Both horse and rider were tired, so he took his time heading back northwest.  The ride gave him a lot of time to think.  He had learned some hard, painful lessons.  Almost three years had not changed anything, had not lessened the unreasoned hatred and fear his very existence seemed to spark.  Wondering what he had done to so offend his clan, his family and God felt like it was slowly driving him insane.

The moment by his father’s grave kept returning to him. If the earth had opened up and the pit of hell that the priests had always described so vividly had swallowed him whole, he would not have been surprised.  But nothing had happened.  No, that wasn’t exactly true.  He had felt…safe.  Duncan shook himself out of his reverie.  He truly was mad, if standing by his father’s grave, his murderer’s weapon in his hands, with a crowd of hostile ex-clansman watching, made him feel safe.

He also knew he was not looking forward to returning to life in a cave, with his only occasional companion a cantankerous old woman who seemed to have no real use or desire for his company.  Still, somewhere, astride patient Maise, or lying on his back at night, looking up into the gray mist that occasionally cleared long enough for a glimpse of a sky dotted with stars, he realized that even hostile contact was preferable to the isolation of no contact at all.  It was stupid, really, and he knew his reactions, his own needs, were shameful weaknesses.  He would be far better off just staying apart from the rest of the world, but the thought made his insides ache.

He let Maise pick the trail up into the steep hills towards Mog’s home.  He had sidetracked long enough to bring down a red stag in hopes that the gift of meat would go some way towards repaying the loan of the horse.  The chase and the butchering of the carcass had left horse and rider tired and dirty, and he decided that a scrub in Mog’s creek would not be amiss, once he had settled Maise into her pen.  The mare quickened the pace a little as they approached familiar terrain and they broke into the clearing almost at a trot, but Duncan immediately pulled the mare to a halt.

A large cart was in front of the cottage, with an unfamiliar horse inside the pen.  At the sound of his approach, the door opened and a tall, slender man stepped out, meeting his eyes with a complex look of surprise and fear.  A woman pushed him out of the doorway and stepped past him, eying Duncan suspiciously as she dried her hands on a cloth.  She elbowed the man, and nodded towards the sword at his side, and he reluctantly drew the weapon.

“That horse doesna’ belong to you!” the woman announced.  She would have been attractive, but for the hard set of her mouth and eyes.  She had a voluptuous figure outlined in a dress laced tight from the waist to the bodice, with more flesh showing than Duncan though quite proper for a woman her age.  “’Dair, what’re you standing there for like some half-blind gelding?” she nudged the thin man.  “Make him give her back!”

“Hush, Moibeal.”  The man moved forward a few steps and turned to Duncan.  “Who are you, and how did you get that horse?” the man asked.  He held the sword a little awkwardly.

Duncan dismounted with a sigh, glad to be on his feet again, but tired of so many hostile confrontations and assumptions that whatever he did had some evil motive.  “Mog kindly lent her to me so I could tend to urgent business.  She trusted me to return her, and so I have.”

“Nay,” Moibeal said, more to her husband than to Duncan.  “He’s just come back to steal her things, I vow.  She said she’d been trading with the devil.  Maybe it wasn’t just her little joke after all.”

“Mog spoke of you,” Duncan pinned the woman with a hard look, his voice taking on more bitterness than he would ever have believed only a week before.  “She said you forced her out of her own home, her own village, to live here in the wilderness.”  He looked over to Mog’s son.  “Tis a hard thing to abandon your own mother.”  It was also not something he would have said to an older man before he had been banished, and even as he said the words a cold chill swept over his shoulders.  Who was he to criticize, after all?

“How dare you!” Moibeal stepped up to him and would have slapped him if he had not caught her wrist in the act.

“Enough, Mab!” 

The look she shot her husband was deadly, but she kept her tongue and yanked her wrist out of Duncan’s grasp.

“Who are you to tell us what was done or not done?” Alisdair approached him cautiously.  “We were her family and cared for her as much as she would allow.  Now give the mare over and leave us be.”  He held his hand out for Maise’s reins.  Something in what he said made Duncan’s thoughts halt and backtrack.

