The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (63 page)

“Then something that needs to happen won’t,” Diorbhail said. “I wish I had better Sight.” She clasped Morrigan’s elbow. “I can only tell you that this blade has power, and in the proper hands, it can right an ancient wrong. I believe those hands are yours.”

An exhausting weight descended. Diorbhail asked much of her, yet her visions left more questions than answers, and made the right choice seem chancy, even unobtainable. Morrigan wanted to shout,
Why do I have to be the one? Why can’t you tell me what I must do!

“Don’t be afraid.” Diorbhail rightly discerned Morrigan’s expression. “Somehow, you’ll be shown what you need to see. And I promise, I will keep searching, trying to find out more.”

Morrigan took the knife to her bedroom, meaning to hide it in her wardrobe, but she paused. She stared at the blade then slipped it into the pocket of her riding habit. The thing made her feel sick and strong at the same time, and seemed to demand she keep it close.

Logan had their mounts saddled and ready.

“I could show you where your father and I were born,” Ibby said as they cantered through the gate.

Stoirmeil whinnied and tossed her head, making Morrigan realize she’d jerked the reins. She patted the mare’s neck in apology. “I’d like that.”

They traveled north, stopping to speak when they passed Agnes and Rachel, and farther on, Malcolm.

Beyond Glenelg, at the summit of a steep grassy hill, they paused to admire the village nestled against the bay. Hills rolled behind the township, gradually growing steeper, cutting off the area from the rest of Scotland. To the southwest glittered the Sound of Sleat and beyond, Skye’s blue-violet mountains. Below lay the straits of Kyle Rhea where, she’d been told, a sea serpent had boldly reared its head.

“What a pretty spot,” Morrigan said.

“Aye,” Ibby agreed. “And a perfect day. How d’you feel? Are you hurting?”

“Not a bit,” Morrigan assured her, though the tough leather sidesaddle did seem more abrasive than it had before she’d been banned from riding. “It’s been three months.”

It had either rained or snowed almost every day for a month, but now, at last, there was a shining sun and warmth. The earth smelled and looked scrubbed, reborn. She reveled in the fresh air, drawing it deeply into her lungs. Nothing would induce her to spend another day indoors.

Away in the distance, someone cursed his horse as he broke ground, and out on the water, a
skaffie
trolled, slow and lazy. Sheep bleated across the hillsides, and nearer, a shaggy Highland bull observed the two riders in an aloofly disinterested manner.

“Come away then,” Ibby said. “You can see what remains of our
taigh-tughaidh
.”

In the lee below the summit of the hill, Morrigan made out stones, now covered with moss and lichen, spread in a blurry rectangle. Ibby led her through long, lush grass and hardy wildflowers to a flat area containing a few stunted pines, giving way to dirt and scree on the slope leading to the water.

“Padraig Urquhart and his family lived there, beneath that burned stump,” Ibby said. “It used to be a great old ash tree.” She dismounted, letting the reins drag, and walked to the mounds of stone. “This was our home.”

Morrigan remained on Stoirmeil; her hands tightened around the reins as disquiet crept through her.

“We lived here together after my da— your grandfather— abandoned us. Mam, Douglas, and me. Later, after he came home from India, Douglas became Randall Benedict’s gamekeeper and went off to his own home with Neala. After she died, he married your mother and took her away to Ireland. They returned a fortnight before the clearings. She didn’t like sharing space with the kye and the goat, and it was crowded, so he started building a byre, over there.” Her voice trembled as she added, “It wasn’t quite finished when the soldiers came. They burned it as well as the cottage, after they saw we’d not get on their ship. They didn’t want us using it for shelter.”

Morrigan slipped off her horse. “It’s hard to believe that your home, everyone’s homes, were burned, and you were all left to die.” The toe of her boot grated against one of the stones.

Because of rich men wanting to be richer, our folk were swept out like rubbish
, Seaghan had said. After all these years, he’d still shaken with rage.

“Randall Benedict paid to have us shipped to Nova Scotia. If we refused his offer, well,” Ibby shrugged, “he’d done everything he could, hadn’t he?” She squinted at the glittering water. “He wasn’t a man of the land. He couldn’t understand how we felt, how the legends nurtured and sustained us. He had no idea what it meant to grow up on the same land as our grandfolk and their grandfolk. Land they fought to protect clear back to Culloden and further, back to Scotland’s beginnings.” She paused. “We knew every stone. The course of every burn. All the secret spots where the red fish leap. We knew each tree and bush, where the rabbit holes were. How could we leave those things? How could they ask it? Better to die of starvation in our own hills, with the scent of home in our noses.”

