Tangled (Handfasting) (2 page)

“They
clipped her good.”

“Filthy
heathens."

Another
rumble of sound as shapes moved, leaned toward her. She reached to explore a
prickle on her head. A piece of hair?  Drop of moisture?  Perhaps a spider had
fallen down on her. She tried to touch it, brush it away but found, instead, a
fist sized lump, stuck right in the middle of her forehead. Split and wet. She
held her fingers before her eyes, saw a dozen fingers instead of five and
blood.

Blood?

Too
stunned to feel at first, sensation returned with a blast. One moment Maggie
stared at her hand, the next pain ricocheted, violent, aggressive, against her
skull. Blessed darkness answered. Like a rag doll she crumbled.  

“At
least she didn’t see it, Bold.”  Thomas offered as he looked at the hideously
purple protrusion.

An
old lady tsked. “Or know that she has two great black eyes to go with it.” 

“Aye,”
Old Micheil sported. “She’s a fine lass, boy, a fine lass in deed.”

* * * * * * * * *

Talorc’s
shadow shifted across the shale floor as he turned from the fire to look back
at the bed behind him. Ealasaid, drenched sponge in hand, bent over Maggie,
dripping water into her mouth.

 “Go
on down to the celebrations, Laird. It’s the eve of Samhain. You've reason to
be thankful, the larders are full, you won a difficult battle. Your clan wants
to celebrate the feast with their Laird. They can't do that if you stay here,
and look only at what might be lost."

She
walked over to him, placed her hands on his arms, as she looked into his eyes. "You’ve
been here for as long as she, and naught has changed. Go on down, see to your
people. I’ll send for you. . . ”    Ealasaid hesitated.

“When
she wakes.”  Talorc finished.

“Whatever
happens,” the old woman answered honestly. “You have to accept, Bold. Since
she's been with us, the lass has done no more than breathe. She might not be
wakin’ at all.”

“She’s
not to die.” 

“Bold,”
the old woman snapped, then gentled, patted his chest, where his heart beat. “It’s
life’s way. We live and we die without any say of our own.”

He
thought of whispers of dreams, of crows, the messenger of death, of Seonaid.  "What
do you think Seonaid's playing at?"

Ealasaid
snorted and left Talorc for her patient. "You know as well as I, Bold. You
grew up together, you were close. Seonaid was never one to share."

"I
was never hers, she was never mine, and I know her well enough to be certain she
does not have the sight." 

"She
talks of dreams often enough, though she never claims them as her own."

Bold
studied the woman who had raised him when his own mother died. "You don't
believe her dreams any more than I do."

"No,"
she sighed, "no, but the others do. This crow could just as easily be the
brother of your handfasted. His death is still new, and there's a bond with
twins."

He
shoved off the bench, crossed to the window and opened the shutters. Shouts and
laughter swept into the room. Bonfires, to celebrate the eve of Samhain,
backlit odd grotesque shapes of people covered in animal skins, some with horns
perched upon their heads. Others dressed in their plaids, their faces and
bodies painted to disguise against spirits who had free reign to roam the land this
night.

Honor
the dead, but don’t let them take you back with them. That was the way of
Samhain, when the spirit of those gone, those to come, walked freely with the
people.

Ealasaid
spoke as though she heard his thoughts. "Even without Seonaid's dream, the
eve of Samhain is a dangerous time to be hanging on to life. It's too easy to
go and frolic with the dead. To leave this world."

"She's
not to die. I feel it in my bones. She is mine, my chosen, mate of the
soul."

"There
is no finer means of death than battle. She would be honored."

He
looked at Maggie's still form and remembered the night he proposed the handfast.
I have to be here for Fleadh nan Mairbh. I promised Ian.
As though Ian
couldn't find her here. Talorc rather thought Ian might.

 He
had never fought a ghost before.

"Seonaid
doesn't worry me. But Maggie's twin does."

"There's
naught you can do."  Ealasaid smoothed Maggie's hair, like mother to
child.

Talorc
understood action, it was this waiting that broke him. He would not wait.

“Ealasaid,”
He stalked toward the door, “talk to her, even if you think she does not hear.” 
Why had he not thought of this sooner?  “I want her mind full of the sounds of
Glen Toric. We will take her down to the celebrations."

"You're
mad!"

"Aye,
well, so be it. You get her ready, talk to her as you do, of everyday things, of
life among the MacKay’s. We need to make her want to wake to us. I will see
that a pallet is brought. We'll move her on that.

"You
could kill her in the move."

"No."
Talorc shook his head. "If a move would do that, she'd be dead now."

"She'll
not be freer of her brother in the hall."

For
the first time in days, Talorc smiled, the same grin he wore in anticipation of
a battle well planned. "You could be right, Ealasaid, but down there the
MacKay's call will be louder than any damn ghost."

She
could hear the flute, and the sound of voices in harmony. Laughter, mugs
clinking and someone full of tittle-tattle whispering in her ear. Pain
overshadowed her dreams, great standing stones hard and menacing, like the ones
in the field. Gray things, she tried to skirt around, hide from, as she
searched for the merriment.

Every
time she moved those stones shattered, shot piercing pieces straight to the
center of her head. Desperate, she tried to twist way from the explosions, but
something held her still, kept her from moving and the pain, unerringly, found
its target.

So
powerful was that hurt, it turned to sound, billowed from her depths, to be
purged. Somehow it worked. The sound turned her from the stones to face a wide
stream. Water, cool comfort, enticing her far, far away.

“Maggie
. . .” The whisper floated on the wind.

“Ian.”  
She looked, searched the opposite shore.

“Maggie
. . .” his voice touched her shoulder. She snapped her head to the side, to
see, but the result was a shatter of sensation that blinded her.

“Shhhh,
quiet Maggie.”  It was another voice, a deep rumble.

