plague
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The weeks passed, uninterrupted of any more phenomenal events. Eoin kept busy with his clients that made their way to Seonaid’s house. He travelled into town with Fearchar to remedy a few of the old women who had taken to their beds with complaints of arthritis and winter cough.
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Late into his second month in Fearchar and Seonaid house, a woman knocked at Seonaid’s door one day to Eoin’s surprise. He flinched in distaste, recognizing her. She was older but still prim and smug. Seonaid turned tail and closed the door to the bedroom before the woman could see her.
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Dry grasses whispered in the warm wind. The sun seeped along the edge of the horizon. Sand scattered beneath his shoes. The bird at his arm shifted, the creature’s hooded head twisting at the noise, sending the knotted tassel bobbing.
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Fearchar led Eoin to the croft entrance as the first sprinkling of rain descended on the hillside. Swept and well kept, the sill stone gleamed beneath small autumn flowers, absorbing the leftover warmth of the sun. He noted a few simple medicinal herbs and cold-weather vegetables tucked under rambling grass heads and shrubs. A hook…
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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…”
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The winds blow across Old Man Storr. The mists settle about the lochs. Clouds trail across the high reaches. In the highlands, I am at home again. — in the year of our Lord 1692 At the end of his date, the dark bloom of ink sent the man in the deep red leather cloak
Chapel Orahamm 