“You were her family?” he asked softly.  “What’s happened?”  He pushed past them both and went to the cottage, throwing open the door.  “Mog?” he called.

She was lying on the small cot she kept against the wall, her gnarled hands folded peacefully on her breasts in a position he was certain she would never have taken in life.  Duncan crossed to the pallet and went down on a knee.  “Oh, Mog, what have you done?” he whispered.

“She died,” Moibeal announced behind him.  “It happens to old people who run off and live by themselves.”

“It happens to everyone,” Duncan answered over his shoulder.  Or almost everyone.  “It just shouldn’t happen alone.”

“Oh, aye,” Moibeal countered.  “If you had been with her, this place would’ve been stripped to the foundations and you long gone by now, no doubt.”

Duncan stood, his plaid swirling at the motion.  He seen more death and heard more hateful words said these last few days than he could take and his frayed temper almost made him strike her malicious mouth.  He somehow managed to stop his hand, closing it into a tight fist at his side, but the gesture was not lost on Moibeal.

“Dair!” she called, backing up from him.  “He was going to hit me, I swear!  What are you going to do about it?”

“Now, Mabs, nothing happened,” Alisdair attempted to placate his wife.  “I’m sure he’s just upset at Mother’s…”

“Nothing happened?” she spat at him.  “Only because you’re a mewling coward.  This man took our horse, clearly took advantage of your crazy old mother and was going to strike your wife, and you say nothing happened, and do nothing about it?”

The air in the small cottage felt suddenly unbreatheable and Duncan swept past both of them to the outdoors, taking deep gulps of fresh air.  Even that didn’t seem to be enough, though and he moved further away, eventually aware of Maise nuzzling at his shoulder, her bulk providing something solid to lean on as the earth seemed to tilt around him, and nausea roiled his stomach and tightened his throat.

“Are you all right?”  Alisdair’s voice was not unkind, and Duncan turned his head to look into light eyes and a concerned face.  “I apologize for my wife.  I know she can be harsh, but there are those who might take advantage of an old woman living alone like that.”

Duncan took in another long breath and the world steadied a little. “No need,” he sighed with a small shake of his head.  “I’ve been accused of far worse, for far less reason.  Your mother and I, we had an…arrangement, of sorts. I provided her with pelts and meat in trade for occasional vegetables and other necessaries.  She was a hard woman to get on with, but not unkind, for all that.  I’m sorry she’s gone.  If I’d gotten back a little sooner, hadn’t taken so much time along the way, if I hadn’t borrowed the mare, perhaps she’d still be alive.”

“You’re a MacLeod, aren’t you?” Alisdair asked, and Duncan shot him a hard look and stepped away, half expecting an attack, verbal or physical, but the man just eyed him curiously.  “The one everyone’s been talking of.  They say you died, but lived again.  Is it true?”

“Who knows what’s true and what’s not,” Duncan murmured, using removal of Maise’ saddlebags and saddle to cover his discomfort.

Alisdair smiled sadly.  “Aye, there’s that.  But you shouldn’t trouble yourself about Mog.  One of the women of the village came up three days ago to get a cantrip from her, and found her in bed.  She couldn’t move one side of her body and was near dead from lack of water.   She tended her, then ran back to the village as fast as she could.  By the time Moibeal and I got here, she had tried to move from her pallet and fallen, and all she could do was mumble curses at us.”

Duncan led Maise into the pen, now a little crowded with two horses to share it.  He found a rag and rubbed the mare down in long, slow strokes, feeling Alisdair’s eyes on him the whole time.

Dair shook his head, a sad smile on his narrow face.  “She was a stubborn woman.  Always insisting on doing things her own way, and wanted nothing to do with me, or the villagers.  But I don’t think she was in any pain at the last.  She was just confused and rambling.  The last thing she did was to grab my arm and tell me the Black Donald had Beauty, but that he would bring her back.” Alisdair shook his head.  “I don’t suppose I ever understood the woman, anyways, nor she me.”

