The Fox (11 page)

My jaw tightened as I tried to recall why Marc had been so attractive to me in the first place. At forty-five years old, his five foot-ten inch frame was still thin. His collar-length red hair and full beard was now streaked with silver. His eyes were clear and dark blue, even through his glasses. He smelled like the ground we dug in. I felt comforted when near him, even though the relationship was strained right now. Damn it, he reminded me of someone. Who was it?

“Yes, I remember saying that I didn’t want to come back here. And you have to remember what was happening in my life at that moment. I wasn’t thinking straight. Brad was behaving like an ass, and I said I wouldn’t come back here because I didn’t want to be near him.”

I shook my head so hard my hair stung my face. I walked to the small table by the window, picked up a photo of my hill, and ran my fingers across its glossy surface. “I’ve a strong feeling we’re supposed to be here.” Turning to look at him and waving the picture, I continued. “There is something here.”

How could I tell him my heart pulled me? I had to be here, it was time. How could I tell him this when I didn’t really understand it? I walked this whole countryside last November. Something or someone called to me. I had to stay.

I laid the picture on the table. “We can go to Wales next week if this doesn’t work, Marc. We don’t have to sleep out there. We can be comfortable here, with real beds,” I said sweeping my arm around the small but adequate room. “We can get a good start and at least get through one layer of soil in a small quadrant in a few days. Let me choose where we start digging, and then if we don’t find anything you can go with my blessings. But I can’t quit, not now!” A headache formed just above my neck. I rubbed my shoulders.

“Aine, I don’t know. So far, we’ve only spent a little money on these rooms and transportation. The team is here as a favor, and we could back out of this without much loss. I really don’t think we should stay.” Marc leaned over, reached into his pocket, and removed his mobile phone. He flipped it open as if some miracle had occurred in the last hour, and it now worked.

My heart sank and my hands fell into my lap. I knew I would have to tell him. There was no other way to keep him here. I’d kept my secret for so long, I didn’t know if I could find the words.

I never told anyone about her visits after the first one. Not Brad. Not even Marc. That was one of my many mistakes in my relationship with Marc. I needed to start being more honest with him, even if he didn’t believe me. I tried to tell myself that I didn’t care if he believed me but I did. I needed his help now and his friendship.

My stomach started churning but I knew I couldn’t escape this time. I looked straight at him with exasperation, took a deep breath, and said, “Marc, do you remember the bowl?”

“Bowl? You mean the bronze we found in the tomb last year? Yes, I do. It was a lucky save,” he said as he was looking through his phone list, trying different numbers, cursing when nothing connected.

I turned away, head lowered. With little breath left, I said, “No, it wasn’t luck. It was Jahna.”

“What?” I heard impatience building in his voice. “What or who is Jahna? There wasn’t anyone named Jahna on that job,” he countered, still fiddling with his phone.

I crossed my arms and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling very vulnerable. “All right. All right. I’ll tell you about her.” I stopped, took a deep breath, and continued. “I don’t understand who she is, but her name is Jahna. I sense her thoughts.”

I watched Marc. He stopped dialing his phone and stared at me, wide eyed.

Looking down at the floor, I tucked my unruly hair behind my ears, folded my hands in my lap, and began. “This isn’t going to be easy. You’re going to have a hard time believing me. I would. Just listen, please.

“I was ten years old, doing homework, when I had my first awake dream. That’s what I call them. I wasn’t asleep. I pinched myself and left a bruise. I was awake.”

I held my hand up and looked at it. “I could see the pencil in my hand. I could hear the wind outside. But it was as if I were looking out of someone else’s eyes and my eyes at the same time. I felt as if someone else were listening and watching, not-not outside my head but
inside
my head.”

