendolyn’s advantage that this seer had just proclaimed her a witch, for she sensed by the look on MacDunn’s face that he respected the poor thing’s opinion.
However, Gwendolyn felt she needed to correct her on the matter of having been injured.
“I’m afraid I have no wounds,” she told her.
The old woman regarded her calmly. “Some wounds cut deeper than those of the flesh, my dear.”
Owen, Lachlan, and Reginald were now staring at Gwendolyn in slack-jawed astonishment.
“Good God, do you mean to say this comely lass is the witch?” sputtered Owen, appalled. “Why, she’s barely more than a child!”
“I really think you’re mistaken, Morag,” decided Reginald. “And no wonder. With all the smoke fogging this hall, it’s a wonder you can even see her!” he added irritably.
“Here, lassie,” said Lachlan, smiling. “You must be parched after your long journey. Why don’t you have a nice, long draft of this special drink I made just for you?” he invited, raising the effervescing concoction to her face.
Alex snatched the goblet from Lachlan and hurled its contents into the hearth. The fire exploded into a blinding ball of flames, forcing all of them to shield their eyes as they stepped back.
“Really, Lachlan, I wish you would leave the potions to me,” Morag chided. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Gwendolyn stared blankly at the thick timbers in the fireplace, which were rapidly dissolving beneath the smoldering sludge of Lachlan’s elixir.
“If she’s really a witch, the potion wouldn’t have harmed her!” Lachlan protested.
“I don’t know, Lachlan,” Owen mused. “That brew seems awfully potent.”
“I think the lass must have us under some kind of spell,” said Reginald, “that makes us think she looks like that, when in fact she is really a hideous old bat. Which is not to say that all old women are hideous, Morag,” he quickly qualified.
“Why are you saying that to me?” demanded Morag, clearly incensed. “I’m not old.”
Alex glanced at Gwendolyn. She seemed to be holding up remarkably well, considering that after escaping being burned at the stake, his own clan now seemed determined to both suffocate and poison her.
Her expression was composed as she watched the elders heatedly arguing about when, exactly, one could be considered old.
For a moment he thought she might actually see the humor in this ludicrous reception.
Then he noticed that her hands were clutching her gown again, as if searching for something to hold on to.
He moved to stand beside her, so close her bare arm nearly grazed his.
“This is Gwendolyn, formerly of the Clan MacSween,” he announced.
“She is the witch I went to find. When we reached the MacSween holding, we discovered she had been tried by her clan for witchcraft and was sentenced to be burned at the stake,” he explained, purposely omitting that Gwendolyn had also been accused of murder.
He saw no merit in alarming his people more than necessary.
“When my offer to purchase her was rejected, I decided to save her, thereby raising the ire of the Clan MacSween. I am afraid we may experience trouble from them in the future.”
“Are you saying we’re at war with the MacSweens, laddie?” demanded Owen incredulously.
“Because of this comely witch?” added Lachlan, looking at Gwendolyn in outrage.
Alex nodded.
The little group absorbed this information in shocked silence. Only Morag seemed undisturbed.
“Well, I call that splendid!” Owen declared, suddenly beaming. “It’s been years since we MacDunns were involved in a good clan war.”
“I don’t know what’s splendid about it,” Lachlan grumbled sourly. “We’re all likely to be split open and disemboweled where we stand.”