Chapel Orahamm

The inn door hinges creaked, drawing their attention to the shaft of light brightening the dim room. Fearchar sucked in his breath. “Get tae…plague…”

The beaked mask twitched toward him. Pinned under the glassy gaze, he shifted such that his chair squeaked. He had not been made privy to any conversation about the catastrophe coming. He would indeed have heavy work, and there would be bodies to be had if a plague doctor had come to the village. There was no denying what stood in the door frame.

The red-cloaked figure ducked at the head jamb to make his way in. The Skye man’s ire rose with the doctor’s blue English justacorps. Fearchar spun on the old woman. “Ye said nae a word a’ plague! Let ‘lone a Southron grave digger. Ah’ll be taken me gol’ coin ‘n leavin’ ‘fore the rats follow this uile-bheist in.”

“Eoin! Guid mornin’!” Widow Magaidh motioned the beaked man to their table, ignoring her tablemate. Fearchar followed the cloaked person’s movements warily. The masked figure flowed across the floor, confidence in his shoulders. He was lean, and though his frame did not take up much space, his presence filled the room. Whoever he was, he did not stoop like the old churchmen and wise women of the villages who claimed to cure the people’s ailments. Fearchar’s heart clambered to escape his throat.

The cloaked figure’s hands flitted across his mask.

“‘ ‘ullo to ye too.” Widow Magaidh mimicked the greeting. Mr Niloofar slipped into the furnishing between the old matron and the young man.

Fearchar scooted away from the doctor, pulling a swatch of stained cloth from within his great kilt to cover his nose. The cloak reaked of exotic herbs, dry heat, and unusual leather. “Ah’m nae doin’ it, Aunty. Nae working with nae consort a’ death.”

“T’is Fearchar a’ the MhicFhionghain clan. ‘e’s the grandson of my sister’s friend Rut, Eoin,” Widow Magaidh made the formal introductions. “Fearchar, this is my doctor, Eoin Impundulu Niloofar.” She turned from one to the other, her brows wrinkling in contemplation. Studying the beaked mask, she sighed in exasperation at what she saw. “I ken, Eoin. Fear’ll be able ta ‘elp ye with that little proposal of yer’s ye penned me about.” Gnarled fingers rubbed the wooden tabletop in thought, tracing the mask’s outline against the rough grain.

“Ye’r nae listenin’, Aunty. Ah says there’s nothin’ doin’. Most will come a’ this is me scuttlin’ for the mainland.” Fearchar rose from his seat.

“Sit, Fearchar. If ye really wanna be in a position ta leave this isle with more money in yer purse than ye’d see in a lifetime mending thatch and wattle, ye’ll sit ‘n listen.” A yellowed fingernail pointed at his seat.

With a sneer, Fearchar offered his hand to the doctor. Eoin gripped it firmly, shaking it in greeting. ” ‘aven’t word fur the ‘auld lady nabbin’ ye’re paid ‘elp?”

Widow Magaidh laid a steadying hand on Fearchar’s grip, encouraging the redhead to find his seat. “Eoin’s been mute fur years, Fearchar. Don’nae mean ‘e’s doaty.”

“Worse even! A silent death bringer.” Fearchar dropped Eoin’s hand and wiped his fingers on the stained cloth. A furtive motion beneath the table edge caught Fearchar’s attention. Eoin rudely signed at him under his cloak so that Widow Magaidh would not see.

Fearchar pushed himself away from the table. “Y’er clan’s nae MacDonald, aye? I’d nae get ‘tween ye ‘n William fur aw the money!”

Eoin reached under his cloak. The Skye man grabbed for the knife lying in his great kilt. The doctor, dropping a velvety pouch on the table, where it clanked enticingly, motioned the skittish redhead to it.

Fearchar hesitated, glancing between the bag and the plague doctor. Raising an eyebrow, he poked at the rabbit skin. He picked it up and peered inside. The room spun sideways as blood drained from his face. “Anythin’ ye want, Weard.” Fearchar, drawing the purse strings back together, conceded his service. Cowed and quieted, the man returned back to a more respectable position in his chair.

Eoin held out a scroll to the braided man. Fearchar took the proffered parchment and unrolled it carefully, curious as to what would cause a plague doctor to pay so much gold for a man missing the sounds of battle. “Purty script, Weard. Can’nae read worth a damn.” He handed the scroll back.

Eoin’s shoulders sagged. He turned to Widow Magaidh, his body language looking for reassurance.

