“Indeed, there was no sign of the deep, dark pit you described and although there were quite a few piles of stone, each time I looked, they’d decreased in number.
“And as they did”—Bran adjusted his plaid against the wind, his stare fixed on the horizon—“new structures rose to replace them. I believe to have recognized the watchtower and the chapel. ’Twas a wonder the likes of which I ne’er thought to see, I say you.”
“But we aren’t here to dash our wits about the rebuilding of this keep in a time that isn’t ours, are we?” Saor spoke like a wizened sage, his tone irritating.
Bran glanced at him. “So it’s true?”
Saor shrugged. “No doubt Serafina exaggerated for you to say our world is nearing its end. What is true”—he drew his plaid more closely about his shoulders, as if the admission chilled him—“is that we’re being disturbed by the building noise.”
“That cannae be.”
“So I would have said, too.”
“But you no longer do?” Bran was sure he didn’t want the answer.
Saor gave it anyway. “Nae.” He shook his head. “Not after trying to eat my evening meat in peace and no’ being able to take a single sip o’ ale without having my ears filled with hammering, bangs, and the garble of voices when no one was there. I’d hear speaking around me, but without me being able to see anyone or understand a word of what they were saying.”
“Perhaps you were ale-taken?” It was a small chance, but worth suggesting.
“Humph! You’re no’ listening. The chaos was too great for me to take the merest swig.” Saor placed a hand over his heart. “Some men have even caught glimpses of the moderns. Those that have done say they move amongst us as if they were the ghosts and us the living.”
Bran stared at his friend, disbelieving.
But it was clear that Saor was speaking the truth.
“How can that be?” Bran couldn’t wrap his mind around such an absurdity.
This was his world and it should be impossible for a modern to enter it.
“Dinnae ask me.” Saor shrugged again. “I can only tell you the men are complaining. Some have even been heard to talk of leaving.”
Bran’s heart sank on the words.
But he didn’t doubt it.
His hall was a place where high-spirited men came to enjoy openhanded hospitality with free-flowing ale, excellent victuals, and as much revel as they desired—or not. Clean pallets or warm beds were provided for all, fires kept going, and never a question was asked or an eyebrow raised, tolerance and congeniality being the measure of the day.
Guests could come and go as they pleased. No one was ever turned away.
And as much as it swelled Bran’s heart to know his tower would soon stand fully restored in Barra of the present day, it pierced him as greatly to think that the building mayhem might send his friends fleeing.
“That’s just the half of it.” Saor’s tone was earnest.
Bran looked at him sharply. “There’s more?”
Saor nodded. “You’ll recall our three chiefly visitors who put Serafina in such a dither?”
Bran started to say that not only did he remember them, but he now knew their names, when Saor turned quickly back to the sea. He glanced about as if he expected the three ghostly chieftains to climb up over the curtain wall.
“They’ve been seen about, too.” Saor kept his voice low. “But they haven’t returned to the keep. It’s out yonder they’ve been sighted.” He made a sweeping gesture that took in the choppy, whitecapped water. “They appear in a galley, flashing back and forth across the bay, sending up clouds of spume and whooping like madmen.
“Some say they’re the reason the moderns are working so fast and furious on the tower. That the three chieftains have threatened the workers and—”
“They’re
MacNeils
.” Bran found himself defending them. “They’ll no’ be making trouble for Barra men. They—”
“Oho! You speak as if you know them.” Saor’s eyes sharpened.
“I ken all MacNeils. I—”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
Bran tipped back his head and glared up at the heavens. “If there’s a God up there, I’m asking him to tell me why I e’er chose a nosy bugger like you for a friend!”
“So you do know them?” Saor grinned.
Bran stifled the urge to punch him in the nose. “Nae, I don’t know them. I know
of
them. Their names are Silvanus, Geordie, and Roderick. Serafina had the right of it when she judged them to be MacNeil chiefs of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.”
“How do you know their names?” Saor’s dark brows drew together in suspicion. “Seeing as you haven’t met them, that is.”
