Forging the Blade-The Wilderness Years, Chapt. 6, pt. 2/2
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Sat, 2 Jun 2001 20:20:37 -0400
Forging the Blade
Part I - The Wilderness Years
by MacGeorge
See Disclaimers, Ratings and acknowledgements in Part 0,
previously posted.
Chapter Six, Part 2,
~~~~~
Alexander Macpherson was a burly man, his reddish-blonde
hair a curly mass that floated in an undisciplined mane
around his head, his face furred with a tight, curly beard
of a slightly darker hue. But his eyes were the same sky
blue as those of his young son and three older daughters,
and they were all gifted with easy laughter. Duncan was
ushered into the large stone cottage, with beds partitioned
off only by skins and blankets from the greatroom. A dining
table held six, and Nora held Jamie on her lap, so there
would be room for Duncan.
He had been worried about what to say, and how to act after
such a long time on his own, but there was constant chatter
among the girls, the oldest of whom was almost of
marriageable age and kept casting her eyes on Duncan and
blushing furiously. Duncan was content just to be present
and watch the girls squabble, the adults try to keep some
order, and to eat a real meal until he was full.
"Would you like some more stew, Duncan?" Nora offered.
He had to laugh. "Nay, Mrs. Macpherson. I've already had
three bowls. If I have any more, I'll make myself sick. It
was truly delicious."
"Och, go on," she waved her hand at him as she stood to
clear the table. "Tis only the same fish stew we have at
least three time a week. I swear sometimes I think I'll
turn into a fish myself and land some day, flopping at the
bottom of Alexander's boat!"
Alexander had moved to his chair by the fire, carefully
lighting a pipe from a bit of kindling. "Oh, aye, Nora.
And I've always told everyone what a great catch you are,
that'd make you one for certain!" The husband and wife
laughed, their eyes meeting in a shared moment of intimacy
that told Duncan the joke was a long-standing one. "Come
over here by the fire, Duncan," Alexander called. "You must
still be wet from that swim you took this afternoon."
Duncan brought a chair from the table over by the fire,
feeling the welcome warmth through his damp clothes and
breathing the comforting, familiar smell of strong tobacco.
He had washed up a little and even shaved before dinner, and
felt almost civilized. It was an odd moment, both wonderful
and frightening because he knew it was stolen, the
hospitality and warmth given under false pretenses. The
illusion had been sustained only because the Macphersons had
been studiously not asking him about his background the
whole evening, for which he was deeply grateful.
The two men sat in comfortable silence while Nora and the
girls cleaned up from dinner. Little Jamie played with a
small carved boat in front of the fire, and when he got
restless and wandered over to his mother, getting in her
way, Alexander retrieved him and held him on his lap, where
the child promptly fell asleep.
"I know who you are." Alexander said it so softly, Duncan
thought for a moment he hadn't heard correctly, but then his
heart sank and he closed his eyes.
"Yes, well," Duncan responded, and sat for a minute
wondering whether Macpherson would set the village on him,
but then decided he probably wouldn't. He pushed himself to
his feet. "I'll be leaving then. I want to thank you for
your hospitality."
"Sit down, MacLeod," his host said, looking up at him with a
twinkle of humor in his eyes. "You think I care one whit
about the rumors spread by gossips and old women with
nothing better to do?"
"But..."
Macpherson stood and handed Duncan his son, and Duncan had
no real choice but to take the warm, limp bundle that
smelled of ocean and of warm piss, realizing that little
Jamie was also slightly damp, but for a different reason.
But giving him the boy was an act of absolute trust that
said more than any words could possibly have conveyed.
Macpherson went to a cabinet, and pulled out a jug and two
cups, pouring amber liquid into each cup.
Alexander went through the logistics of giving Duncan a cup,
then taking Jamie back, and both men sat back down. "Mind
you, I dinna know what others will say if word gets around,
but I do know that Nora says you appeared from nowhere, and
that you dove right into the rocks and could have been
crushed in an instant. She was sure Jamie was lost, but you
fought the current and the waves and somehow managed to
bring him back to us." Alexander's voice broke and Duncan
watched the man rest his cheek on his son's soft, golden
hair. "Whether you came from heaven or hell, I don't care,
Duncan MacLeod. I am just grateful you did."
Duncan sipped at his cup, almost choking on the fiery
liquor, but glad of the distraction of the burn in his
throat and chest, which also explained the roughness of his
voice. "I'm glad I was there, too." It couldn't have been
ten minutes later and he realized he was having to blink
hard to keep his eyes open as the liquor, a full belly, the
warmth and the sense of family seemed to seep into his skin,
and he felt muscles relax that he had long forgotten were
ever tense.