I recalled the odor that came before her visit, burning peat. “Everything in my room looked different,” I continued. “I distinctly remember looking at my mirror, and thinking it was the same, yet not the same. She whispered her name in my ear, and then she was gone. I had several visits like that, short, with little or no information exchanged, until I went to university and took my first Pre-Roman Celt class, George’s class. It was as if I lived then. Déjà vu, if you like. That class seemed to allow Jahna to come through easier. We didn’t have real conversations, but as close as you could come. Like channeling or ESP. I’ve had a few vivid scenes pop into my head, like the placement of the bronze bowl we found. She showed me where to look.”

I stopped, glancing at Marc to see his reaction. He was leaning back in the chair, arms crossed, smiling, and looking as if he were waiting for a punch line.

“Don’t you dare laugh. I’m serious.”

My room’s radiator rattled into existence. It was already too warm in the small room for me. Small rivulets of sweat started creeping down my sides and under my breasts. I reached over, turned the radiator valve to the off position, and jumped when Marc’s chair legs hit the floor with a sharp bang. His arms were still crossed but his face now wore a look of disbelief.

Staring at me, he said, “Aine MacRae.” He shook his head and continued. “You can’t expect me to believe we found that bowl through a ghost! We’re trained investigators. We use science and scientific tools to find artifacts. Are you trying to tell me that a ghost pointed to the bowl? Am I to believe a ghost does all your research for you?” He looked at me, waiting for me to refute all I had just said.

“Yes. I mean, no.” I paused and regained my composure. “So far it’s only been the information about the bowl that I’ve been able to prove.” Palms up and beseeching, I said, “She’s real to me, Marc. Just because you can’t see or hear her doesn’t mean she isn’t real. Jahna isn’t a ghost. Well, maybe she is but…. I think she was alive then.” I got up, crossed the small room, and anxiously rifled through a box in the corner. “Here it is,” I said, finding my notebook.

“I knew we were leaving something behind. The rest of you were ready to say the grave was empty, that we’d found everything, and then, on that last morning, I moved the rock and found the bowl. I knew just where to look. Here, look at my notes. I wrote down the feelings I had from Jahna the night before. I saw the bowl under the stone and when I went back to the tomb, I went right to the rock.”

I held my notebook out, turned to the page I had been looking for. Marc, with wrinkles of doubt on his face, wouldn’t take it.

“This is a drawing I made. The design is on the bowl I found.” I shook the notebook. “Jahna came to me and told me about it and showed me where to look. I’m not crazy, Marc. She is real to me.”

He looked at me with the hooded eyes he wore when he disagreed with or, worse, disbelieved someone. I slammed the notebook to the bed. I was determined to get Marc to understand. I took a deep breath and stood tall, all five feet-two inches of me, ready to defend my story, ready to fight for what I knew was the truth. I knew it in the deepest reaches of my soul. I stood in front of his chair, fists and jaw clenched, looking down into his skeptical eyes and declared in a controlled voice, “I believe Jahna and I have a shared history. I think she is an ancient ancestor of mine. I believe my family, the MacRaes on Skye, can be linked back to her somehow and I want to try to prove it. That’s one of the reasons I became an archaeologist.” I could feel my defensive instincts catch hold now and I continued, arguing, “Now, I’m where I should be. It all feels right, as though I am home. All the digs before were rehearsals. I cannot leave!”

I walked to the window and leaned my forehead against the cool pane of glass. I looked out into the dark night and tried to see the hill I’d captured in the picture. “I think she wants me here, Marc,” I reflected. “She wants me to find something.”

“Okay.” Marc’s voice was laced with mockery as he stood up, stretching, filling the space between the chair and the bed. “So, you’re telling me you have regular conversations with dead people, and now, I suppose, we’re going to start digging tomorrow with spirits in tow. Well, I need some spirits, now.”

I cringed at his tone and pulled back from the windowpane. I turned just in time to see him reach into my suitcase for my bottle of Lagavulin he knew I kept there. “Hey! Stop!” I said, just as he was touching the bottle. “If you want a drink, go get your own.” I never let anyone else drink my scotch. I always had a bottle of Lagavulin with me, and no one dared to touch it without an invitation. I first offered it to him after we found the bowl, but since we arrived here, he’d been helping himself without my objection. Until now.