A muscle began to tick in Bran’s jaw. “Mindy told me.”
“Mindy?”
“So I said, just!”
“That’s a lassie’s name if e’er I heard one.” Saor poked Bran’s arm. “An American lassie, I’m thinking!”
Bran ignored the arm poke and focused on summoning his most fierce scowl. “Aye, that she is.”
“Ho!” This time Saor slapped his thigh. “The maid from Ravenscraig Castle, belike?”
Bran nodded curtly.
He didn’t bother glancing at Saor. He knew without looking that the lout would be smirking.
Saor’s chuckle proved it anyway. “I’ll wager my sword she’s from that
Penn-seal
place.”
“She hails from Bucks County.” Bran almost choked on the words. “Bit place called New Hope.”
“Right! But”—Saor leaned close, waggling his brows—“where in America is this Bucks County?”
Bran clamped his mouth in a hard, tight line.
Saor flashed a triumphant grin. “So she is from
Penn-seal-landia
. Sakes, man! Your time is nigh—”
“My time was
nigh
centuries ago, I’d mind you.” Bran glared at him. “That being so, you can hoot and jig all you wish. It willnae be changing a thing.”
Bran folded his arms, signaling an end to their discussion.
“What does your lady have to do with the three MacNeil ghosties?” Saor proved he was a master at persistence.
Or a fool.
Not caring which, Bran grabbed the loon’s arm, gripping hard. “She isn’t my
lady
. But I did learn from her why the three chieftains are here.”
He released Saor as quickly as he’d seized him and then waited until he brushed his sleeve into place before continuing. “They’re the reason for restoration,” he announced, taking some small satisfaction in seeing Saor’s black-bearded chin drop. “It would seem that some foul aberration of a latter-centuried MacNeil had my tower dismantled and carted off to America, to New Hope in
Penn-seal
-where’er. Thon three ghosties—and, like as not, all else that were here at the time—went along with the stones!
“You ken, I’ve e’er kept my own counsel, preferring to use ghostly skills to preserve Barra as I knew and loved it in my day. So—”
“You missed the greatest disaster in MacNeil history!” Saor was rubbing his neck, looking stunned for once.
Bran shrugged. “So it would seem!”
“And the three chiefs—Silvanus, Roderick, and Geordie, was it?” Saor recovered quickly. “What of them?”
“I just told you!” Bran started pacing. “They accompanied the stones. But”—he whipped around and jabbed a finger at Saor—“they weren’t happy about it. And so they pressed Mindy to have the tower returned to its rightful home, here on Barra.
“That’ll be why they’re beating up and down the bay, causing a ruckus.” Bran glanced out at the sea. “They’ll be celebrating.”
The notion made his heart squeeze and he vowed, silently, to lavish his best wines and feast goods on them if ever their paths crossed.
He owed them much.
Even if the restoration din was presenting difficulties. The troubles would pass, he was certain. One didn’t live seven hundred years and not know that. Problems that loomed tall as mountains one day often proved to be less than a spit in the ocean, the next.
As for Mindy . . .
He refused to think about her.
He put back his shoulders and cleared his throat. “Those three chiefs will be glad to be back home where they belong, and our tower with them. I say they can make as many flourishes through the bay as they wish!”
At his side again, Gibbie barked agreement.
Bran reached down to rub the dog’s ears. “Tell our friends to be patient with the building racket. The saints know why we can even hear it, much less catch glimpses of the goings-on, as you say, but I’m sure the disruptions willnae last forever.
“And”—he knew this was important—“reassure them all that I’ll no’ be going anywhere. My hall will remain as e’er. I’m no’ a man for change!”
Saor nodded and made for the tower door. But before he ducked inside the torchlit stairwell, he glanced back over his shoulder. “I have your word?” He sounded skeptical. “You’ll no’ be going the way of our old friends Alex, Hardwick, and others? Following some fetching American lassie into her own time?”
Bran looked down at Gibbie, curling his fingers in the dog’s coarse fur. When he glanced up again, he didn’t hesitate. “Nae, I willnae.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Saor gave another swift nod, and then thumped down the stairs.
