Forever Doon (7 page)

S
ometimes musical theater—even Jason Robert Brown—doesn't fit the somberness of the situation. There isn't a show tune for every circumstance, and some things can never be fixed with song. In fact, some situations are so unthinkably horrific they kill the music in your soul.

That's what it felt like as I watched Ezekiel and his younger brother, Jerimiah, devouring food in the kitchen of Dunbrae Cottage. The minute I set out a loaf of bread and steaming bowls of Mrs. Fairshaw's savory lamb stew, the boys attacked as if they hadn't eaten a real meal in months. Perhaps they hadn't. The plaid blankets that I'd bundled them in on the way from the foyer to the kitchen now pooled on the floor, forgotten as the two traded warm bodies for full bellies. What kind of world had they come from where a kid had to choose one over the other?

Ezekiel broke the last chunk of bread in half and handed the larger piece to little Jerimiah. I waited for them to scrape the stew dregs from their bowls before pestering them with
questions. I'd made the decision to keep their discovery a secret for now. Although I had yet to learn the specifics of where they'd come from or what they'd gone through, I didn't want to add to their trauma by turning them into a spectacle. After I heard their story, I would decide what to do next.

Easing into an open chair, I poured tall glasses of milk for my guests before starting my interview with a simple question. “How old are you guys?”

“I'm thirteen,” Ezekiel answered before indicating his brother, who hadn't said a word since I found them. “Jerimiah is eleven.”

The younger boy nodded, head tilted downward toward the table, fixated on his empty bowl. I briefly thought about offering them seconds—we had plenty—but if they were truly starving then they needed to pace themselves. At least that is what I thought I remembered from history class. Instead of giving them more, I asked another question.

“Are you able to tell me what happened?”

“Yes, mum.” Ezekiel's unflinching gaze met mine. Despite the fact that his eyes were bloodshot and the whites tinged with yellow, they radiated intelligence and determination. “My brother and I are from a village near Chibok. Do you know where that is?”

“No.” Geography hadn't been one of my best subjects.

“It is in northeastern Nigeria, in Africa.” I nodded to let him know I was following. “My parents were schoolteachers. They were educated in London. After earning their degrees, they returned home to teach.”

The boy paused to scratch the side of his nose. As he did so, his eyes refocused on the tablecloth. “They were killed by rebels in an attack on their school. After that, it was just me and my brothers.

“Isaiah—our older brother—took care of us. Together, we continued to teach the others for a time . . . until the rebels came again. They said, ‘Join our army or die.' My brother made a deal with them. He would join, if they spared Jerimiah and me. That was the last time we saw him—nearly a year ago—as he rode away with the militia.”

Tragic. I couldn't imagine being orphaned and raising my brother amidst such violence and uncertainly. In that moment, I felt ashamed that I had paid more attention to
Playbill
than to CNN. “Wasn't there any safe place you could go?”

“We heard about a UNICEF camp in Cameroon. Some of the people in our village decided to go there. We were to join them, but the night before we were to leave, my brother had a dream that we should stay put. So we did not go . . .” The younger boy bobbed his head in corroboration.

“Days later, we found out the group was slaughtered before they reached the camp. That is when we decided to establish a system to protect our people. The women of the village, the mothers and daughters, volunteered as sentries. When the rebels would come, they would wail in prayer and the warning would pass from group to group until it reached the village. When we heard the signal, the young men and boys would scatter to hidden bunkers in the fields.

“It worked for a time. But then the rebels caught on. They always came in daylight, but this time they returned in the middle of the night when there were no sentries to watch out for them. They took the boys and girls and shot the rest of my people. Then they burnt our village to the ground.”

Ezekiel paused briefly in his narrative to get his emotions under control. “They separated the girls from the boys. I heard later that our sisters were sold into marriage with rebel supporters.

“The rest of us were taken to military camps. When we arrived, the general informed us that Isaiah was dead. He said we must join their cause or die.” The boy's demeanor, which had been mostly impassive up to this point, turned fierce. “I tried to make the same deal as Isaiah—to save Jerimiah—but he refused.”

