The Ghosts of Tullybrae House (16 page)

“It is. About a half hour south-east of Aviemore.”

“Lovely area. I’m always in awe of those hills every time I’m through there. And I’ve lived in Scotland for over ten years now.”

“It is amazing,” she agreed. “I’m in awe every time I drive through there, too—well, the few times I’ve driven around, anyway. Those rock outlines that you can sometimes see in the open spaces are fascinating. They’re just out there in the middle of nowhere.”

“The foundations of centuries’ old houses and dwellings.”

“They really are houses, huh?”

“They certainly are—cheers, mate,” he said to the bartender when their drinks were brought. “Yes, there would have been people all throughout these hills, living their lives over the centuries. They probably would have been Camerons in your area of the Cairngorms. Maybe Campbells, possibly MacDonalds. But more likely Camerons.”

“Can you tell me more about the feud between the Campbells and the MacDonalds?”

“Feud is putting it lightly.” Paul took a pull of his bitter.

“They didn’t play nice in the sandbox?”

He barked a laugh. “They destroyed the sandbox.”

“What was the feud about? I mean, the condensed version. Not Wikipedia condensed, but the historian’s condensed.”

“Historian’s condensed.” Paul thought. “I suppose you’d have to start in the times of Comyn and Bruce. From that day and generally forevermore, the MacDonalds were always seeming to throw their lot in with the reigning king’s opposition, while the Campbells sided with whichever king was on the throne.”

“That’ll do it.”

“Indeed. See, the MacDonalds dreamed of an independent Highland kingdom, and despised having to bow to the lowland Scots. Unfortunately, with being on top of each other in terms of territory, the years and the centuries brought lots of grievous offenses, the worst of which was probably the Massacre of Glen Coe.”

He paused in his story, pleased by Emmie’s rapt attention.

“You know, I usually bore people stiff when I start rattling on about clan history. I’m not used to people looking at me like I’m a rock star when I’m talking—and that includes my undergrad classes.”

“Sorry,” Emmie laughed lightly. “I hadn’t realized I was gawking. I get caught up in history.”

“A girl after my own heart—just teasing. But there are so many good stories about the Campbell-MacDonald feud. I’d talk your ear off if I tried to tell you all of them.”

“I don’t mind,” she assured him. “Give me one. Your best one.”

“My best one, eh?” Paul leaned back in his chair. “What about the Piper of Duntrune? Have you heard that one?”

“No.”

“There are a few versions of this story, but here’s the one I like best.” He took another pull of his bitter.

“The legend goes that back in the first half of the seventeenth century, the Campbells and the MacDonalds were fighting over Duntrune Castle, which is on the north shores of Loch Crinan in Argyll. It was a defensive fortress that overlooked the loch, so in the wars of the clans it was strategically desirable. It changed hands back and forth over the centuries, but at the time we’re speaking of, it was held by the Campbells. Of course, the MacDonalds mounted a savage attack and drove them out, killing many who fought to defend it. With the castle secure, the MacDonald chief, Sir Alistar MacDonald—also known as Colkitto—sailed away to continue his campaign. He left behind a small force to hold Duntrune, including his loyal piper.”

“Colkitto?” Emmie queried, curious by the non-Celtic-sounding name.

“The anglicized version of
Col Ciotach
. It means ‘left-handed,’” he explained. “If you know anything about clan history, you’ll know that the piper held a privileged position. So when the Campbells launched a counter-offensive to retake the castle in Colkitto’s absence, every MacDonald not killed in the fight was put to the sword—every one, that is, except the piper.”

His voice dropped dramatically, and he leaned closer.

“Day after day, the piper kept vigil on the wall walk of Duntrune.”

“Wasn’t he a prisoner?”

“Remember I said pipers were privileged. That extended to his captivity. Kind of like the minimum-security prisons of today. He was allowed certain freedoms within the castle. But the piper knew that Colkitto would be coming back, whereupon he would be ambushed by the Campbells lying in wait. So he used that limited freedom to watch for his chief’s return.