Fearchar turned to her as well. “Aunty, ye take his letters to Cill Chriosd to be read, don’nae ye? I take it a min’ster’s out’ta the question with this?”

“Ah can read a bit, Fear. Find it’s much less work ‘ave’n Matew read me letters most days with me eyesight gone. ‘e should’na ken wha’s in tha’ scroll though.” Widow Magaidh sipped at her tankard.

Agreed. It should not be shown or talked of if at all possible. Eoin tugged at his gloves, settling the seams into his fingers.

“Aye?” Fearchar took a leap of faith in guessing at the man’s gestures. Eoin made the initial sign more emphatically, with an excited bob of his head this time. “I’m kennin’ that as aye then. Well, ‘ere’s say, long’es this don’nae ‘ave me nikkin’ ye the throne, Ah’ll sees what Ah can do fur ye.” Fearchar took Eoin’s signing hand and shook it.

The doctor purposefully looked down at the hand then back to signal the redhead to let go. It had been too many years since Eoin had heard the twists of words and phrases of his homeland, and, right honest, at that moment, it was giving him a headache, all the dropped syllables and elongated vowels. Nostalgic, but challenging.

Eoin poked the scroll in Fearchar’s hand, creating another simple sign with his free hand that the Skye man could guess at. Fearchar dropped the doctor’s hand. “Who’ll read it? No fear, Weard, Ah’ve a lovely lass who’ll ‘elp with that.”

Interrupting the two, Widow Magaidh tapped on Fearchar’s arm and made a more universal sign – one for coinage. The redhead frowned, an eyebrow rising over stormy eyes. “Ye willnae be lettin’ me away with this one, will ye, Aunty?”

Eoin sighed. No one could quite understand him. He had learned over the years, though, if he paid well enough, people were much more likely to make an effort at learning his wants. Girl? His hands moved once more. A child mixed into this equation had not been accounted for. Mayhaps it would be best to source another individual.

“Aye, ‘n a bonnie lass there ever was. Ah’ll introduce ye in a little while. Seems ye’ll need a place to rest for the evenin’ unless ye’ve got a bed here?”

Eoin shook his head. No, Widow Magaidh said she arranged for room and board for me. This reminded him of something, though. The masked man reached under his cloak once more for a medium-size pouch and pulled out a small box, not much larger than to hold a simple piece of jewellery. He handed the ornately carved box to the old woman. Fearchar inhaled the smooth scent of spice emanating from the wood, his eyes widening at the small show of wealth the Southron brought to the isle.

Widow Magaidh opened the little silver snap and lifted the lid to reveal many small papers folded into tight sachets. A gleam of silver under the packets flashed for a second before she replaced the top. She sighed in relief. “Thank ye, Eoin. Bless ye.” She hugged the figure tenderly, almost like she was afraid to break him. Letting go of him, she busied herself in gathering her effects to leave.

Fearchar eyed the man uncertainly as he pulled his bow, quiver, and hunting basket from under the table. “Yer cough, Aunty. It’s got better in a’ last year, aye?”

“Ye ken trust Eoin, Fear. He’s good people.”

“Time tae discover exactly what ye ‘ired me fur ‘en.” Fearchar clapped his hand on Eoin’s shoulder as he stood up. Eoin flinched at the sudden contact, shifting out from under the young swordsman’s hand. Joining suit with his fellow compatriots, he followed them out the door.

Widow Magaidh tapped Fearchar on the shoulder outside the door. He sighed heavily and fished into his newly

acquired purse to pull out a gold coin. “Ah should’a ken after the last five bets that ye don’nae lose easily when ye wager high, do ye, Aunty?” Fearchar slumped as he placed the gleaming metal in her withered hand.

“Ah am hopin’ ye don’nae, then Ah’ll die comfortable.” Her cackle echoed against the stone walls along the street.

“Y’er aff yer heid! Ye’ll probably outlive aw us.” He slumped over, mimicking a thrown back. She patted him on the shoulder, her laugh cracking as Fearchar lifted her in a bear hug and set her down. “Be safe getting up those rocks, Aunty. I’d get you back up home if you’d rather wait?”

“No worries, Fear, no worries. I’ve travelled these roads since before your parents were born. I’ll make it.” She waved to Fearchar and Eoin as the wind picked at her wool cloak and skirts. Heading toward the docks, she ambled along a street bordering the bay until she turned a corner in the rock outcropping, disappearing from their sight.

Fearchar stood in the street, absorbing a bit of the sun peeking out between clouds. Eoin got a good look at his hired hand for the first time. Dark taverns never were great places to gain an accurate impression of a person.

