Chapter Eight #2
We left the village behind. The path narrowed, became rougher.
Trees closed in on either side, oak and birch with leaves turning gold and copper.
The sound of tourists faded. There was only the wind in the branches, the water lapping against stone somewhere past the trees to the left, and the crunch of our footsteps on the path.
After twenty minutes or so, we left the trees, and the loch appeared once more on our left.
áedán stepped onto a small promontory that jutted out into the loch.
“It's been many years since I'd heard that name.” He stared at the water, even when I moved to stand beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
“It's similar to the one you use now.” I sounded them out. “Ay-dahn. Ay-rin. Just the second syllable changes.”
“The smallest change can have the biggest impact. Names have power. True names, especially.” He was quiet for a moment.
“I've spent the last decade hearing stories aboot myself that were wrong.
Not exaggerated—wrong. Details that never happened.
Cruelties I never committed. Stories humans insist are true even though I was there and I ken they're not.”
“A decade? That coincides with what Moira said. But ten years hardly seems long enough to create such drastic changes to your story.”
“Stories always change. That's nothing new.” áedán looked at me at last. “My mother used to say every generation polishes a story until they can see their reflection.”
“But?”
“But this feels different.” He frowned, the look in his eyes darkening. “It's not just a little adaptation. It's obliteration. Everything I am has been twisted.”
I stared at him, fumbling for what to do. Julian had said that sometimes myths get so far removed from their origins that their living embodiment fades, but that change was supposed to happen incrementally.
“We need to find where and when the story changed,” I said. “At least now we have an idea of how far back to look. Don't worry, áedán. This is what they sent me to do. Once I can figure out how your myth went wrong, we can correct it.”
“Do you really think you can correct this?”
“Yes.” I lifted my chin.
We started walking again. The path curved away from the water, cutting through another stretch of woodland. The trees were thick here, their branches forming a canopy overhead. It was cooler in the shade, and quieter. Even the sound of the water melted away.
We emerged from the trees near a smaller loch, barely more than a large pond. The water was still, reflecting the bright blue sky. No tourists were there. No boats on the pond. It was peaceful. I was about to suggest we rest at its shore when I saw it.
A shadow hovered beneath the surface. I turned to look at the trees, but the shape didn't resemble any of them. It wasn't a reflection, nor was it a fish.
I stopped walking and pointed at it. “áedán.”
He turned to look and went still.
The shadow moved, but it still didn't look natural.
The water above it rippled, and for just a moment—less than a heartbeat—the surface twisted into a spiral.
Then it was gone. The water settled back into stillness.
But I knew I'd seen it. And from the way áedán was staring at the pond, he'd seen it too.
“What was that?” I whispered. “Please, tell me it was kelpie magic.”
áedán didn't answer immediately. He walked to the water's edge, crouched down, and touched the surface with his fingertips. The water rippled outward in perfect circles. When he stood, his expression was neutral. “I dinnae know what that was, but it wasnae my magic.”
“But you saw it.”
“Yes.”
“It was a spiral.”
“Yes.” He frowned. “A spiral and an additional line, as if someone were aboot to make another spiral.”
I stared at the water, picturing the symbol again. He was right. There had been another part to it. Like the artist was starting a new line. “Or had removed part of it.”
“Removed it?”
“Yes, it looked like a continuation of the spiral, just separated. As if someone had erased a section of the line to leave the end hanging.”
“I dinnae like it.”
“So, you didn't recognize the symbol?”
“I've seen many spirals, but never one like that.”
A shiver of fear ran down my spine. “We should go back.”
áedán nodded and motioned me toward the trail.
I went first, and he brought up the rear, both of us looking back often.
We walked back to the village in silence.
The sun was lower, casting long shadows across the path.
By the time we reached Luss, the tourists were leaving, heading back to their rental cars and tour buses.
Moira's offerings were still on the stone by the water.
The flowers hadn't wilted, nor had the bread been eaten by birds.
áedán stopped and looked at them for a long moment.
Then he knelt, touched the flowers gently, and whispered something.
I caught the lilting sound of his voice, but that was all.
When he stood, his eyes were glossy. “Someone remembered. After all this time. Someone remembered.”
“She remembered you, áedán. You saved her mother. Her mother never forgot, and now she will never forget. That, more than any story, is a testament to who you are.”
He held my gaze. “I killed that man, Ethan. He was going to hurt her. Just for fun. So, I waited until she was gone, and then I went after him.”
I knew I shouldn't condone killing, but I didn't care. “Good. Because of you, a wicked man died, and an innocent girl lived.”
áedán blinked. “You dinnae care that I'm a killer?”
“No, you did what was necessary.”
I will never forget the look on his face—as if I were something wondrous and rare. I imagine he saw something similar on my face when I looked at him.