“One day, Colkitto’s boat appeared on the horizon. Desperate to warn his chief, the piper began to play his pipes. It was a loud, boisterous tune that he hoped would reach Colkitto over the waves. But as the boat drew nearer, the piper realized that Colkitto must think he was playing a tune of welcome. So he changed the melody, and played a sadder tune instead.”

“And?” Emmie demanded as Paul paused for effect.

He leaned even closer, which prompted Emmie to follow suit. Quietly, he said, “If I never told you how the story ended, how pissed off would you be?”

“You wouldn’t dare.” She swatted playfully at his arm as he snickered.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t. The warning worked. The message was heard by Colkitto and understood. The boat turned, and the MacDonalds sailed away to safety. But the Campbells understood the warning message in the tune, too. As punishment, they cut off the piper’s hands so that he could play no more. The piper bled to death—the price of loyalty in the time of Scotland’s clan wars.”

“Wow,” Emmie breathed, and slumped back in her chair.

“Yeah. Wow for sure. But the story gets better. For centuries, it was passed down as nothing more than a legend. After all, no written account of the event exists. But then, in the late eighteen eighties—I can’t remember the exact date; eighteen eighty-seven or eighty-eight, or something like that—the contemporary owner of the castle was having repairs done to the courtyard. When workers pulled back one of the flagstones, they found a human skull staring up at them. By dusk, they had uncovered the full skeletal remains of a man.”

“Let me guess—his hands were missing?”

“At the wrists. And here’s the icing on the cake—pardon the cliché. I don’t know if you’re one of those that believe in ghosts and ghoulies, but Duntrune is said to be haunted. Strange occurrences, sounds, things moving about by themselves, that kind of thing. Could it be the piper looking for his lost hands?”

It was fortunate at that moment that the barman returned with their order of food, because Emmie needed a minute to recover from this last part of the tale. Something in what Paul had said struck her. The Highlander—he wasn’t
looking
for something, was he?

“So, you said there was a MacDonald kilt pin found?” he inquired when they’d each started into their food.

“Yes. Here, I can show you.”

She fished through her purse for her mobile device. Scrolling through her emails, she located the one from Dean, and pulled up the picture he’d sent of the pin after it had been cleaned. Accepting the phone from her outstretched hand, Paul gave a low whistle. “That is a beauty.”

“I know. I’ve seen kilt pins before, but never one so ornate. They’re usually utilitarian. It looks like this one might have been commissioned by a laird or a chief. A show of wealth, maybe.”

“Or as a gift, perhaps? To commemorate something special?”

“Could be. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Ah, now see here.” He tilted the screen so Emmie could see. “This is the insignia of the MacDonalds of Keppoch. It’s almost eroded away, but that shield is the fish, the ship, the lion and the cross. Do you see them? I’d bet my doctorate on it.”

Emmie scrutinized the image. “Oh, yeah. Yes, I can see it.”

“That is an interesting find. The MacDonalds of Keppoch were wiped out in fourteen ninety-five by the Campbells.” He paused, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, you’ve apparently caught me on an off day. I don’t remember the particulars off-hand. But there was a dispute over whether the MacDonalds of Keppoch or the MacIntoshes legally held the land. It was physically held by the MacDonalds, but by force. The MacIntoshes were intent on taking it—I believe the Crown had officially granted the lands to them. If I remember correctly, the MacDonalds of Keppoch appealed to the larger branch of the clan, the MacDonalds of Clanranald, for protection. What they didn’t anticipate, though, was that the Campbells would take this as a threat. Or perhaps it was the MacIntoshes who convinced the Campbells it was a threat. Anyway, for whatever reason, the Campbells thought that the two MacDonald branches were joining forces, and so they teamed up with the MacIntoshes, and flanked the MacDonalds of Keppoch. When the clan was annihilated, and its chieftain, Angus MacDonald the second of Keppoch fled, the Campbells and the MacIntoshes split the land between them.”

Emmie swallowed the shrimp she’d been chewing, which had somehow turned to concrete in her mouth. That story—it was familiar. Too close to home.

Why?

“But I’m catching you on an off day,” she said with forced humour.