Duncan had stopped his motions, and looked over Maise’s back, meeting the other man’s eyes.  “Your mother loved you,” he told him in almost a whisper, remembering his last conversation with his own mother, and her attempts to comfort him, even when she was in such terrible grief.  “She was troubled by your wife, but she spoke of you with pride.”  Duncan patted the mare, now busily munching away at the fresh hay in the manger.  “And she may have been a little odd, but she wasna’ crazy, even at the last.  We named the mare Maise, and she called me the Black Donald.”

“Oh,” Dair, acknowledged weakly.  “She spoke of me?” he sounded puzzled and a little dubious.

“Aye.  Said you were the best man with a horse she had ever seen.”  Duncan only exaggerated a little, and only because he knew what it was like to feel you had failed a parent, with no chance to make amends.

“A horse is about the only creature who will listen to the man.” Duncan heard Moibeal’s voice, and looked over his shoulder to find her standing the doorway, staring at the bulging saddlebags he had slung over the rail of the pen.  “These are Old Mog’s as well. Did you ‘borrow’ them, too?” she asked, looking at him with one dark eyebrow raised.

Duncan wordlessly moved out of the pen, went to the saddlebags, opened them, and pulled out the cuts of venison from the stag he had killed, still leaking blood through the skin wrappings.  “Here,” he said, plopping the three heaviest pieces into her arms until she was staggering under the load.  “This was for her, but since I assume you’ve inherited her property, tis now yours, along with the bags which she packed with food for my journey.  If you want the food she gave me back, it’s a little late for that, unless you want to retrieve the…” he almost used a foul word, but his mother’s hard discipline about such things had been ingrained for too long, “…leavings I left back on the trail.”

Moibeal’s lips twisted open, then closed as she tried to come up with something sufficiently cutting to say.  “You are the evil spirit everyone’s been talking of,” she snapped.  “No wonder you and that old witch got on so well.”

“Mab!” Dair called.  “She was my mother, and I’ll no’ have you calling her names, not while her body lies in there, hardly cold.”

But his wife ignored him, staring at Duncan in suspicion and anger.  “Well, mind you quit these woods as fast as those cloven hoofs will take ye, or I’ll set the entire village on you.  They’ll hunt you down like the dog you are, skin you and burn you at the stake!”

Their eyes locked for a long, hard minute but it was Duncan who finally turned away.  It would be the same everywhere, after all.  She was just like so many others, including his own clan.  He gathered his things, and walked away, past Dair, whose sympathetic look was almost harder to deal with than his wife’s hostility and razor-sharp tongue.

He found his way back to his cave, but there was no sense of homecoming, only isolation.  He contemplated preserving the rest of the venison, but had little energy for the task.  All he really wanted to do was sleep, but sleep did not make him feel any more rested and by the time he got enough energy together to start the task of curing, half the meat had gone rancid and he had to throw it out. 

Of course, he still set his snares every day, and checked them periodically, but the pervasive lethargy that seemed to suck all the life out of him presented a daily battle, both for survival and sanity.  There seemed to be little point to it all.  His father was dead, so there was no hope of ever gaining his forgiveness, and he had no role to play in the care of his mother or the protection of his clan. Now, even Old Mog had no use for him, so he went through the motions of survival, but with little real effort and no enthusiasm, knowing all along that he was not putting enough by for the winter, but too perpetually worn out to care very much.

Then they came.  He was aware of them long before they got anywhere near his cave.  It was a hunting party, about a half-dozen men clumsily thrashing through the forest, the smoke from their campfire visible for miles.  At first he thought they might be hunting, perhaps boar or badger in preparation for meat or pelts for the winter ahead.  He followed them for a few days, more out of curiosity than anything else.  It was also a relief from boredom and his own dark thoughts.  They seemed to be searching, looking for signs in the woods, and when he deliberately left footprints where he knew they would be found, his growing suspicions were confirmed.

The group gathered excitedly around the tracks, discussing when they might have been made, what direction he had been traveling, and where his “lair” might be hidden.  They were looking for the demon, Duncan MacLeod.  Probably sent by the charming Moibeal.  Duncan was a little relieved not to see Alisdair among them, and hoped he had refused to be a part of the hunt.

