The Fox (27 page)

“Ach,” said Mr. Treadwell. He dropped my hands as if they were on fire and backed up five steps.

Marc heard me, quickly stood up, and put his computer on the table. He walked over, but before he could say anything, I frowned at him to show my determination. He faced me, grasped my upraised arms and helped me stand straight up. Much better. I saw a frown returned in his eyes. “Thanks for helping me, Marc,” I said with a grimace I hoped looked like a smile.

Plainly concerned, he quietly said, “Aine, you need to go back. I’ll have Tim take off and drive you. I told you it was too early for you to come here.”

“No, I promise not to do anything that strenuous again. I just want to take a short walk with Mr. Treadwell,” I said and leaned against him until I caught my breath.

“OK, but only if you promise not to go off the hill unless one of us is with you. We don’t need any repeats of last week.”

“Scouts honor, I won’t. I am a big girl, Marc. I can take care of myself.”

Looking worried, he countered, “Yes, but I can still worry.”

His strong arms supported me and I was comfortable and secure in them.
This is where I should be.
I hugged him as well as I could without wincing and with my cheek against his, I whispered, “Marc, I owe you my life. I love you. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, but I can’t live my life in a bowl. I promise to be as careful as I can.”

I turned to Mr. Treadwell, who watched the conversation with a humorless face. “Mr. Treadwell, let’s take a stroll.” I offered him my arm.

Marc watched with concern as Mr. Treadwell and I limped off, Mr. Treadwell’s arm protectively under mine for support. I wasn’t sure who supported whom. I looked back at Marc to tell him I was in good hands. He stood there watching us, shaking his head.

As we walked, we looked out over the pasture where several head of long-haired Highland cattle were grazing, and then at the mountain. I stared at it, not breathing, for a long moment. That mountain almost took my life. I shook my head to shake the memory of the accident away, and turned, searching the surrounding skyline. I noticed three tree-covered hills. They were alone, standing as if they were sentinels.

“Do those hills have a local name?”

“Aye. They are the Ben Rien. They are the three Celt goddesses that become one. It is said the hills remember the uald Picts.”

“Ah, the Queen Hills, named for the queen goddess Morrigna. The goddess of fertility and war. Interesting combination, wasn’t she? Her favorite was the raven.” I looked up into the blue sky, empty except for the scattered, cotton ball clouds. I seemed to remember it peppered with ravens.

“Aye, ravens roost in the trees on those hills. They’re here at harvest. They’re lucky for us. Like the ravens in the Tower of London. We say our town will have ill luck if the ravens don’t come back every year. We look for them to come.”

“I know what you mean. We need all the luck we can get these days.”

I noticed a depression in the middle of the pasture just below us. There were trenches cut into the pasture.

“Are you cutting peat, Mr. Treadwell?”

“Aye, lassie. I use it in the longer winters when fuel prices are dear.”

To position my self in the memory of my awake dreams, I turned to look behind us, to the place on the hill where I thought the gate would be in the defense wall, then turned back to the pasture. “Mr. Treadwell, was there a lake here once?”

“Oh, aye. My father said my great-grandfaither drained a wet-land to create a pasture, bad as it is. It was called Loch Dubh or Black Lake.” He paused. I imagined his ancestor standing on this hilltop we were now excavating and looking at the area, deciding how to drain it. “Most of the year the ground is still wet and full of sinkholes. I cannot let the cattle run in it but a few months of the year. The few I have there now are sure footed and will be canny of the bogs. There’s a story about it if you’re interested, lassie. ‘Tis a ghost story. Would ye like to hear it?”

“Yes, please. I would love to.”

“There was a grand battle between the Romans and the Picts near here,” he said, using his chin to point in a faraway direction. I figured he was referring to the battle of Mons Graupius of AD 84. He continued, “They supposedly sacrificed a druid near here to keep it from happening. It’s told he still walks here.”

He turned and studied my eyes with a look that chilled me. “Lassie, ye must swear never to speak of this.”

I raised my hand and promised.

Quietly, as if he were in a church, he went on, “I saw him one November morning, kneeling at the edge of where the loch used to be. He was praying, or at least I took him to be a praying. His arms were raised to the sky. The tartan was on his shoulders and he had a proud, straight back. A figure in the corner of my eye. When I turned, he was gone and a big fox was sittin’ there, right there where the man stood. He ran off when my eyes caught his.” His whole body shifted closer to me as he whispered, “Others would laugh, but that’s what I saw.”

“Mr. Treadwell, I believe you. I’ve seen ghosts, too.” He looked back at me with understanding in his liquid blue eyes.

I suddenly had the most overwhelming feeling of dread. It felt as if the air around me were filled with water. I could barely breathe and began to double up. I couldn’t stay on the hill anymore. After arguing so hard to get here, I had to get away.

“Are ye all right, lassie?”

“Yes, please; let me lean on your arm to the jeep, and then if you would let Marc know I’d like to go back. I think I need to get out of their way for the rest of today. Mr. Treadwell, I am very glad you came up here today. Thank you. Thank you very much for telling me your story. You don’t know how much it means to me.” I leaned on him and felt strength belying his age as he walked and supported me, limping, to the jeep.

Tim drove me to the inn, trying to avoid the bumps in the road. All the way back I thought about Mr. Treadwell’s ghost and wondered why I’d had that reaction at the telling of his story. Just what I needed, another ghost in my life.