The Skye man was predisposed to a muscled slimness from constant active work. He was several inches shorter than Eoin but as broad in the shoulder, lending him a thicker rectangular build. An archer’s bracer protected his forearm against string slap. A sword in a worn, oiled leather scabbard clung to his left hip. Soft pelts, tanned to one side and fur turned to the man’s skin sufficed for cold weather shoes. His auburn red and hunter-green great kilt declared him part of one of the more powerful clans on the Isle. Fearchar’s brilliant freckles showed up more obviously on his pale peach skin in the dappled sunlight. Dancing eyes were a marvellous shade of the stormy North Sea. The metallic herringbone hair Eoin had noted in the tavern was stark ginger out in the open.

The crisp morning burned off the last of the low fog, leaving the muck-laiden street in contrasted patterns of cloud cover and sunlight breaking through. Fearchar wrapped his great kilt about his shoulders and turned to the man in the massive leather cloak. “Commeon. We’ll grab ‘rselves a bit to eat ta take back. My lass’ll be hungry. Di’ye ‘ave any luggage?”

Yes. Eoin circled the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and flicked his other three digits up and down.

“Right, nothin’ big? Or d’Ah need ta ‘ire a coach? Mark

usually runs the horses here, but I could see if Ben’ld hitch up fur a ‘alf.” Fearchar eyed the man warily.

No, not that much. Eoin shook a clasped hand, index finger up, flicking it away to his right. The market? The doctor pointed up the street to where the market had last been hosted.

“Seein’s ye seem ta ken where ye’re aff ta.” Fearchar motioned Eoin to proceed him.

The looming soot of open roasting pits lingered beneath low, wet clouds. Clattering livestock and the bargaining lilt of old ladies made it difficult to miss the market in the tiny village. Eoin swept up the street at a quick clip, forcing Fearchar to keep up with him. It had been so long since seeing home.

Trepidation vibrated beneath his breastbone. What if the market had shrunk? What if the vendors there were no longer familiar faces? It had been ten years. Old faces were liable to have vanished by now. These questions twisted around in his head relentlessly.

He stilled the tremble in his hand as he came up around the corner. The bristling acrid taste of smoked fish and mutton hung heavy in the crisp swirling divide between autumn and winter. Memories flooded his senses, and it was all he could do to still the constriction of his heart. Fearchar puffed at his side and peered up at him. “Ya ‘lright, Weard?”

Eoin nodded. It’s the first time I’ve seen the market in a long time, he signed without thinking.

“Ye’ should dance up’a Dunvegan come Hogmanay.” Fearchar shoved his hands between his great kilt and shirt to protect against the biting wind.

Eoin twisted his head, not entirely sure what the man was going on about. Then it clicked. My words look like I’m dancing?

“Commeon, Weard. Le’s get us some sausage. Then Ah’ll introduce ye ta the lass.” Fearchar strolled into the market. The mess of stalls that greeted Eoin was not as bright and full as the markets he was used to now, but it reflected his heritage in sombre reminder. Clouds rolled up in uneasy dark blobs and angry skirts of riled lightning smattered along the curve of the ocean horizon. Fearchar pulled at the neck of his coarse homespun shirt against a blast of wind and headed for a stall and an old woman Eoin recognized.

Beatrice. Known for the best smoked fish in the village, her stall held something new – pork sausage. Pig had not been overwhelmingly popular on the Isle ten years ago. It was too hard to keep, but she either had a competent source or found a method for raising them with her stocks.

Eoin let Fearchar take over for ordering. Sometimes it was too much of a fight for the plague doctor to be understood. He instead positioned himself to the side, finding the deeper shadows of the uneven walls, stilling himself to watch the bustle and throb of the market twist around him. A foot behind, a foot to the side. Years of ingrained habits dictated his actions as he waited on his hired hand.

“Fear! ‘ow’s the wife?” The woman smiled, showing a range of missing teeth. Her face had sunken in since Eoin last visited her stall. Sallow skin and liver-spot marked hands drew his diagnostic eye. She still had her ragged brown dress. Mended many times, it hung from her in folds. The seams had been left let out rather than taken in. He noted the haze setting in around the edges of her pupils.

It hurt, seeing someone wasting away and knowing she was at a point he could do nothing for her. He knew in that one glance that she would not see the spring following Hogmanay. She would be lucky to make the festival.

“Lass’s doin’ a’right. Keeps busy ‘s always.” Fearchar’s perfectly straight teeth gleamed in juxtaposition to Beatrice.