Duncan sank back into the woods, careful to leave behind no trace of his passing.  He went to his cave and gathered his things:  his meager pallet, the little cookpot that Mog had given him, a few nice pelts he had collected.   That, plus the new plaid and his simple, homemade tools, his blades and pieced-together clothes were all that he had.  His cloak had been left back in Glenfinnan, wrapped around poor Gavin MacAndie’s body.  Not much to show for almost three years of hard work.  Abandoning the cave took only a few minutes, and he left without looking back.  It had never been home.

He walked almost aimlessly, without destination.  Generally west towards the sea and the setting sun.  He skirted around villages, avoided major trails in preference to finding his own path.  It led him numerous times to dead ends where a valley would just end, or he was stymied by a steep drop and had to backtrack to find another way around.  The summer waned and the leaves began to turn, and he had found no place to stay for the winter, stored no food against leaner times.  It was as though he was marking time, waiting for something to happen.

One day, with the chill of fall now definitely in the air, he topped a rise he had been struggling towards for over a day, and ended up standing at the top of a cliff overlooking the vastness of blue-gray water as far as the eye could see.  Mist shrouded the cliffs below, but as the wind shifted, he caught glimpses of waves crashing against rocks, sending spray far into the air.  The damp wind lifted his hair and he spread his arms wide, wondering if there truly was any magic in the world.  Perhaps if there was, and he leapt from the cliff wishing hard enough, wings would sprout from his shoulders and he would be carried up high, away from the earth, weightless.  He leaned out, into the strong wind swirling around him and for a moment it seemed so real, so possible.

Then a rattle and clack of rocks falling spoiled the moment, and he looked down to see where his feet had disturbed the earth at the edge, and stones were bouncing down the side of the cliff.  Those rocks disturbed more stones as they fell, setting up a small cascade that eventually disappeared into the sharp, dark protrusions and pounding surf far below.

It made him wonder.  How many years, how many centuries had this bulwark against the waves stood, yet his feet could so easily dislodge the earth?  Oh, it was just a little bit of soil, a few rocks, but over time, if a man stood there long enough, chipping away at giant cliffs, stone by stone, perhaps the cliff would eventually disappear entirely.  He wasn’t sure why the thought seemed so important, but it captured his imagination. That such small actions, over time, could change what seemed unchangeable. 

He camped for several days there at the top of the cliff, even though it was windy, damp and cold.  He would stand for long periods, staring out into the mist, or watching the waves throw themselves at the rocks far below, mesmerized.  It was soothing, for some reason taking his mind off the insoluble conundrum that had become his life.

The bear skin that had been his pallet for so long was becoming troublesome to carry around, so he spent his days re-piecing it into leg coverings and to layer over his doeskin shirt to protect and warm his shoulders and arms.  His diet had reverted to the snaring of small animals and whatever edible berries and roots he could find.  His previous days of game being relatively plentiful, supplemented by a few occasional vegetables from Mog’s garden, now seemed almost luxurious.

Eventually he got restless, feeling the need to move on, so one day he simply doused his campfire and headed west along the coast until he almost stumbled onto a village, and had to quickly retreat down the rocky coast along a path with the cliffs to one side and the surging ocean on the other.   Hearing approaching voices, he knelt behind some bushes, waiting for a group of women and their toddlers to pass.  They were carrying large baskets of clothes, still wet from washing.  He listened as they chatted, walking slowly with their heavy burdens balanced on hip or head.

It was simple conversation, gossip really.  Shouts to their children to stay to the path, discussion of a recipe for getting blaeberry stains out of cloth, the expected weather for the coming winter.  It was a kind of enjoyable torture.  A reminder of better days.

Then there was a distant shout, then a scream, and the sudden thump of running feet.  “Jamie!” a woman’s voice screamed, and he was drawn to stand and peer through the foliage to see what the excitement was about.

A youngster, probably only three or four years old, had wandered too far down into the rocks, close to the surging waves.  He had been caught and was flailing his arms as the sucking current either pulled him inexorably out to sea, or smashed him against the sharp rocks.  The women had thrown down their baskets and were rushing over the massive outcroppings, their heavy skirts yanked up around their knees.

