The Centaur (47 page)

“But, Sir Ashmodel,” Selwig spoke when he regained his composure. “Vanni told me God was a loving creator, kind and merciful, great beyond all goodness and no man or elf could ever come close to matching His perfection.”

“Ahhhh, you speak of the Creator, little one.” Ashmodel looked up at him and took hold of his ankles. “I am speaking of the Lord of Israel, the mighty Yahweh, the god of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. He was a great, but somewhat cruel god. Jealous and wrathful. Vengeful and glorious in his splendor. You have been taught well by this Vanni. Is he a prophet?”

Selwig looked at Michael and then at Galen. He didn’t exactly know what a prophet was.

“What is a prophet, sir?” He asked when neither of the men gave him a hint.

“A prophet is a great teacher. He is full of wisdom and good advice. He may speak of things past and present and future. He may lead by example or exhort the people to repent and turn from sin. He may be loud or gentle, tall or short, dark or fair, but he is one who should be hailed as great among his people, but is rarely recognized for his talents.”

“Then Vanni is a prophet,” Selwig smiled. “And his father is the great Golden Eagle.”

“Golden Eagle?” Ashmodel slowed his pace. “Tell me of this man with a bird for a father, little one. Perhaps I may know his father.”

The mountains quake at him, and the hills melt, and the earth is burned at his presence, yea, the world, and all that dwell therein

“Well, now, laddies. Can I be of some assistance t’ ye?” Mark asked almost amiably from where he stood in the rear door of the kitchen, with his hands propped on the hilt of his sword. The tip of the gleaming gold weapon was embedded in the floor between his boots.

The three, rather grimy men, dressed in faded green and yellow tartans, spun around on their heels, raising their weapons simultaneously. The largest of them and possibly the eldest sported a bulbous nose, crinkled green eyes and bushy red hair. The other two hardly looked any better, and one had a black rag tied around his head, covering one eye.

“If we were in need o’ help, we’d ask fur it,” the mid-sized one told him as he sized him up and down with bulging blue, blood-shot eyes. “Just who moight ye be, sirrah? Ye’ve not been pussy-footin’ around with me woman, have ye?” He smiled and looked all the worse for it.

“Now
thot wud depend on which Clanahan ye moight be, and who ye moight be considerin’ yur woman,” Mark said and returned his smile. “Wud ye be Martin? No, methinks ye look more loike a Percy, but ye could be a Gerald. I’ve seen some uglier brutes with gentler names. As fur ye wooman, I caught ’er down by th’ loch and thot one o’ me goats ’ad shinnied th’ fence by th’ smell o’ ’er.”

The ugliest one growled and the dirtiest one howled and dropped the jar of jam he had been licking. It broke on the flagstones beneath the stove.

“Now dunna be gettin’ oll roiled up, boys,” Mark said as he pulled the sword from the floor and laid it casually over his right shoulder. It seemed his ‘houseguests’ carried nothing more than dirks clubs and immense egos. Their eyes were glued to the blade. “I didna take advantage o’ yur wooman, or was thot ye sister? I’d loike t’ get t’ know oll o’ ye before I kill ye.”

“
Thot’s good t’ hear. I’m Percy Clanahan and these air me foine brothers, Gerald, there with th’ beautiful red locks and Martin, with th’ pretty blue eye. He’s a favorite with th’ lassies, ye know,” the best looking brother spoke up and gave him a snaggle-toothed smile. “And now thot ye know who we air, ye moight do us th’ honor and tell us yur name before we lay ye t’ rest and drag out yur harlots.”

“My name is John Mark Andrew Larmenius Ramsay and this is my house, these are my lands and you are in danger of losing all you hold dear if you do not lay aside your arms at once and leave my home the way you found it,” Mark said more solemnly. He raised the sword and took up a defensive stance, turning himself ninety degrees, holding the twinkling blade straight up in front of his unsmiling face.

Gerald roared a curse in Gaelic and flung himself at the Knight, swinging his club over his head. Mark waited and then stepped back slightly, sticking out one booted foot at precisely the right moment.