Eoin nodded in reassurance to himself, realizing his hired hand had not meant a child but a woman. Time from his own language had taken a toll on his understanding. Fearchar produced a small basket not more than a hands width long and three fingers deep from the depths of his great kilt and handed it to the market woman. She flipped it open to reveal a handsomely folded, oiled series of muslin cloths. Laying these out and smoothing the fabric, she and Fearchar continued with their small talk.

“Bet’n she is. Well, if ye’re in front’ta me stall, it must be yer day ta bring home dinner. Ye’ll be wantin’ yer isbeanan, Ah’d ken?” She packaged up a set of four large links before her fading eyes noticed Eoin. “Oh my!” Her dirt-stained hands flew to her mouth. Eoin took a half-step forward, fearing the old woman would suffer a heart attack at the stall in front of him.

“Beatrice, this is Eoin. ‘e’s ‘ere as Widow Magaidh’s dotair. There’s been nah notice a’ plague posted. Eoin, Beatrice. ‘e’ll be takin’ residence with the misses ‘n Ah fur the time. She’s some a’ the best èisg n’ isbeanan ’round,” he reassured his employer and the old woman. She slipped an

extra sausage link into one of the oiled sheets.

Eoin eased back on his heels and let go of the pouch at his side. He cursed at his reflex, knowing he would only scare the woman more. Passersby stared at him, whispering to each other.

“Eoin?” Beatrice rolled the name around in her mouth. “Been time since hearing the name Eoin. Knew of one once, oh my, how long’s it been? A decade? Maybe two? Was a common enough name, like Seamus and Tamhas. Ye’d ken there’d be more. Has it become common for ye Southron to steal our names like ye’ve stolen our land?”

Eoin drew in a deep breath of herb-scented air and dug into his purse. Holding up a glint of metal between his fingers, he waited for the woman to move on from her rovings.

“Coin? Might as well sell somethin’ to ye. Money’s no different comin’ from ye’r hand or Fear’s. D’ye ‘ave anythin’ ye want?” She tidied a bunch of leafy greens in a basket, trying to recuperate from the shock of seeing a plague doctor in town, let alone an English one.

Eoin pointed out the finnan haddie and put up his fingers, asking for two.

“Good choice, make for good cullen skink.” She wrapped up his package of smoked fish and handed it to him. Eoin dropped a halfpenny into her soil-stained hand. ” ‘ow’d ye…?” Her brow wrinkled at the exact change.

” ‘ere’s money fur mine, Beatrice.” Fearchar handed her a penny.

” ‘aven’t met ye ‘fore, ‘ave I?” She appraised Eoin, pocketing Fearchar’s penny absently. “Can’t say I would have. Think Ah’d remember a foreign leather if it ever passed by me stall. No. No plague has crossed our isle since the calamity near on twenty years ago. Has it been that long? Almost the whole of Bàgh Faoileag was wiped out.”

A long time ago, Eion signed, willing away an exhausted headache in dealing with the woman.

” ‘e’s mute Beatrice. Ah am ‘elping out ’round ‘ere while ‘e ‘elps Magaidh. She thinks ‘ighly a’ ‘is medicines.” Fearchar slid his basket into the pouching of his great kilt at his stomach.

“May ‘ave ta send me lad o’er ta’ ye, if she thinks like that.” Beatrice contemplated the edge of the market street. Eoin bowed humbly at the comment. Ingratiating himself into the village would help him greatly. It would also be convenient to lose the English suit it appeared.

A shadow passed along the side of his mask. Carefully, he turned his head to follow the darkness, not wanting to draw more attention. He flinched at the sight that greeted him. Deep blue and green splashed across his vision. Silvery white lines zipped through the tartan, and all he could smell was fire and blood. Ducking back further against the corner of the wall Beatrice’s stall hugged, he reached for the metal beneath his steinkirk, reassuring himself.

Fearchar finished collecting a second set of packages from Beatrice before noticing Eoin’s fixation. “Laird Grannd Daleroch ‘n one a’ his son’s – Conner Daleroch, Younger.” Fearchar watched the two men shamble through the market.

Junior? Eoin kept his hands low and blocked from the possible view of the Laird and his son.