I was angry. I wanted him out of my room. He brought back feelings I thought I’d buried with Brad. “If you think I’m strange, then go find a normal person to be with. I don’t want you here right now,” I snapped. When he paused, I continued, “I’m not kidding. I am going to bed, and you need to leave. Now.” I’d told him about a part of me that was sacred, and he’d made light of it. I felt sick to my stomach.

“Wow. All right, I’ll go. Aine.” He paused. “I’ll have to think about this. I don’t know what to make of your story. I’ve known you too long to know you wouldn’t make something up like this, but it’s so hard to believe,” he said, shaking his head. “I need to talk to the team before we make a decision.”

Marc pulled open the heavy door. He turned to look at me, confusion in his eyes. “We’ll be downstairs if you want to come and join us.” He walked out of my room, into the hall, and closed the door. He left me staring into my own reflection in the full-length mirror hung on the back of the door.

“Bloody hell! That’s the reason I’ve never told anyone.” I stared at the closed door. “Why did I let him get to me like that?” I took a deep breath and sighed with a release of emotion. “I don’t care what he thinks. I knew it would turn out this way if I told anyone about Jahna.” I searched the mirror, and said, “Jahna, I need you now. We are so close. I’ll work this site alone if I have to. I’m counting on you, so don’t let me down.” I turned, lifted one of the heavy tumblers on the bureau, and poured myself a drink. Neat, no ice.

The first sip brought me its lovely, medicinal flavor and I calmed down. I let my thoughts drift back to Skye, to when I was thirteen. Had it really been twenty-nine years since Aunt Peggy had shown me the letter?

It was almost three hundred years old, and an ancestor of mine, a member of the MacRae family, wrote it. The yellowed parchment had been addressed to a British Colonel at Fort William and my aunt had it preserved amongst other family heirlooms. It described how the son of Dubhglas MacRae, nineteen-year-old Hamilton MacRae, could be identified. He was at Glen Coe in February of 1692, with the MacDonalds. They assumed he was dead after the massacre and his family wanted his body back to be buried on Skye.

“…his Body is short, not the tall, large Bodyes that are the MacDonalds. He also has Raven Hair and Beard, not red. His Eyes are Green, not Blue. It tis the Second Toe, on each foote, after the Great Toe that is greatly longer. It is a sign of the family for many years. I beg the return of his Bodye to his Mother for burial.

Signed today, the Fifteenth of March, in the year of OUR LORD, Sixteen Hundred and Ninety Two by Dubhglas MacRae, Father of Hamilton MacRae.”

“We have traits in common, you and I, old Hamilton, our toes and hair and eye color.” I looked around to verify no one was listening. I didn’t want to be heard talking to another dead person.

Finished, I set the tumbler on the nightstand. I put on my comfortable, flannel nightgown and woolen socks. I knew she had something to show me. We’d find it soon, together, Jahna and me. I climbed under my down comforter and snuggled into the warm nest of my bed, yawned, and wondered if she would try to come back tonight.

I tossed and turned for an hour, and examined the conversation with Marc again and again. I finally slept, without dreaming, until the knock on my door the next morning.

C
HAPTER
6

JAHNA

73 AD February

Harailt’s father, Cerdic died.

With his dying, I found my life’s work.

Our harvested mistletoe hung on the support posts of our clan homes for protection, and, to bring fertility, in the animal pens and stables.

I passed my days with Lovern, either in Beathan’s lodge or my home when it rained, or outside in the meadows and woods when the sky was clear. He repeated chants, and recited the recipes for cures, and I prayed with him to learn the prayers. We mixed potions and medicines and distributed them to the women on the farms. He possessed knowledge of how to stop winter itching and fevers that beset babies and children, and more. A contented smile was my constant companion.