Duncan dropped his baldrick and sword, the pack that carried everything he owned, yanked off his thick leggings and footwear and dashed out, hearing the nearest woman cry out in startlement as he brushed past her.  His feet had gotten hardened, as he usually went without shoes in the summer, and they easily found purchase on the wet, smooth rocks as he leapt from boulder to boulder, his eyes never leaving the small bobbing figure that was washing in and out of reach of the closest women as they tried to wade far enough into the water to reach him, but not so far that they would get sucked under by the powerful current and their heavy clothes.

Finally, he just dove in, the shock of the cold water almost paralyzing him for a second before he swam strongly towards where the towheaded child had disappeared under the churning waves.  He could barely see in the dark, swirling water, cold quickly stole his strength, and the fight against the current made his lungs ache for air, but the pale gleam of a small hand caught what little light there was and he kicked hard, reached for it and pulled.

He breached the surface with a huge gasp, pulling the boy with him, then gathered him in his arms to keep the small face above the water.  The child was so light, an almost negligible weight as he somehow found footing on the rocks, and the women reached to help him.  Someone took the boy from his arms and laid him on a rocky plateau near the path.  She tapped the boy’s ashen cheeks, turned him on his side and thumped his back.

“Oh, Jamie, come on, breathe!  Oh, please, God, let him be all right!” the woman sobbed, rocking the small body back and forth.  Then a small bubble of water surged from the boy’s blue lips, then another, then the boy coughed, gasped and vomited while his mother held him.  She laughed out loud, clutching the child to her, as the child’s face went from pale to bright red as he at last found enough air to loudly wail his distress and fear.  Tears ran down her face and she looked up at Duncan.  “Surely you were sent by God, sir, to save my son,” she said, her eyes shining with gratitude.  “Thank you.”

Duncan managed to nod, still catching his breath and too stunned by her words to think of anything to say.  He stepped back, and back again, feeling the pats on his shoulders and arms as the women gathered around, all with words of kindness and praise.  He turned away and went to the bush where he had been hiding, gathering his things.  His clothes and hair were leaving a trail of running water and he shivered as he sat and pulled his footwear back on.

“Sir?”

He looked up into Jamie’s mother’s face.  It was a handsome face, but worn and tired, the look of a woman who had struggled all her life.  She held the boy, who was still sniffling and hiccupping, but other than being wet, seemed none the worse for his adventure.

“It will be cold when the sun sets.  I would be pleased if you could join us for supper, and you could dry out in front of our fire.  I know my husband will want to thank you for what you did.”

“That’s not necessary,” Duncan answered.  He stood, slinging his baldrick and his pack over his shoulders.  “But it is kind of ye to offer.”  He stepped back down the path, away from the village.

“No, please!” she grasped his arm to stop him, which made him yank away.  It had been too long since anyone had grabbed him with anything but ill intent.  “I’m sorry,” she responded, pulling her hand back.  Her eyes took in his ragged clothes, his pitiful belongings and his distrustful posture, and her voice softened.  “We all come on hard times, now and then.  It’s easy to care about naught but ourselves.  But you didna’ hesitate to risk your life to save my boy.  It would do us great honor to at least share a meal with you,” she said, meeting his eyes not with pity, but with pride, making refusal a kind of insult.

He took a long breath and steadied himself.  “My name is Duncan MacLeod,” he said, watching her carefully for a reaction.  “Of the Clan MacLeod.”

She bobbed slightly and nodded, her face broadening into a smile.  “Pleased to meet you, Duncan MacLeod,” she answered.  “My name is Nora Macpherson, and this here is Jamie,” she nodded towards her child, her expression softening as she gazed at the boy, who now had his head resting on her shoulder, his thumb firmly in his mouth and his blue-eyed gaze fixed on the tall stranger.

“Hello, Jamie Macpherson,” Duncan smiled at the boy.  “Next time you should learn to swim before you jump in the water.”  The boy shyly hid his face against his mother’s chest and both adults laughed, along with the several other women who had stayed to make sure all was well before they gathered their dropped laundry and headed back to their homes.

It was a moment of quiet joy, Duncan thought as he followed Nora down the path towards the small fishing village right at the edge of the ocean.  He wondered if any of them realized how precious it was.