Gerald swung at him, missed and received a slap from the blade on the back of his head. A tuft of red fluff flew from his head and Gerald tumbled into the back hall, crashing against the door with his kilt around his face and his feet above his head. A most distressing pose indeed, but Mark did not have to suffer the sight long before turning his attention to brother number two.

Martin charged in low with a wicked dirk in one hand and a pot from Lily’s stove in the other. Mark stepped onto the bench and up onto the table before kicking a greasy platter of cold mutton into the intruder’s face. The heavy pottery platter hit him square between the eyes and sent him reeling back against the counter. The braided rug tangled under his feet and he went down with a clatter and a roar and then Percy was on the table facing him. Percy had a sharpened stick with a charred point attached to his wrist by a piece of twine. He slashed out with a curved hunting knife and then lunged with the stick.

Mark brought the sword down on the stick, splintering it near Percy’s hand. The man’s momentum took him down to the bench and he leapt onto the floor and turned quickly, again slashing at Mark’s shins with his long knife.  Martin was up again and Mark had to dodge the heavy iron skillet as it flew past his head. He stepped down the far end of the table and jumped onto the end of the bench, causing the other end to fly up under Percy’s chin. The one-eyed brother’s teeth snapped together audibly, blood flew and then several of them fell onto the floor at his feet before he crumpled into a heap beside them.

Martin shouted for Gerald, but Gerald was still trying to regain his senses in the back hall. Mark stepped into the center of the kitchen and held the sword up again, next to his face.

“Well, now Martin,” Mark taunted him. “Wud ye
loike t’ have a small service or a lavish affair? What sort o’ engraving wud ye loike t’ see on yur stone?”

“Gerald! He’s a
madmon in league wi’ th’ divvil!” Martin shouted and held up the dirk while trying to drag Percy away with one hand. “Come an’ help me, mon, before ’e casts a spell on me!”

Mark flicked the dirk away with the edge of the sword and then brought Martin to his feet with the tip under his chin.

“Now ’old still, Martin, me lad,” he told him. “Dunna be movin’ aboot while I cut off yur ’ead. I do so hate a mess. Ye’ll nae feel a thin’ if ye act roight.”

Martin fell to his knees and clasped his hands in front of him, but no words would come from his dry lips.

“Martin, Martin,” Mark shook his head. “If ye prefer t’ die on yur knees, it makes nae difference t’ me.” He drew the sword back over his right shoulder. “Now be absolutely… still.”

Martin dropped his hands. His jaw went slack and his eyes glazed slightly as he perceived his end had come.

Mark took one step forward, dipped slightly and brought the sword all the way around, turned it slightly and slapped the poor devil on the left temple hard enough to spray blood from his mouth all over the kitchen window. Martin went down in a heap, just as Gerald staggered in from the back hall.

The Knight recovered his stance and eyed the big man expectantly. Gerald took in the scene before in one glance.

“Get what is yurs and get out,” Mark told him and pushed Percy’s leg with one foot.

Gerald hefted Percy over one shoulder and dragged Martin after him, leaving a trail of blood in the hall. Mark sat down on the bench next to the table and waited for the brothers to clear out. He heard the sound of horses’ hooves and then nothing. Lily opened the cellar door and the residents of the Ramsay estate poured into the hall.

Lily came to him at once and took his face between her hands, checking him for injuries. The maid started cleaning up the mess and the cook helped her. Clyde and the others stumped out the back door to see what had become of the Clanahans.

“John,” Lily smiled at him, “did I hear you right? Did you say your name is Ramsay? How can that be?”

“The world is a strange place, Lily, and some things are best left as mysteries,” he said. The greatest mystery to him was how this was at all possible. “I’d best go out and check th’ stables.” He wanted to see if he had transportation. He wanted to take that ride and see exactly what he was facing.

“I’ll go with you,” she said and took his hand.

He linked his arm in hers and escorted her toward the front door. His thoughts were hundreds of miles away as she kept up a steady chatter about how the Clanahans had got what was coming to them and how proud she was of him and how the gossip would spread through the country side. She was also afraid the Clanahans would regroup and bring reinforcements. Mark was not concerned with the Clanahans. His thoughts were on magickal matters when Richard, Robert and Blake, the smithy, came running up the lane toward them.