How many Scotsmen live on in other countries, never to see their own again?

Sorry now that she’d agreed to come to this place that dredged up so many awful memories, Morrigan put her arm around Ibby’s shoulders, hoping to comfort her.

Ibby wiped away tears with an impatient swipe. “Douglas was poisoned to it afterwards. Once he told me he heard the screaming, the sound of burning, every day and night. That’s why he left, moved you and Nicky to Stranraer. Gregor fetched me away to Mallaig. I never stopped missing my home, though. I think in the end, it was the same for your father.”

She stepped over a disrupted pile of stones. “Nicky played here. Dear lad. Mam and I tried to make up to him for the loss of his mother. Hannah treated him well, too. But we never could make him understand why Neala wouldn’t come home. He couldn’t understand death left her no choice.”

Nicky, I know. My heart knows. As blithe and carefree as you seemed, you weren’t. An ocean of hurt lived inside you
.

“My God.” Ibby knelt and pulled at some grass. Whatever she worked for gave her difficulty. She had to dig, but in the end the ground yielded its treasure. She held it out, a waterlogged, moldy hunk of wood. “This was your brother’s. I
remember
it.”

It was a carved wooden boat. There was still the broken-off stump of a mast, and a bit of twine that probably had fastened a scrap of cloth for a sail. He’d watched it bob on the water, maybe at Loch Alsh, to the north, or down on the Kyle Rhea, or perhaps in this wee burn that trickled past her father’s old ruin.

This was her land. Hers, where she should have grown up, meshed in the traditions and customs that now had to be explained. The Gaelic should’ve been her natural tongue, with English sounding strange and foreign to her ears. If her kin had not been cleared, she would have married and borne her babes here, in this meadow, in a blackhouse that no longer existed. Lifting her head, Morrigan closed her eyes and listened. She heard sparrows chattering, and breezes through the grass. She drew in air, and more. A thwarted life. If the clearings hadn’t ravaged Glenelg, perhaps Douglas wouldn’t have become that violent, horrible thing she’d known.

With her eyes closed, Morrigan allowed in a silence that echoed, bringing her castrated life into focus. Wee Nicky playing with his boat. Douglas ploughing his strips. Hannah stirring porridge over a fire.

Her legs gave way. She fell to her knees. Crimson cartwheels leaped across a fathomless black background. Almost able to step into it, the smells, the sounds, the life, she pressed the boat to her cheek and breathed in the scent of earth and wet wood. “Why did you do it?” she whispered. “You knew this would happen. You let it. You caused it. You’re a cruel god.”

Ibby knelt beside her. “Lord love you, child, forgive me. I shouldn’t’ve brought you here.”

Morrigan couldn’t open her eyes. It was frightening, how her blood pounded, She knew weeping would bring relief, but her eyes refused to part with a single tear. They were there inside, locked away. Perhaps the wild, hidden Morrigan held them prisoner.

“This is more emotion than I’ve seen in you since… well, as long as I can mind,” Ibby said. “I thought your heart had gone stone hard, or something inside you had been killed. But you must not hold back. Don’t be afraid to mourn. Sometimes, it’s all we can do.”

“I want to be alone, Auntie.”

“Don’t be daft. Let’s go to Kilgarry. We’ll have tea and you can cuddle the wean.”

“No. I want to think. I need time.”

“I will no’ go off without you—”

“
Leave me alone
.”

Ibby paused. She looked stricken. But, after a moment, she nodded. “Very well.” Rising, she brushed at her habit and blotted her eyes with her handkerchief before handing it to Morrigan. “We all need time alone now and again. If you forget the way, Glenelg is that direction. Go to the top of the hill and you’ll see it.”

“I won’t forget.”

“You’re sure?”

“Aye.”

After Ibby and her mare disappeared, Morrigan ran her fingertips over the miniature boat, feeling the splinters and warped roughness of her dead brother’s toy as she held a one-way conversation with God.