“I'm sorry.” It seemed like such an insufficient thing to say. Like the Black Knight in
Spamalot
missing both arms and legs and dismissing it as a flesh wound. The truth was I couldn't imagine what these boys had been through. “You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

“But I do, Miss. Some stories need to be told. Is this goat's milk?”

“No, cow.” What a strange question.

Ezekiel took a sip, his nose crinkling as he processed the unfamiliar beverage. A moment later, he nodded in approval before taking a bigger drink. When he had drained the glass, he wiped the resulting mustache away with the back of his hand—such a normal thing for a teenager to do that I nearly burst into tears. To keep myself from bawling, I ladled more stew into each of the boys' bowls.

“The first night in the rebel camp, I prayed for a means of escape. If not for myself, for Jerimiah, but we were so closely guarded that it was impossible to get away. Then one night Isaiah's spirit woke me from sleep. He said, ‘The general plans to make you kill your brother in the morning. You must take the others and flee. Now!'

“Suddenly, a great roaring, like that of a hundred lions, came from the opposite end of the camp. When the guards rushed toward the noise, I woke Jerimiah and the rest of the boys. We slipped under the back of the tent and into the tree line. Thankfully we were able to evade capture and the seven of us made it to the UNICEF camp a week later.”

At UNICEF, they would have been clothed and fed—certainly in a better state than they'd arrived in. Which begged the question: “How did you get here?”

Ezekiel flashed me an easy smile. “Once our group was safe, my brother and I decided to go back and get more. We were able to liberate boys at two other camps and a large concentration of girls that had been sold to the same village. That's how Jerimiah came to be in possession of his slippers. One of the girls gave them to him for his feet.”

Busy devouring his second helping of stew, Jerimiah mutely nodded in testament to his brother's story. I wondered if all the violence he'd experienced made him immune to the horror.

“That is how the soldiers caught up with us. The village had trackers who helped the rebels follow our trail. We were less than a night's walk from the border of Cameroon when the gunshots began. One of the older girls fell down dead. The rest began to panic. They were saying they would rather die than go back to the village.

“That's when Isaiah's spirit returned to me. I was doubting that any of us would survive when my brother appeared. He said, ‘They will make it. You must send the girls on ahead and lead the rebels away.' So that is what Jerimiah and I did. We told the girls to run while we led the trackers away.

“And it worked. The soldiers followed us for most of the night. But toward dawn, they caught up. We had no weapons, so we ran as fast as we could manage. That is when Isaiah's spirit said, ‘You must cross the bridge.'”

Chills trembled up my spine, radiating across my skin in the form of goose bumps. “Cross the bridge?”

“Yes, miss. His spirit said, ‘Cross the bridge and you will be safe.' So we scrambled along until we came to a river. The river was shallow, so my first instinct was to wade across, but Isaiah
cried out to me, ‘Stop, Ezekiel! You must cross the bridge.' At that moment, light, like from a great fire, blazed in the distance. We ran toward the blaze and discovered two angels flanking each side of a bridge like sentinels. As we approached, their voices became a mighty roar that shook the ground.”

He paused, visibly paling. “I was terribly afraid and dropped to my knees in fear until Isaiah's voice urged me forward. Clinging to Jerimiah's hand, I ducked my head and ran between the angels. The light grew brighter and brighter and then we were across. It was no longer night, but midday. And although we were on a riverbank, there was no bridge in the direction we'd come from.

“Still clutching Jerimiah, I collapsed on a bench. I felt sure we were in heaven and that Isaiah would come to welcome us home. Then I saw you. When you told me we were in Scotland, I knew what had really happened . . . a miracle.”

The coincidences between Cheska's and this boy's stories—angels beckoning them to cross a bridge—gave me chills. Wishing I had thought to grab a plaid for myself, I crossed my arms over my chest in an attempt to control my shivering. “Did the angels say anything to you? Did they send a message?”