Water
washed across the source of suffering. More dripped onto her lips, into her mouth.
Greedily, she licked at them, which earned her another refreshing taste.

Comfort
of the stream drew her, the pleasure submerging in its depth for relief. “Ian?” 
He had drawn her to it, could help her find it again. “Ian?”  She willed him to
return, brushed at the merry making. The noise of feasting too insistent, loud,
it interfered, stopped her from hearing the whispers.

A
gossip poured urgent words into her ear. Maggie pulled away, cringed against
the squelch of noise. “Ian, come back.”

He
did.

He
stood on the far bank. He stood there and smiled, but he was not the man she
last remembered. Instead he stood as a small child, different but like her twin
of years before.

“Mamamaggie.” 
He reached out with chubby arms, for her to come and lift him. His smile wide
but changed from what she remembered of her brother. And his hair had gone
dark, the redness not so strong. Ian’s hair a brighter red than Maggie’s own.

“The
water.”  She said. She tried to walk to the stream on weighted legs. She wanted
to go where the hurt could be washed away, cleanse her to join the child Ian. But
the child was no longer alone, with him was Ian the man.

She
did not understand.

"Stop."
She begged the boisterous party makers. She wanted the calm of the river, the
man, the child.

Her
brother picked-up the boy, held him in his arms.

“The
bairn will stay with me until you’re ready.”  He told her.

She
tried to crawl to the water, but a fierce hold on her shoulders kept her close
to the pain, too close to the pain.

“My
namesake, Maggie. You’ll give him my name.”

“Ian,
help me . . .” again, she wanted the relief of the stream but someone slapped
her cheek hard. She cried out, not from the pain, but from a different hurt. Loss.
The world of Ian vanished, naught but a huge hole in her heart.

“Maggie,
wake-up, girl. Come on now, open your eyes.”

“Ian?” 

**********************

Talorc
closed his eyes in relief. She may have called to her brother, but this time
she was awake, eyes wide and bewildered mayhap, but open.  

"Ian?" 
Like thistle down, she touched Talorc's jaw, as though she were afraid he would
dissolve.

Damn
straight. That's exactly what should happen to a spirit. "Ian's dead,
Maggie. You are here, at Glen Toric, with me, with the clan MacKay.”

 She
tried to jerk free of him only to wince with the pain. “You sent him away.” 

He
tightened his hold on her. “You’ve no place with him Maggie. He’s dead and
gone.”

“Talorc,”
she squirmed and whimpered with the movement, “You’re hurting my arms.”

Stunned,
he looked, “Och, Maggie," he eased his bruising hold. "I’m
sorry."  And let go, though he could not pull away. Instead he slid one
arm around her shoulders, to hold her upright and awake. "I was afraid
you’d hurt yourself.”  I was afraid, he didn’t tell her, that you would leave
me for your brother, go to a land of no return.

Ealasaid
reached behind Maggie, to fluff and arrange the pillows.

“Lay
her back, Laird.”  The older woman commanded as she filled a mug with water.  

He
was loath to release her, wanted her to feel him near, to sense his presence
and let go of dangerous dreams.

"Go
on now, lad," Ealasaid chided, "those pillows are softer than your
arm." 

As
he eased her back, she whispered. “Ian was here. I saw him."

 “Ian
is dead, Maggie. You are not.”

"He
was here." Her hands flew to her head.

"No
Maggie."

“Dead
or no, I saw him Talorc, talked to him and the boy, the wee one.”

“The
wee one?”  Talorc's sight jerked to her eyes. Eyes dulled by a sorrow that ran
too deep.

“Ian
wants me to take the babe . . .” her lashes feathered down.

“No,
no, no, Maggie,” fear clutched at his inners. She’d already slept too long,
“wake-up, think about what you said.”

“Talorc,
stop . . .” she groaned, "let me sleep, let me go back to the boy."

 “Oh
no, Maggie,” harsh and loud, he insisted, “listen," her eyes opened,
"listen to me. A wee one. It’s Samhain, time for those who have passed on,
and time of those to be born." He shook her shoulders, jostled her to wake.
"To be born, Maggie! It was our babe. Who else would pass that child on to
you, but Ian?”  He could barely get his breath, as he moved in close so only
she would hear as he begged her to listen. “The wee one, it has to be ours,
girl. Our babe.”

The
brush of her lashes, against his cheeks alerted him. She had heard. He pulled
back to study her. Her dream told it all, she would live, have his child.

 “He
didna’ say it was yours, Talorc.”

He
laughed, he couldn’t help it. Weak and aching, she could still tussle with him.
“Are ya’ sure now, lass?  Are you absolutely certain, he didna’ say the boy was
mine?”

Her
brow wrinkled and she shook her head. “Oh!  Talorc.”  Gingerly, she touched the
bruise. “I do ache.” 

Contrite,
he leaned back, made room for Ealasaid to move closer.

“You
just lie there, lass, leave the pain to me.”  As the older woman turned to
rinse the cloth, to cool it again, another, smaller woman, offered a steaming
bowl.

“Beathag?” 
Talorc tried to frown away his late wife’s nursemaid.

Full
of worried innocence, the small woman looked at him, offered the bowl.  “I’ve a
broth for her.”  Talorc tipped back, horrified that she might try to pour the
stuff down his throat.  Not, bloody likely. Not from her.

Even
his late wife had been leery of Beathag’s concoctions, and she was the one to
bring the rodent of a woman to Glen Toric. She was a small thing who slipped
nervously along the edges of a room. Slight, aye, timid, true, but as
determined as a mouse to cheese.  Talorc was never certain how to deal with
her.

Thankfully,
Ealasaid took over. “Beathag, what have you made here?”  Ealasaid’s brusque,
robust way managed to soothe with practicality.