The ghost of a man that turned into a fox.

C
HAPTER
15

JAHNA

75 AD August

Lovern waited outside the door to our dwelling, his eyes filled with questions. After treading slowly through the gates of our village, my head full of doubts and fear, I stopped in front of him, not knowing how he would receive me. He gently took both my hands into his, raised them to his lips, and kissed my fingers, his tears wetting my knuckles. His right hand moved to my head – I leaned into it – and his left hand to our doorframe; he prayed a blessing on our home and me. His hand then rested on my shoulder. I looked into his deep blue eyes and saw an immense relief and then deep concern. Dread replaced my temporary happiness. I did not know how much he knew of the events that led me here.

“I arrived home several days ago,” he said, “after you came to me in the passage dream. We rode as fast as we could, stopping only to sleep a few hours and feed the ponies. You were gone when I arrived. I learned of your taking and of Beathan’s death from your mother.”

I bowed my head, unable to look into his eyes any longer.

“I thanked all the gods for sparing your life,” he said. “I wanted to ride after you to comfort you and heal your spirit. I craved to hold you in my arms and assure myself you were well.”

“Yet you did not come,” I whispered. “Why?” The heat of his body touching my skin made my stomach burn. I drew into myself, unclean, not worthy of his touch. I felt his arms fall away, and air moved as he stepped back. In my mind, I knew he smelled the stench of the badger, the man who took me, which I carried in my nose continually.

“I could not leave your mother. We have taken her to the hospice. She was not eating when I arrived two days ago. She is very ill.”

Startled at his news, I said, “My mother? My mother is not here?” I had prayed to hear her healing words on my arrival home. Disturbing news of my mother’s progressing illness was not in the vocabulary of my dreams. My stomach turned inside out, and my world began to tumble again. My reunion with Lovern, curative moments of talk and love, would have to wait. The forgiveness I felt at Beathan’s tomb was far away in the depths of my heart.

I lived in routine. I rose early, after little sleep, and saw after Mother’s daily needs. Sileas and I would make medicines and complete chores while Lovern and Harailt went around the village to visit the injured and ill.

Lovern and I had not slept together since my return. I made my bed at the hospice because of Mother, and he at our home.

We had not spoken about my taking, although Lovern tried. Once, while alone in the yard of the hospice, he turned to me, holding a bucket of water he had gathered from the sacred spring.

“Jahna, drink from the god’s water. Let it rinse the gloom from your soul. Let it wash away your memories.” His hand dipped in and offered me a drink. The sun was too bright for my eyes and the birds too shrill.

“You cannot want me,” I said. “I am impure. You are a healer. It will cause you to be ill.” Pain filled his eyes, but I could not stay. His glances were licks of fire on my skin. His touches caused unseen bruises. Nausea rose violently in my gut, and I ran away. To find a path of purification was a constant prayer of mine. My days were long and nights longer.

The gods called me, even in my time of distress. Death in our clan required my attendance during this time. Braden was the cause of another heaviness in my heart.

Braden and Callum had ridden hard with Lovern from the seaside. On their return, they had gone back to practicing daily as warriors and hunting. They both decided to chase an old boar that had lived in our forest, fattened on acorns for several sun cycles. Running ahead of Callum, Braden slipped, and the angered animal split his gut with its long, sharp tusks.

Callum ran into the hospice with Braden cradled like a baby in his strong arms. “I told him you would heal him, Lovern. I said you have the god’s ear.” He laid Braden on the cot, who was breathing fast and bleeding from his midsection.

Lovern and I prepared the meal of boiled onions we fed to those with such wounds. It told the severity of the damage. The smell of onions came from Braden’s belly. It was then we knew death would come soon. There was to be no miracle here.

Braden died the hard death of a gut wound. For two sunrises he was brave and tried not to show pain, but the third day gave way to his deep groans and cries. I sat and talked with him, trying to capture a vision to help him cross the river of death. He strongly resisted.

In a low voice, tempered with a smile, I recalled the times we played as children. Braden always seemed to attract trouble. His father was strict, yet always forgave. Together, we remembered the day Beathan watched Braden prove himself as a young warrior. He won a contest as he practiced fighting with the other young men of the clan. Impressed by Braden’s strength and skills, Beathan called him to be one of the chieftain’s guards. He was among the bravest in the band of personal protectors Beathan had around him. It was during that time I imagined him to be my first choice of a husband.

“Braden, my friend,” I said. “I am sorry for my being captured and forcing Beathan into battle without you. You might have been able to save him. Thank you for protecting Lovern on your journey. Braden, be in peace. We will sing songs to your name. You will be in my mind as long as I live. When you cross the river, you will be at the hand of Beathan. Go. He has need of you there.”

Braden slipped into the deep death sleep. My labyrinth guided my thoughts to his river crossing. Through the fog of a light vision, I helped him into Death’s boat. Braden’s sucking breath rattled and stopped.

It saddened me to see the hero of my youth pass.

After this death, I realized it was time to tend to my own life. I had tried to wish the guilt away, but it hung over me like a black cloud and hid the warmth of my friends and Lovern. I took a deep breath and decided to try to perform the necessary rituals to cleanse myself and prepare for my mother’s death.

My mother’s dying happened in small stages. I attended her evening meals. She could eat tiny spoonfuls of wild carrot and rabbit stew with encouragement. Questions arose in her eyes, sunken into her thin face, as I fed her, the answers out of my reach.