Ezekiel shook his head. “No, mum. I could not understand what they said. The light and sound invaded my body in a way that filled me with fear and made my senses burn. I was barely conscious. I am sorry.”

“It's okay. I'm just glad you're here and safe.”

I reached out, intending to refill Jerimiah's bowl, when the younger boy grabbed my hand. He lifted his head and his haunted eyes bore into mine. “The angels want you to rebuild a bridge.”

“Excuse me?” How did the angels know I'd been questioning the purpose of rebuilding the bridge?

“It is called the Brig o' Doon. They cried, ‘Restore the Brig o' Doon to its former glory. Rebuild the bridge and prepare a mighty army.' That is the message we were to give you. Rebuild the bridge and be ready to fight.”

I
walked down the street next to the auld man who claimed to possess singular knowledge that would help us defeat the Witch of Doon. Kinsman or not, I needed to determine what Alasdair's game was. Until I knew that, I would have no idea if the information he supplied was false or true.

Despite his spry, cheeky demeanor, Alasdair grimaced with each step of his left leg. “Might we stop on the way back to see your bonnie horse?”

“Of course.” Although both of us were loaded with the meager possessions we'd just retrieved from his flat, he didn't need to ask twice. I'd eagerly accept any reason to lavish attention on Mabel. Since being stranded in Alloway, I'd been hard pressed to make time for my second-best girl. Not that I'd ever admit to her that Mackenna came first in my heart. Still, I suspected she knew—some beastly feminine instinct for competition.

Cutting away from the village center, we headed toward the parcel of land we'd acquired for our improvised garden and dining hall, and the adjacent paddock and barn just beyond.

“Have you always lived in Alloway? I mean, since the miracle?”

“More or less.” He shrugged. “I've adventured out into the world—seen many a wonder—but I always come back in the hopes that Doon will call me home.”

“If you are King Angus MacCrae's brother, you would've been a young man when the miracle happened.”

“Aye, that I was. Like you, I was a great, strapping lad.” The auld man preened like a rooster. “A favorite of the village lassies too.”

“How did you come to be so—” I paused, belatedly realizing the rudeness of my question.

“So old?” Alasdair's leathery face cracked in two as he laughed. “You can say it. I know what I am. Not havin' the benefit of magick like Adelaide to stay young, this world has taken its pound of flesh from me. I'm aging, ye see. Just more slowly than others. 'Tis not natural for a man ta live in such a suspended state. I'm ready ta go home . . . ta be at rest.”

The hall was packed with Doonians taking their dinner meal. Knowing the bairns would be anxious to start combat training, I skirted around the building, careful to stay out of view of those within. My stomach grumbled in protest.

When Alasdair and I entered the barn, I reached for a bag of green apples. After tossing one to the auld man, I grabbed two more, one for me and one for my bonnie steed. We munched in companionable silence until there was nothing left but cores, which Mabel accepted with a grateful whinny. As she finished our meager meal, Alasdair took the hoof pick and comb from a shelf on the side of the stall. He handed me the pick and waited patiently as I dislodged stones and dirt from her shoes. Once finished, I exchanged the pick for a hard brush. Now it was my turn to wait as my relative combed Mabel from neck to rump.

Often in Doon, the grooms in the royal stable had lamented that my horse was intolerant of any touch that wasn't mine. She was known to nip and pass wind as the stable boys attended her. To my astonishment, she took to Alasdair as if she were his own. Under his cooing affirmation, Mabel gentled, as compliant and eager to please as a young mare.

I followed behind my relative with the hard brush. As soon as I reached Mabel's barrel, she rewarded me with a pinching bite on my left hip. While I scolded my beloved horse, Alasdair sputtered with amusement. “Mayhap ye've neglected this fine beastie too long, lad.”

“She's been well taken care of,” I assured him.

“And none too happy about it, I see.” He laughed again as he moved around to her other side. As he combed her neck, he peered at me over her broad back. “Since ye've got so much that needs lookin' after, perhaps you'd allow me to tend ta her daily ministrations. My gnarled hands are not good for much, but she seems to take to 'em just fine.”