“They’ve land up out’ta the village. We’ll pass it on the way ta’ me place. Some in the village says they nicked it from someone, but no one’ll blether ’bout it. Grannd ‘as a massive fishing fleet ‘n more pasture than most e’eryone else combined, e’en me clan on the other side a’ the Isle. ‘e’s the largest sheep flocks on this end a’ the isle. Me da’ld beat his herd numbers any day, though. Daleroch’s got power, and no one tells him no. That’s the trouble with his whole rabbit warren o’ a clan. Right crabbit scunner.” Fearchar spat. “Le’s go. Ah’d no’ wanna deal with him or his pig’a a son. Snotty, spoiled tattyboggle. ‘e married this summer, ‘n she died not bu’ a fortnight ago.” The man with the braided red hair scuffled through the market.

Died? Eoin caught at his hood before it could go flying in the wind rushing down the street.

“Dead?” Fearchar fumbled through the same motion Eoin used.

Yes. Eoin glanced back to Beatrice. The grey skies built up above her, threatening to wash out her stock.

“Dead. Yeah. She bled ta’ death a month ‘after finding out she was carrin’. Midwife we got weren’t called in time.” Fearchar slouched, his shoulders ridged, as he scuffled away from Beatrice’s stand.

Did you know her? Eoin kept his eye on the men sauntering through the market. The older tended to touch everything that caught his eye. The younger pocketed something while the Laird distracted the stalls-man.

Fearchar stopped to stare back at Eoin, sighing. “Say’s again.” The hunter shoved his bow and quiver to the side and waved his hand in a half-hearted mimic of Eoin’s complexity.

The doctor returned his focus to his hired hand and had to take a moment to remember the conversation they were holding. Did you know her? Eoin exaggerated the signs, allowing Fearchar to see each one individually.

“Ye.” He picked up, pointed back at Eoin. The man in the mask nodded, then made the sentence again. “Lady.” Fearchar tried. Eoin bobbed his head in a give or take way. The word woman could be used interchangeably for older she and her also.

“Mind.” Fearchar pointed to his head in the same gesture Eoin had made. His employer tried the sentence again. The word ‘know’ was hard to have people guess at. Pronouns were simple to comprehend. Intangible concepts were more difficult to elaborate upon without enough basic structure in the rest of the language.

“Did Ah mind her…Nah?” Fearchar shook his head after doctor’s signed no. Eoin reached out gingerly for Fearchar’s hands and waited for the man to willingly give him them. Fearchar flattened his lips before letting the doctor manipulate his hands. With patience and work, Eoin guided Fearchar’s hands to make the shapes once clearly before letting go.

“Did Ah…”

Eoin made the sign again.

“Did Ah ken her?” Fearchar guessed.

Eoin nodded vigorously, including the circled forefinger and thumb flicking away with the middle, ring, and pinky finger spread. He loved it when people made an effort.

“Tha, bha mi eòlach oirre. Southron fop cannae understand gaelic. Tha mi sgìth de seo mu thràth. Yes, I knew her. We grew up t’gether in a village on the other side a’ the hills. She’d an older brother that watched out fur me when we’d go get ourselves into trouble. Pity he died a’ winter cough a few years ago. Don’t think he’d a’ let her come o’er ‘ere ta tie with that bassa otherwise.” Fearchar buried his hands back under his great kilt. The chill wind of the sea picked up his braids, beads and bone clacking together.

It took all Eoin’s will to keep his skin from crawling. He forced himself to stop looking back at the men and keep up with Fearchar. They stopped once more on the outskirts of the market for one last thing Eoin wanted. Bannock was something he had not had since leaving the isle. He wanted his first meal there to be every good memory he had of the place.

“Le’s go ‘trieve those bags.” Fearchar pulled his great kilt closer around his neck as the wind picked up. Eoin nodded, wanting to be done with the place full of memories.

They tramped through the icy mud of the market street back passed the tavern to the dock. The morning was burning off into the early afternoon when the two men arrived at the boat.

The captain waved. “Mr Nilofar, good timing!” He jumped to the dock and clumped up to the men. “Ah see ye brought help! Guid help at thae! How’re ye doin’, Fearchar?”

“Weel, Romney. How’s fishing?” He shook the man’s hand.

“Would be better if Daleroch wasn’t overfishing our bay,” the man groused. He walked off to the end of the hill of cargo.

“Don’t remind me. Jist saw ‘im down in the market with ‘is lad. Gonna take the long way ‘round.” Fearchar pursed his lips as he crossed his arms.

“Haw, Fear!” The captain’s son waved from the deck above. The young man pulled a rough woven bag out of the cold box in the decking and approached Fearchar, his face going crimson. “Well, here’s a sack of cockles for the missus for last time.” The captain’s son dropped the sack from the railing.