Paul did not seem to notice the change in her. “Tells you just how big my ego is. You know, we have archives of the MacIntoshes that came from Moy Hall in Inverness. It’s the seat of the current clan chief. They were donated to the university a decade ago. I don’t think they’ve all been categorized and reviewed yet, or their significance determined, but there were references to the MacDonalds of Keppoch, I believe. And documents that came from Keppoch Castle. You’re welcome to have a look sometime. Maybe when you’re down for a weekend or something. It will take you a while to go through them, I think.”

“I’d like that,” Emmie was quick to answer. “I’ll have to take a look in my calendar and see when I can clear some time.”

They spent the rest of the meal in companionable conversation. Paul, as Iain promised, was a wealth of information. Each story and anecdote he told held as much intrigue as if it were a Hollywood tabloid. Emmie gave the appearance of listening—really, she did
want
to listen—but her mind kept returning to the story about the MacDonalds of Keppoch. Could the graves that her friends on the dig crew were trying to uncover be those of victims from that massacre? Had the Highlander been murdered by a plotting MacIntosh, or a greedy Campbell?

Whatever the answer, she needed to find it. This meeting with Dr. Paul Rotenfeld had planted the seed—

No, that wasn’t right. It was the Highlander’s mere presence, his interest in her, that had planted the seed. This new information from Paul was the water that had let it take root. Emmie needed more information, more water. Answers. But what she feared, as was so often the case with the historical record, was that there would be no answers to find.

At least none that had been put to paper for the benefit of future generations.

“
EMMIE, LOVE—I
don’t mean to be overbearing, but I really wish you’d try to eat a bit more.”

Emmie looked up from her plate, on which she’d been pushing her mashed potatoes around. “Hmm?”

Lamb pointed his fork at her uneaten roast beef dinner. “You’ve hardly gotten any of that down you.”

She dropped her fork onto the table, and her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Lamb. Look at me: I’m making a pig’s ear of our Saturday roast.”

“Stuff the dinner, I’m concerned about you. And it’s no’ just the dinner. You’re on your third glass of wine. That’s more than I’ve ever seen you drink before.”

“It’s not that much,” she argued unconvincingly.

“It is for you. And I daresay, you’re no’ your usual fastidious self—I’m no’ criticizing, mind. Just worried about what’s behind it all.”

Emmie sat back, reflecting on Lamb’s accusations. He
was
concerned for her; even she could see that. She wanted to allay his concerns, but how could she possibly tell him what was going on in her head?

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately,” she admitted after a while. “I feel so… off kilter.”

“You’re working too hard, I think.”

“That’s just it—I’m not working hard enough. I haven’t made half the progress I did when I first started. I can’t seem to find my steam.”

“Too fast out of the gate, perhaps?”

That wasn’t it, either. But it was a better answer than the truth. “Yeah, maybe.” Reaching for her wine, she tossed back the last of what was in her glass and poured a fourth.

“Careful,” Lamb warned. “You don’t want a sore head in the morning.”

“I’m from Newfoundland. We know how to drink over there. Besides, I’m not having full glasses.”

That wasn’t the truth, either. Newfoundlanders knew how to drink, and were, by unspoken rule, fond of a good kitchen party. But it was a cultural pastime to which Emmie, not a Newfoundlander by birth, had never acclimatized. By the time she went up to bed, she was feeling the wine.

When she finished brushing her teeth, she lingered over the sink, staring at herself in the mirror. She looked haggard. The Highlander was wearing her down. His constant presence was more than curiosity, she understood now. He wanted something from her, something which she couldn’t decipher.

The story of Duntrune’s piper played over in her head. His brave sacrifice for his laird. The skeleton under the flagstones. She remembered Paul’s words:
Could it be the piper looking for his lost hands?

Gripping the sink with both hands, Emmie looked deliberately at her reflection in the mirror, and spoke to the Highlander.

“You’re not expecting me to find your lost head, or your leg, or something like that, are you? Because I’m telling you now, I don’t have the stomach for dismemberment.”

For a few seconds there was nothing. Then, out of nowhere, laughter bubbled up from her belly. It was so powerful that her shoulders shook. The Highlander was laughing, too. They were laughing together.

It felt so good to laugh.