The cup was taken out of his hand, and he looked down to see
Nora kneeling in front of his chair. "Sleep here, tonight,
Duncan, in front of the fire."
He shook his head groggily. "Nay, 'tis not right. You
shouldn't..."
"Tis not right for you to sleep out in the cold when you can
be comfortable right here." Nora touched his face and he
found himself leaning into her hand. "Sleep, Duncan."
~~~~~~~
He stretched out on a cushion of their spare rugs and his
own pelts, sheltered from the cold wind and with the
comforting sounds of the snores and snuffles and stirrings
of others around him. Unused to all those normal, human
noises, he woke several times during the night with a start,
then immediately relaxed, falling quickly back to sleep.
Duncan rose when Alexander got up before dawn to stir the
fire, and Nora put on some porridge. The adults let the
children sleep while they spoke quietly of what Alexander's
expectations were for the day. He was heading out to sea
and would be gone for a day or more. He usually fished
alone, but sometimes took one of the village lads with him
when the seas were rough. Duncan and Alexander stepped out
into the morning chill, with the smell of the ocean thick in
the air, and a heavy morning mist masking the waves crashing
against the rocks nearby.
He followed his host down to the water and helped him pull
his big, round-bottomed boat to the water's edge. It was a
battered but sturdy single-masted skiff that had long oars
as well as a large sail to use to catch the strong winds
that swirled around the many islands of the Hebrides. Soon,
the weather would make a dangerous profession even more
deadly, but it would be unlikely to stop men like Alexander,
whose families relied on the bounty of the sea for survival.
Duncan stood at the ocean's edge, looking westward to the
vast emptiness of the ocean. Water had always called him,
soothed his senses, and perhaps he had found a respite from
his wanderings.
"Alexander," he called. The man looked up from sorting out
his traps and his nets. "Take me with you."
The fisherman looked surprised, cocking his head at his
guest. "Why? You would be better off leaving Scotland.
You should head south to the lowlands, or even to England
where they never heard of Duncan MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod." He looked out over the blackness of the ocean,
still waiting to be revealed by the dawn. "These islands
have more legends, more tales of gods and demons and magic
than any place in the land. I would think they would be the
last place you would want to go."
"Even so," Duncan whispered, unable to take his eyes off the
horizon which was just beginning to appear as pre-dawn light
began to outline the sky. "This is something I could do, to
help you, and which won't put me in the middle of some witch
hunt. I could find a small shelter away from the village
when we're on land, but spend most of my time out there."
He indicated the ocean with his chin. "And you told Nora
you were hoping to find someone to help with the boat now
that winter is almost here." Then he stopped. Perhaps
Alexander's hesitation was because of who he was, and his
offer was unwelcome.
Alexander stood beside him for a few minutes as they both
watched the light change from misty blue to soft gray. "I
willna pretend there might not be some trouble, Duncan, but
if you keep to yourself, except when we're out to sea, it
might work. And I would surely be grateful for a strong
back to help me when the weather turns on us, as it surely
will."
It was a glorious feeling, being out in the vastness of the
ocean, riding the swells, sea spray dampening his face and
hair. There was a timelessness, a deep sense that there
must truly be a beneficent, all-powerful God watching over
them, if He could create such wildness and beauty, yet allow
man to use its bounty in such great measure. Alexander
tacked south and west. Then Duncan helped him unload his
net, row or sail a distance until the fisherman judged the
load of weight of the net was right, then hauled it back
in. It was backbreaking work, but very satisfying as the
bottom of the boat began to fill with large slippery bodies
of cod and herring.
For weeks Alexander and Duncan would fish until the boat was
full and heavy, then Alex would head for the mainland, or
for Mull or Skye, where Duncan thought he could sometimes
see Dunvegan Castle, where the MacLeod Chief resided,
distantly outlined against the sky. Duncan would stay with
the boat while Alex dealt with those who might trade goods,
or if they were very fortunate, money, for his catch.
When ashore, Duncan kept to himself in a small hut that had
originally been a storage shed, but frequently took his
dinner meal with the Macphersons, who treated him like a
member of the family. But when fifteen-year-old Rachel
began openly and outrageously flirting with him, Duncan and
Alex mutually agreed that Duncan should keep his distance.
Duncan did not blame the Macphersons for not wanting their
eldest daughter to risk consorting with someone like him.