I watched Alasdair for a moment, trying to make my mind up about him. “May I ask ye a question? Why did you run—as the miracle was happenin'?”

He paused in tending to my horse. “We were at odds—the king and I. He desired to petition the Protector for sanctuary. I wanted to flee. Ye see, I dinna believe his prayers would work.

“But even in my lack of faith, as I ran away like a coward, the Protector still gave me another chance—when I was suspended on the bridge with one foot in Doon and one in Alloway.”

I nodded. I'd heard this story at every clan gathering since I was a wee bairn. “That's when the witch pulled you into the modern world.”

“It wasn't her fault. 'Twas mine. Even in the face of a second chance, I hesitated. All Adelaide did was seize the opportunity.
She was cast out of the kingdom forever and I was the final blow she could strike at the king. My brother and I were close, and she saw to it that we'd be apart for all of eternity. Running away—leaving my brother when he needed me most—is my greatest regret.”

His words shattered the serenity of the stable. I began brushing Mabel's rump, my eyes on my task to avoid letting the man see the full weight of my emotions.

Alasdair worked his way down Mabel's side until we stood face to face. “What eats at you, lad?”

I continued to avoid his gaze . . . Because I couldn't tell him how I really felt about abandoning Jamie. I couldn't tell anyone. But there were other matters I could discuss.

“Our people.” So many lives were dependent on Mackenna and me—and not just for their happiness, but for their very survival. “Is it right to return to Doon when I could be lea-din' them into slaughter? Mayhap it's better if we can't make it home. We could build a life here in Alloway . . . But if we don't go, are we sealing the fate of those left on the other side of the Brig o' Doon? I don't know what to do. Jamie was groomed to make these types of decisions; I wasn't.”

“I see your point, laddie.” Alasdair switched the comb for a soft brush as I moved to Mabel's other side. Again on opposite flanks, we worked our way down the horse. After a heavy pause, he said, “As someone who's been challenged with patience for thousands of years, I've learned that the Protector reveals what we need to know exactly when we need to know it.”

Noting my frown, he cleared his throat. “Put another way, it's all right for ye not to have all the answers at present. Have faith that the course will be made clear when it is time to take action.”

As I pondered the auld man's advice, the barn door flew open and Greta burst inside.

Red-faced, the girl panted as she stopped in front of the stall. “There ye are, m'Laird! Fiona sent me to fetch ye. More have come.”

At first I thought the girl was referring to the afternoon's combat lessons. But the agitation in her face hinted at something else. Something monumental. “What do ye mean?”

“Four lasses an' two lads. Two of the lasses are from a place called Toronto, Canada; one's from China; and one from Pakistan. The girl from Pakistan is missin' part of her face. She survived somethin' known as an honor killing, but Fiona says we're not ta ask her about it.

“The two lasses from Toronto are best friends, their names are Lee and Natasha. An' the one from China is in trainin' fer the Olympics. She does archery.”

In her excitement, Greta talked so fast that I could scarcely follow. “One lad's from New Zealand—that's near Australia. He's an activist for the rights of humans. The other came from Central Park in New York City—he's American, like Queen Veronica and Miss Mackenna. His name's Jeremy an' he does magick tricks. Not bad magick, like the witch, but illusions for television. He pulled a shiny coin, a quarter, from my ear.”

Despite her incredibly detailed account, most of the information she shared lacked relevance. “How did they get here?”

“Like Cheska, they crossed bridges in their own lands and suddenly appeared here.” Greta grabbed my hand. “They each claim they were
called
. The two lasses from Toronto crossed together—just like Kenna and Vee. Fiona says to come quickly!”

Alasdair rubbed his old hands together. His pale eyes gleamed almost maniacally. “Just like I predicted. It's happenin'.”

“What's happening?”