Still a little tipsy from the wine, she slipped easily into dreams. But those dreams were not peaceful. The giggling was there again. The strange, high laughter of an unseen child mingled with the Highlander’s echoed whispers:
Save me.

Emmie tried to follow as the whispers moved away, but her feet were weighed down by slumber. “Save you from what?” she wanted to cry, but her voice would not come.

Save me…

She awoke with a start. It was black as tar in the room, which was unusual. Normally there was at least a little bit of moonlight from the skylight above her bed. Not this night. Disoriented, she lay on her back, opening and closing her eyes, listening to the sound of her own breathing.

Odd, though—she didn’t feel herself breathing. She felt neither hot, nor cold. The blankets beneath her did not seem to be touching her. She felt nothing.

Nothing except…

The bed shifted, as though an invisible body had risen from beside her. Emmie’s heart picked up speed as something caressed her cheek. A hand? A cobweb? A breath?

Why could she feel that and not her own breath?

The unseen form moved across the room. She heard the rustle of cloth, and soft-soled footsteps. Then a door creaked, and a sliver of light stretched across the darkness. Emmie’s eyes slid along the sliver, which widened as the door opened more.

Against a warm glow from beyond was silhouetted the Highlander. He was only a dark mass, his features undetectable against the light at his back. He was waiting for her, though. Waiting for her to join him.

To describe herself as entranced would be wrong. Emmie rose from the bed of her own free will. Her thoughts were her own, they were not held captive by some unearthly force. She knew what she was doing. Yet everything around her was surreal, dreamlike. She could feel the cold air on her skin without actually feeling it. Her fuzzy flannel pajamas were soft against her legs and arms and body, even though she had no physical perception of them.

Was this what the dead felt? Remembered sensations affecting the body because they affected the mind?

With her heart hammering in her hears, she put one bare foot carefully in front of the other, crossing the black space. The Highlander moved away from her, into the light. Emmie reached the doorway, took hold of the time-smoothed oak door, and with a breath for courage, opened it.

It was torchlight, the warm glow. It flickered against the stone walls of an ancient-looking hallway, illuminating the Highlander’s face. The same face she’d seen in the moonlight beyond Tullybrae’s gardens. He held her gaze as if he wanted to say more than he could express with words. Warm brown eyes that were both sad and haunting. The same dark, thick hair tumbled to his shoulders, and a stray lock hung over his forehead. She wanted to reach up to him, to brush that lock away with a fingertip. But she didn’t dare.

He looked into her face, his own expression holding a measure of expectation. He held out his hand, inviting her to come with him to whatever was beyond.

Wherever they were, this place wasn’t Tullybrae.

She glanced down at the hand he held out to her. Emmie knew instinctively that if she took his hand, if she accepted his invitation, she would be consenting to something. Acknowledging him. Allowing him to be more to her, to demand more
of
her. With an outstretched hand, he was asking for a commitment.

The prospect terrified her.

Then why did she want so desperately to take that hand? Why did she
need
to take that hand?

She was at a precipice, like on a rollercoaster at the peak of the track before it plummets to earth. She reached out, saw her own hand slide into his. Watched as his strong, sure fingers closed around hers.

There was nothing surreal about the shock of warmth that radiated from her palm and up her arm at his touch.

And so began the plummet.

Emmie let herself be led away from the room and into the castle beyond. It was a castle! Voices swarmed around them, sent a dozen different ways by the stone walls. They were behind her, above her, below her—a jumble of laughter and happy conversation. It was like being in a carnival funhouse.

Gradually, as the Highlander led her on, the noise began to come together, and she was better able to identify its source, to pick out individual sounds. A woman’s voice tittered above the din briefly, followed by a chorus of male laughter.

He continued to guide her forward, sometimes looking back over his shoulder, sometimes looking ahead. Emmie’s eyes mostly stayed on him, on his broad shoulders and his
feileadh mhor
—his great belted plaid.

The corridor opened up into a wide landing which overlooked a great hall. A rather crude wooden balustrade skirted the edge of the landing, and pitched downward along a flight of stairs that led to the ground floor. Overhead, wooden chandeliers, lit with more than a hundred candles, dangled from a soaring wood-beamed ceiling. Trestle tables were set on three sides of a central fire pit in which a sizeable blaze was going.