“Guid man. She’ll be richt giddy.” Fearchar caught the sack, its contents clicking together. Checking the content and nodding to himself, he heaved the bag over his shoulder.

“Ah huf leave in two weeks, Ah’d – Ah’d like tae visit thae Sunday.” The captain’s son smoothed at his wrinkled shirt, eyes failing to meet Fearchar’s earnest gaze.

“Ah’ll have tae ask her about it, but she can get ye a message, or Ah can if she’s the time.” Fearchar shifted away from the edge of the peir, tangling the bag of cockles with his bow. The captain’s son nodded with a small smile before vanishing into the nether of the boat. Blowing out a frustrated breath, the handyman fought with the two items to get the sinew and chords uncrossed. Soon enough, his braids made their way into the nest. Eoin stepped in cautiously, holding up placating gloved hands as Fearchar glared at him. Eventually, the man stopped struggling and let Eoin pick him apart.

Freed, Fearchar readjusted his hold on the bag. “Thanks.”

Eoin ducked a nod. He had a challenge on his hands, figuring out how to work with the man Widow Magaidh had found for him. Fearchar was well known in the village. This could be a problem for the doctor’s plans.

The captain returned to them with a large box slung across his shoulder and a dark oiled duffel. He set them down in front of Eoin, and the doctor pulled a coin out of his pocket.

“When ye need me, send a pigeon.” The captain handed him a scrap of paper. Eoin pocketed the scrap and shook the man’s hand. The captain left the pair on the dock to continue his work of unloading more cargo from his seemingly bottomless ship.

Fearchar poked the box and backed away when it rattled. It was unusual: tall, the length of a man’s torso and shoulders. Bequeathed with silver engraved hardware and black stained leather straps it’s polished finish reflected angry clouds overhead. Eoin picked it up, pulled the straps to adjust them, and shifted it to his back.

Fearchar shifted a step from the doctor and the box, scratching his beard with a cocked eyebrow. “Braw box, Waerd.”

Eoin shrugged and reached for the duffel.

“Ah, come now. Ye’re payin’ me tae be some hired hand. Might as well do a wee bit a’ liftin’.” Fearchar motioned for the bag. Eoin, willing to have the help, invited him to it. The handyman’s eyes bulged at the weight. “Guid lor’, wha’ ye keep in here, a cookin’ pot?” Fearchar slung the bag onto his back. Eoin twisted his head and twitched his beaked nose toward the beach end of the dock.

“Shall we?” Fearchar pointed to the street bordering the bay. The delta lay not far from it. Their footsteps on the dock echoed hollowly in Eoin’s chest. The chipped rock and mud of the shore clung to his boots with the added weight of the box.

They followed the path past a dry waterfall. It would flood in the next month; Eoin checked his geographic memory. He’d need to remember that if he wanted to make it back to the village safely.

Fearchar led Eoin on, ascended into the hills beyond the village. The terrain, rocky sparse, did not yield the ruts of carriages. Instead, the paths slipped and dipped away from the cliffs, threatening to dump less nimble-footed travellers into the fridged sea below.

They wandered the road for the better part of an hour and a half, passing tiny hovels here and there. The pathway swung west, inland, by midafternoon. Climbing through the scrub, Eoin watched the birds dodge and weave through the low-lying clouds as a thunderstorm dumped rain out on the horizon. Upon seeing the lightning approaching closer, Fearchar pushed them to ascend the path quicker.

They approached a massive two-story rock house perched atop a hill, similar in style to the wattle and daub Tudor houses in London. Near the road leading to it was a burned-out roundhouse, fallen in from decay. “Daleroch’splace. Looks out on a private bay thae he uses tae dock.” Fearchar shifted the pack on his back and spat.

Eoin studied the building, noting the overgrowth of weeds near the house, and the spare chicken coop off the back, collapsing in the shadow of a separated wing. The man might have money and power, but he did nothing to tend his possessions.

The sun lay halfway to setting, and the chill of late autumn settled the storm along the ridgeline of the hills before Fearchar pointed out his own little domicile. A pottage garden in the throes of accepting the impending winter occupied the frontage. It was a nondescript rock croft with a byre off to the back like many of the others Eoin had passed along the way. The familiarity of its placement caused his stomach to churn. A rough chimney and tight, clean thatch designated it as a new residence. It had been built upon a burned-out foundation. Smoke from the new chimney climbed into the dim sky, leaving the walk up the drive smelling like memories Eoin would rather have left buried.