“Oh my God!” Lily exclaimed when she saw their faces. “They’ve torched the barn!”

Richard skidded to a stop in front of them, wild-eyed with terror. Robert and Blake stumbled over him and they stood with their hands on their knees, breathing hard, unable to speak.

“What’s wrong now, lads?” Mark asked them and looked about, expecting to see an army bearing down on them. The meadows and forests surrounding the house were serene in the bright sunshine. Birds and butterflies flitted about in the grass and already, the sheep were returning from the forest on their own. A cow bell tinkled further down the meadow. It was perfect. Too perfect.

“In th’ barn, sir,” Robert gasped and straightened up. “We were checkin’ th’ tack room and th’ ’orses when we spied it.”

“What? Spied what?” Mark prompted him.

“A witch, sir!” Richard told him. “A
real
witch.”

“A witch?” Mark narrowed his eyes. “’
ow d’ ye know she was a witch?”

“She’s
wearin’ strange clothes, sir, and she cursed us,” Blake turned and shook the pitch fork he was carrying back toward the barn.

“What sort o’ curse did she put on ye?” Mark asked him with as much solemnity as he could muster. The three men were obviously frightened to death.

“She said…. She said…. Oh, sir, I canna repeat th’ wards,” Robert shook his head. “You tell him Blake.”

“When we asked her if she were a witch, she said
‘yes, I am and if you don’t bring me something to eat and some water, I’ll curse you for loife’
. Thot’s what she said, sir. And she said tell Master Ramsay thot she’s ’ere and thot she’s waitin’ for ’im. Master Ramsay is dead, sir, unless she is speakin’ o’ ’is sons.”

Blake waited while his words sank into Mark’s brain.

“What does she look like, Blake?” Lily took the smithy’s arm.

“She’s about so…” he held out his hand to indicate her height. “She’s fair-skinned, dark hair, long and silky, green eyes and right thin
loike she’s starvin’. She’s wearin’ men’s trousers and a knit jacket like wool. Oll else she wears is loike a nightshirt. Loike thot little shirt Master John had under his overshirt only hers is whoite and ’is is black. And there’s writin’ on it. Magickal symbols most loikely.”

“Did she say her name?” Mark asked quietly and they all turned to look at him.

“Aye, she did, sirrah,” Robert nodded. “She said her name was Sophia and thot a demon sent ’er ’ere! Thot’s when we run fur our loives, sir.”

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

“O beautiful one, why do you weep? Are you a certainty or a sympathy created by my fevered brow? Draw nigh unto me and let your countenance bathe my agony in soothing light,” Abaddon pleaded with the vision wavering beyond the mist of the water fall.

“O great and powerful Apollyon, how came you to such despair? Who has done this terrible crime upon thee?” Her voice was clear and soothing like the sound of the droplets on the water.

“O vaporous sprite, figment of my tortured soul, your voice is sweet like the honey drenched comb. It lies upon my ears like a petal-scented poultice made of moonglow lotus plucked from the water on a midsummer’s night. My soul has surely departed my wretched body and now looks beyond the veil of death into that heavenly garden where Eve first stepped upon the dewed grass.”

“Your words are most charming and full of adoration though you knew me not. How
judgest thou me to be such a flower of maidenhood? Mayhap I am but a dream. Perchance I am some evil vapor come to further your sufferings.”

“O thou light of shimmering night, more glorious than fair Luna’s full face upon the crystal pool, how could such a fantasy be evil? Even now my wounds grow less painful, and my agony lifts from my heart at the sight of your form and the
sound of your voice. This opportunity of fair exchange, though less than I would wish, has healed me. Surely the touch of your hand could bring about my salvation. Would thou deny this last request, the dying wish of a pitiful creature? I can do thee no harm, fair maiden, for I have not the means to walk. Come nearer and let me gaze but for a moment upon your face that I may weep for joy rather than wail in sorrow.”