“Don't ye see, lad? When Adelaide demolished the Brig
o' Doon and consequently the portal—it didn't disappear, it splintered. Piece by piece, it's returning ta Alloway, and as it re-forms it's bringing a mighty army with it.”

For the first time since our exodus, my chest swelled with hope. An army? If that was truly what was happening, then we might stand a chance of taking back Doon. But surely Adelaide wouldn't have been so reckless as to do the one thing that could give us an advantage over her.

“Go on, laddie. I'll finish up here for ye.” Alasdair took the brush from my hand and turned toward the side of the stall.

I grabbed the auld man's bicep, stopping him. “Why would the witch fragment the portal just so it could rebuild and amass an army?”

Alasdair blinked up at me, his leathery face still cracked in a toothy smile. “Because, m'Laird, she might not o' known that splintering the portal was only temporary. She might have thought that the particular spell she used would demolish the portal fer good.”

In my experience, Adelaide had been careful, patient, and above all precise in her cunning. Her plans were carefully laid with centuries of planning to perfect them. I said as much to Alasdair. “So why on earth would she believe that the portal could be destroyed forever?”

“Because”—the old man crowed, clearly delighted by his own cleverness—“that's precisely what I told her.”

I filled Duncan in on the two brothers from Africa and he told me about the new arrivals everywhere else. They'd all crossed bridges in their hometowns and ended up in Alloway with
visions of a phantom castle and an unwavering sense of destiny. If Alasdair was to be believed about the army, this was just the overture to the opening act. Many more were coming.

“So is the old guy working with Addie or not?”

“I dinna think so.” Duncan scooped a spoonful of stew into his mouth and made a blissful noise somewhere between a grunt and a groan. “Tha's good.” Compared to Ezekiel and Jerimiah, who'd recently been escorted to the guys' dorm, Duncan towered over the other side of the table, giving the impression that the kitchen at Dunbrae Cottage had been designed for hobbits.

Feeling more anxious than hungry, I toyed with my spoon. “Why would Addie listen to him if they weren't allies?”

“He claims he spent centuries earning the witch's trust and seeding the idea that if she returned to Doon, she could destroy the Brig o' Doon for good. He called it a ‘long con.'”

“That makes no sense. What would Alasdair have to gain from lying to her—except her wrath? No offense to your great-great-great-great-great whatever, but I don't see the old dude risking getting turned into a toad. He's too wily for that.”

“Since the Miracle, Adelaide's been obsessed with returning to Doon and taking her revenge. Alasdair felt his best chance of not only getting home, but also of the Doonians defeating the witch for good, was to play into it.

“According to him, shortly after being pulled into the modern world, he became despondent to the point he was considerin' taking his own life. Tha's when the Protector spoke to him in a prophecy about the Brig o' Doon. The bridge would be destroyed but he would rebuild it from the shards and, in the process, bring forth a mighty army to defeat the witch.”

“That would certainly fit with what Jerimiah told me. Like Cheska, he saw angels as he crossed the bridge in Nigeria.” I explained to him what the boy had told me about the angels'
message to rebuild the bridge and prepare an army. “It made little sense at the time, because we are hardly an army, but considering Alasdair's dream and the other recent arrivals, I guess the army is coming to us.”

Duncan nodded. “We need to get ready. Prepare housing and supplies. I'd planned on using part of the paddocks to train the bairns in the art of combat, but I think we'll convert the entire south field into a training camp.”

“About that. Are you actually using real weapons to teach the Crew to fight?”

“You heard about that, did you?” I arched my brows and nodded as he grinned sheepishly back at me. The boy was so busted. After a second, he looked away. “Jamie and I were accomplished swordsmen by their age. And I asked Rabbie to dull the training swords. They canna do much damage with blunt weapons, except for a few bruises.”

As much as I hated to admit it, Duncan was justified in what he was trying to do. These weren't modern kids; they were Doonians. If it came to a battle, I doubted we could keep them out of it. The best thing we could do for them was make sure they were trained by the best, and that was Duncan MacCrae. “You should expand the training to the Destined.”