But as soon as the sound of his footsteps faded, a cold nose bumped Bran’s hand and he looked down again at Gibbie. He saw at once that his old friend knew what Saor did not. It was the same truth that, even now, was still making his side hurt as if a thousand red- hot fire needles were jabbing into his most tender places.
He
would
go to Mindy in her brash, characterless modern-day world.
“Eh, Gibbie?” He stroked the dog’s head. “We’d get by somehow, wouldn’t we?”
Gibbie’s tongue lolled out the side of his mouth and his tail thumped.
Bran’s chest tightened.
He’d even follow Mindy to Bucks County if she desired, though he couldn’t stop the shudder that ripped through him on that particular possibility.
Not that it mattered.
He dropped to one knee and slung an arm around Gibbie, needing the dog’s warm, familiar bulk against him. Gibbie licked his hand, understanding.
All Bran’s ghostly skills—and there were many—couldn’t do the one thing necessary if the Heartbreaker’s blue sparks and pain jabs were to be believed.
He might be able to uphold his world, making it seem real, and to be sure, he could pop in and out of Mindy’s day, easy as a breeze.
But he couldn’t meld the two times into one.
That was a magic far outwith his ken.
And, he now regretted, he wasn’t a ghost like his old friends who’d found happiness and love with Americans. No curse or spell hovered over him, waiting to be broken so he could be a mortal man again.
He was simply a ghost.
And—until now—he’d been glad to be one.
What a pity that had changed.
Unbeknownst to Bran, or anyone else for that matter, a tiny black-garbed woman who did possess great magic presently sat on the old stone bollard once used by Bran and his friends to moor their galleys.
Dutifully replaced in the same spot it’d once held for centuries, the bollard made a pleasing—if cold and damp—perch as the crone waited for Jock MacGugan to return with his boat and ferry the last of his workmen back to Barra’s Castlebay village on the mainland.
Now that their day of labor was done, the men stood clustered in the lee of a seaward wall, sheltering from the elements and drinking strong black tea from a large thermos they passed between them.
Not a one paid her any heed.
But then, she did dwell in her own little niche in the great scheme of things, as it were. Even so, it was more than probable that one or two of them might see her if they chanced to glance her way.
All Gaels had such talent.
Sadly, many had grown unaccustomed to watching for those such as her. Even fewer believed in the wonders her like could employ. To those who did notice her, she’d be just what she appeared: a crone.
These men, in particular, had been too busy at their work to care about one bent old woman hobbling among them as they hammered and sawed.
Besides that, it’d poured since morning. Not that the stormy day had deterred them. Being good, stout-hearted Hebrideans, they’d toiled tirelessly. They’d ignored the cold wind and sideways-blowing rain as they’d gone about their tasks. Not a single one had complained or cast longing glances across the bay to where the lights of their cottages gleamed through the mist.
Such were Barrachs.
And though she hailed from Doon, she was no less a Hebridean.
She’d prove her mettle, too. But she’d have to wait until the men were gone from the islet, leaving her alone. Her task wasn’t for others to see.
Not because it wasn’t important.
It was.
But Barra men weren’t just strong, brave, and dedicated. They were also proud. And the last thing she wanted to do was offend any of them if they saw her and guessed her reason for being there.
So she stayed on the little bollard, sitting as erect as her ancient bones allowed. She kept her knotty hands folded in her lap, and passed the time by watching the churning sea. And, every so often, looking down to admire her boots’ fancy red-plaid laces.
Then, at last, Jock MacGugan returned.
The remaining men surged down to his bobbing boat, making haste to leap aboard. The crone cackled, happy for them. They were surely keen to be rid of their wet clothes and warm themselves before their hearth fires.
And when they came back on the morrow, they’d once again be astonished at just how much work they’d accomplished the day before.
Watching them go, the crone pushed to her feet, eager to get to her own business. She was, after all, part of the reason the tower’s restoration was moving along so swiftly.