But it hurt, nonetheless, and made his evenings huddled in
his small hut all the more lonely, especially when winter
weather prevented the boat from going out at all, and he had
too much time on his hands. He had not been with a woman in
three long, hard years and his body as well as his mind
sometimes rebelled at the enforced celibacy - not that he
would dare touch a woman anymore. To do so was to risk the
delicate balance he had found that allowed him at least some
human contact.
But at least, when the weather permitted, he had his days on
the sea, with Alexander. The winter storms made the work
more dangerous and exhausting. Even so, there was something
thrilling about fighting and conquering the limitless power
of the sea, and it got to where he and Alexander needed no
words to communicate between them.
They had been out for several days still in the most
dangerous parts of the Winter season, fishing between
Alexander's village of Sanna and the outer islands of Ruhm
and Canna, and were headed back towards the mainland when
the wind unexpectedly whipped around, now coming strongly
from the northwest. The deep-bellied vessel's over-large
sail flapped and billowed, and the heavily-laden boat dipped
alarmingly into the next swell while Alex and hauled on the
tiller and Duncan dove to tighten the canvas.
Alex studied the skies and the horizon, a grim set to his
mouth.
"What is it?" Duncan had to shout above the wind.
"Tis a storm coming," he shouted back. "Sometimes the
currents and the wind can all shift back on ye and carry ye
right into the rocks if ye're not careful. This one looks
like it is going to carry us south. Tie everything down
tight, Duncan. We're in for bit of a blow."
Alexander was a master of understatement. They were tossed
about like they were just another bit of sea spray,
irrelevant and helpless against the power of wind and
water. Each time Alexander would head inland, the current
and the wind would grab the small craft and if they dared
move closer they would have been smashed against the rocks.
Duncan watched in admiration as Alexander steered the
bobbing craft, using the raging wind when he could, riding
out the swells that crashed over their bow. They lost much
of their catch, and tore their sail. If there had not been
two of them, both strong and stubborn, they would never have
gotten the spare sail up, which gave them some small margin
of control, masterfully managed by Alexander, who after
almost twenty-four hours of fighting the waves, was gray
with cold and exhaustion.
They sailed through the night, finally giving up on trying
to reach land, which seemed even more dangerous than
fighting the storm. And when the gray light of morning
washed through the dark clouds, the cold rain began to slack
off, and visibility improved. Duncan had no idea where they
were, but spotted a small irregularity on the horizon in
what he thought was probably to the west, although he had no
reliable frame of reference for direction except the dim
light from a cloud-shrouded sky.
He pointed, and Alex nodded, his face lightening momentarily
with a strained smile, and he wrestled the boat around to
head in that direction. It took over an hour, but at last
they could see the outline of a small island, its beaches
shining white even in the grayest of light, and both men
sighed with relief at the possibility of a safe beach
landing. Even the sun seemed to recognize the turn of
events andmade a rare appearance as they approached,
highlighting the outline of a large building not far from
the shore.
When he turned to Alexander, the man's smile had broadened,
and the fisherman leaned closer to speak. "Tis a safe haven
for sure," he shouted over the wind. "The monks will buy
what's left of our catch, then we can head home. Nora will
be frantic by now."
An abbey, then, Duncan thought, his heart sinking. This was
no place for the likes of him. He said nothing until they
had finally heaved the boat onto the beach. Both men stood
for several minutes, hanging onto the small craft, grateful
to have their feet on solid ground, gasping with relief and
exhaustion.
Alexander stumbled away towards the abbey. "Come on,
Duncan," he gestured. "There's hot food and maybe even a
dram of whisky to be found here."
"Nay, I canno'," Duncan answered, then waved away
Alexander's protest. "I don't belong here, you know that.
I'll stay with the boat. I'll be fine."
"Duncan, whatever you are, this place is sacred. Nothing
bad will happen to you."
"No," Duncan answered stubbornly. "I willno' go through
that again, Alex. You don't know what people can do, how
cruel they can be. I'll get some sleep here. I'll be
fine. You go on and take as long as you need." He got back
into the boat and helped take the remaining baskets of fish
they had up to the top of the beach, then retreated, finding
a ledge where he could sit out of the wind while Alex did
business with the island's inhabitants.
He quickly fell asleep, wakening with a start at midday when
the light penetrated his eyelids with painful brightness.
The clouds had blown away and a pale winter sun had washed
the bright white sands with a soothing light, the wind had
died somewhat, and Duncan recognized he had slept so easily
at least partially because there was a true sense of peace
about the place. He stood and stretched. His belly
grumbled noisily from hunger, and his mouth was sticky with
thirst. He found the small amount of remaining fresh water
they had in the boat and finished it off, trusting that Alex
would bring him back a little food, and more fresh water
when he returned.