I know what love is now, because of my Livvy. But you’ll destroy it, won’t you? Like you did to Papa.
The toy wavered into a dancing brown water spot and for an instant Morrigan thought she might weep after all.
Why did you hate me, Papa? God did those things, not me.

“Well, what have we here? Lady Eilginn.”

Morrigan scrambled to her feet, blinking frantically. “M-Mr. Hawley.” Of all the people who might have come upon her this way, it had to be him— the cold, oppressive Englishman who made her flesh crawl. “I-I thought you were traveling.”

He wrapped his mount’s reins loosely around one of the tree stumps. “I returned just now. No luck today, I’m afraid.”

Averting her face, she stared at the Kyle Rhea. Damn him. She’d only wanted a minute, one brief moment in time, to think.

A curlew called, wretched and lonely.

“Why are you alone out here?” His clipped accent sounded harsh to her ears. “Something is wrong, Mrs. Ramsay.”

“I’m simply feeling sorry for myself, Mr. Hawley.”

“May I ask why?” His words were solicitous, but his manner mocking.

She shrugged. “I was imagining how things might’ve been, if the world were different.”

“I will not stand for this.” He extended his hand. “Come, I’ll see you home.”

“No, thank you Mr. Hawley. Women may be delicate, but surely we can have a moment of solitude every so often.”

“Not if it makes you sad. Please, sit at least. I insist.” He clasped her forearm and led her to a stone that was tilted vertically, its flattened crown offering a likely seat.

She didn’t want to display bad manners. Manners were so important to the upper class. Yet, what of his own? She hadn’t forgotten the way he’d leered at her.

His touch, even through her sleeve, made her shudder. Thank God, today she wore a high-necked, long-sleeved, full-skirted riding habit, along with a cap, jacket, and gloves, not to mention her undergarments. So many layers leant a sensation of safety, as though she resided behind an impenetrable fortress.

He perched on another stone beside her. “Imagine such treasure, hidden away in that backwater village.” He crossed one long leg over the other and kicked at the grass. “What was it? Stranraer? Makes me want to explore the entire country, it does!”

“That’s kind of you, Mr. Hawley.” Though his words were embarrassingly out of bounds, he didn’t appear lustful, only attentive. She couldn’t expect him to understand how giving such a compliment, especially to a woman he hardly knew, was as demeaning as it was flattering. She sighed. He was simply attempting to lift her spirits, and no doubt assumed the quickest way was to give homage to her features. Curran often said similar things. She must be more patient. But Curran’s compliments never made her feel threatened or uneasy.

“Do call me Patrick.”

She inclined her head. Did other women ever resent the flattery men tossed about so carelessly? Perhaps, unlike her, they appreciated the admiration. She had heard tales, after all, of lasses forcing their corsets so tight their lower ribs snapped, but wasn’t sure if it was true. She’d also heard of ladies drinking arsenic to make their complexions fashionably pale. Were there women who were actually willing to barter their very lives—

Hawley’s hand cupped her knee.

Morrigan started. His cheeks were flushed. The man had no sensibility. He seemed educated, but Scotland’s rudest shieling boy knew better than to lay hands on a married woman.

“I was certain one of these days you’d go out by yourself.” He sounded a bit breathless, and his fingers tightened. “I was starting to wonder how long I would have to wait, though I would have waited all summer if I had to. Maybe through the winter as well.”

“I don’t understand.”

His gaze veered away. He pushed at his hair with fingers that trembled. Abruptly, he stood and seized her arms, forcing her to her feet. “You like to pretend you’re standoffish and proper. That’s one thing that never changes.” Leaning forward, he burrowed his face against her throat. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed your flesh. I swear you still smell the same.”

Morrigan tried to escape him and lost her balance as her feet became tangled against the stone she’d been sitting on. She would have fallen if he hadn’t been gripping her. “Let me go,” she cried.

Patrick pinned her arms at her sides. His breath was hot against her cheek. “Playing innocent? Again? When you’d put the whores in the Haymarket to shame?”

Morrigan managed to pull one arm free. She slapped him as hard as she could and arched, shoving at him. Nothing had any effect. The man, though thin, possessed a wiry strength far superior to hers.

He laughed. “I’m ready for you, little vixen. You’ll not break my nose as you once did.”

In the depths of her brain, Douglas formed.
Take down your dress,
he commanded, in that silky, dangerous voice.

No, not again.
Never
again.