At the tables, people ate and laughed and drank. Dogs scampered about their feet, snatching up scraps of food wherever they were dropped. Or tossed. The people ate off bread trenchers with knives and fingers, and had none of the manners Emmie knew in her own modern life.

She nearly rubbed her eyes at the sight. Scottish castle life in what looked to be the Middle Ages. Right there in front of her. Everything from the clothing to the hall’s décor to the food was more or less as contemporary scholars imagined it.

It was the very thing all historians wanted: To glimpse first-hand the past. To see it, smell it, hear it. It was gritty, earthy. Honest.

And frightening. The people, the men especially, looked rough. Hardened and dangerous. Instinctively, she edged back towards the corridor. The Highlander tightened his grip on her hand, and pulled her so that she was in front of him. He placed one hand on her waist, and rested the other on her shoulder. Emmie’s stomach somersaulted at his touch.

Together, they looked down from the landing on the people below.

At the head table, which was on a raised dais, were seated ten people. Amidst the merriment, the man in the centre, presumably the chief (or chieftain or laird), stood. He held his hands up to silence his people. A hush fell over the crowd within seconds—such was the unquestionability of the chief’s (or chieftain’s or laird’s) orders.

He spoke Gaelic in a commanding voice. It was not so much deep as it was authoritative. Emmie knew not a word of Gaelic save “slainte.” Yet she understood what the man was saying as if the language were her native tongue.

“My friends,” he began. “Ye ken well the events of this past winter have devastated me. Wi’ the loss of Ennis—” at this he, along with everyone in the hall, made the sign of the cross upon themselves, “my second eldest son, Lawren, now holds the place as heir to my chieftainship, which was rightfully his brother’s.”

So he was a chieftain, then. Head of a branch of a clan, as opposed to ruler of the clan as a whole. The chieftain nodded to the youth on his right, who remained seated. The young man, short in stature but robust as a boulder, straightened a fraction, though he did not smile.

“But in such times of sadness, there be small joys. I have considered at length something I’m sure ye’ve all been wondering for a while now. And I feel ’tis time—high time—that I officially acknowledge young Cael as my son. Cael, lad, come here.” He held out an arm, beckoning the anointed one.

Applause erupted from the people at the tables. Playfully slapping at a few young men seated around him, the one called Cael rose and made his way to the front of the hall.

Emmie gasped—the one called Cael was the Highlander.

He was younger than the man that stood behind her now. Not much, but enough that he still retained the baby-faced softness of his late teen years. His cheeks were a healthy pink—perhaps from the ale that the people were drinking in copious amounts, or perhaps from the excitement—and his dark hair was shorter, coming to the base of his neck and falling in wayward strands into his eyes. He grinned, the way young men do when they are immensely proud but trying not to show it. As he passed the tables on his way to the dais, he fended off more playful slaps, and submitted to an onslaught of congratulations from the more seasoned men and women in the hall.

Just as she was wishing they could get closer, the room spun, and Emmie found that her view had changed without having moved. Now she was on the dais. The Highlander was still behind her, one hand still firmly planted on her waist and the other on her shoulder. In front of her, the young Cael approached the chieftain, and bowed low. When he righted himself, the chieftain wrapped him in a fatherly embrace.

“Ye’re a bastard nae more, Son,” he said for Cael’s ears only. “Ye can now well and truly call yerself a MacDonald.”

Pride lighted the chieftain’s face as he pulled something from his breast pocket. Emmie narrowed her eyes, peering through the dim light.

It was a small drawstring leather purse. The man opened it, and out tumbled a kilt pin.

The
kilt pin. The very one that had been pulled from the earth by the dig crew hundreds of years into the future. It gleamed under the candlelight, its newness breathtaking. The chieftain fastened it to the young Highlander’s
feileadh mhor
. All the intricate detail as she’d seen it in Dean’s photo, worn away by time and exposure to the elements, was now crisp and clear. There, on the bottom, were the fish, the ship, the lion and the cross which Paul had identified as the coat of arms belonging to the MacDonalds of Keppoch.