He hoped the man wouldn't be too long, although it would be
best if Alex slept a least a little before they started on
their long trip back to Sanna. Duncan was learning a lot
about the hundreds of inlets and islands of the Hebrides,
but it would take a lifetime to have the bone-deep
understanding of someone like Alexander, and he had no idea
where they had landed. He wandered up the beach a ways,
peering at the large stone building with the steepled roof.
>From here, he could see an impressive Celtic cross, as well,
and looking carefully around and seeing no one in sight, he
walked towards it, since there had been no dire consequence
before from his treading in graveyards.
He was stunned at what he found. Slab after slab of dark
gray stone was set in the ground, all carved with images of
warriors and heroes, many with ancient, weathered writing on
them. He wandered among them, admiring the carvings and
wondering who all these obviously important men might have
been. When he looked up at last, he realized he was
practically at the door of the abbey. For reasons he later
could not bring to mind, his footsteps led him to the
threshold, then inside, where the cool, dark vaulted space
sent a shiver sliding up his spine and across his shoulders.
Even as some voice kept insisting he did not belong here, he
surveyed the interior. There were rows of chairs leading up
to an altar, with one long aisle left down the center. The
place felt so quiet, so peaceful, the chairs irresistibly
inviting.
He was so tired. Tired of running, tired of being afraid,
so tired of being alone. He sank into a chair on the aisle
of the ancient chapel, his eyes tracing the candlelit shadow
of the tortured man on the cross. Like poor Gavin MacAndie,
the carved Christ's eyes were open, cast up to the heavens
as though begging for release from the pain inflicted on his
mortal flesh.
Duncan closed his eyes, but he could still see the outline
of the crucified man, as though it were etched on his
eyelids as he let his mind drift, his thoughts still heavy
with the exhaustion of the last several days.
Pain. Hot, stabbing pain. He jerked, but couldn't seem to
open his eyes. A sword flashed behind his eyelids and again
he shook himself, but something held him frozen in place. A
deeply shadowed figure in a long robe was standing before
him outlined in flickering, dusty, golden light. The
figure's skeletal arm reached out towards him, the hand
beckoning. Only it wasn't a hand. It was only old bones,
with bits of skin still clinging to them. "Strathconnon
Forest," a dead voice whispered, but he could not see the
figure's face, only an outline of wild, long hair. "Come to
me," the voice whispered again. "You must meet your
destiny, or else..." the robed figure turned and pointed
behind him, and something was there, a presence,
something...the vision grew larger and larger in his mind,
of blood and death and...
~~~~~~~
"Duncan?"
He jerked back, falling from the chair, scrambling back to
his feet, full of a nameless, formless terror, but it was
only Alexander, his face peering at him closely, his reddish
eyebrows furrowed in concern.
"Are you alright?" Alexander asked.
"I...did you see him?" he asked, looking frantically around,
but there was no one but Alexander, who held out a hand to
help him up.
"Who?"
"The man. The man in the robe with the..." With the what?
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the edge of the
images that had shattered his thoughts seemed to fade and
blur, quickly disappearing from memory like a bad dream. He
had no idea how long he had been sitting there, but he was
chilled to the bone, his clothes soaked with sweat and he
felt like he had just run for miles. He found the nearest
chair and sat heavily.
"Duncan, what happened?" Alexander sat next to him, and
Duncan was grateful for the man's strong hand on his
forearm, like an anchor keeping him in the here and now.
"Nothing. Nothing," Duncan immediately answered. It
wouldn't do to have the one person who treated him like he
was just another man know he saw...what? Visions?
Daydreams? Heard voices?
"They say," Alexander whispered, "that the veil between this
world and the spirit world is thin here. Perhaps..."
"It was nothing," Duncan insisted, shaking off Alexander's
hand. "Did you complete your business?" he asked.
"Aye. I'm sorry I took so long, but when I fell asleep at
the good monks' table, they let me rest, not realizing you
were waiting." Alexander stood, nodding towards the beach.
"The tide is on its way out and we should be leaving. It
will be a long trip back and I'm anxious to get home."
"Then let's be off," Duncan stood and clapped Alexander on
the shoulder. The two men stepped out into the sunshine,
blinking at the harsh late afternoon glare. Duncan was
anxious to be off, too. He needed to move, to travel.
North and east. There was a place he had always wanted to
visit, and now was a good a time as any. Strathconnon
Forest.
To Be Continued