Alexander Macpherson was a burly man, his reddish-blonde hair a curly mass that floated in an undisciplined mane around his head, his face furred with a tight, curly beard of a slightly darker hue.  But his eyes were the same sky blue as those of his young son and three older daughters, and they were all gifted with easy laughter.  Duncan was ushered into the large stone cottage, with beds partitioned off from the greatroom only by skins and blankets.  A dining table held six, and Nora held Jamie on her lap, so there would be room for Duncan.

He had been worried about what to say, and how to act after such a long time on his own, but there was constant chatter among the girls, the oldest of whom was almost of marriageable age and kept casting her eyes on Duncan and blushing furiously.  Duncan was content just to be present and watch the girls squabble, the adults try to keep some order, and to eat a real meal until he was full.

“Would you like some more stew, Duncan?” Nora offered.

He had to laugh.  “Nay, Mrs. Macpherson.  I’ve already had three bowls.  If I have any more, I’ll make myself sick.  It was truly delicious.”

“Och, go on,” she waved her hand at him as she stood to clear the table.  “Tis only the same fish stew we have at least three times a week.  I swear sometimes I think I’ll turn into a fish myself and land some day, flopping at the bottom of Alexander’s boat!”

Alexander had moved to his chair by the fire, carefully lighting a pipe from a bit of kindling.  “Oh, aye, Nora.  And I’ve always told everyone what a great catch you are, that’d make you one for certain!”  The husband and wife laughed, their eyes meeting in a shared moment of intimacy that told Duncan the joke was a long-standing one.  “Come over here by the fire, Duncan,” Alexander called.  “You must still be wet from that swim you took this afternoon.”

Duncan brought a chair from the table over by the fire, feeling the welcome warmth through his damp clothes and breathing the comforting, familiar smell of strong tobacco.  He had washed up a little and even shaved before dinner, and felt almost civilized.  It was an odd moment, both wonderful and frightening because he knew it was stolen, the hospitality and warmth given under false pretenses.  The illusion had been sustained only because the Macphersons had been studiously not asking him about his background the whole evening, for which he was deeply grateful.

The two men sat in comfortable silence while Nora and the girls cleaned up from dinner.  Little Jamie played with a small carved boat in front of the fire, and when he got restless and wandered over to his mother, getting in her way, Alexander retrieved him and held him on his lap, where the child promptly fell asleep.

“I know who you are.”  Alexander said it so softly, Duncan thought for a moment he hadn’t heard correctly, but then his heart sank and he closed his eyes.

“Yes, well,” Duncan responded, and sat for a minute wondering whether Macpherson would set the village on him, but then decided he probably wouldn’t.  He pushed himself to his feet.  “I’ll be leaving then.  I want to thank you for your hospitality.”

“Sit down, MacLeod,” his host said, looking up at him with a twinkle of humor in his eyes.  “You think I care one whit about the rumors spread by gossips and old women with nothing better to do?”

“But…”

Macpherson stood and handed Duncan his son, and Duncan had no real choice but to take the warm, limp bundle that smelled of ocean and of warm piss, realizing that little Jamie was also slightly damp, but for a different reason.  But giving him the boy was an act of absolute trust that said more than any words could possibly have conveyed.  Macpherson went to a cabinet, and pulled out a jug and two cups, pouring amber liquid into each cup.

Alexander went through the logistics of giving Duncan a cup, then taking Jamie back, and both men sat back down.  “Mind you, I dinna know what others will say if word gets around, but I do know that Nora says you appeared from nowhere, and that you dove right into the rocks and could have been crushed in an instant.  She was sure Jamie was lost, but you fought the current and the waves and somehow managed to bring him back to us.”  Alexander’s voice broke and Duncan watched the man rest his cheek on his son’s soft, golden hair.  “Whether you came from heaven or hell, I don’t care, Duncan MacLeod.  I am just grateful you did.”

Duncan sipped at his cup, almost choking on the fiery liquor, but glad of the distraction of the burn in his throat and chest, which also explained the roughness of his voice.  “I’m glad I was there, too.”   It couldn’t have been ten minutes later and he realized he was having to blink hard to keep his eyes open as the liquor, a full belly, the warmth and the sense of family seemed to seep into his skin, and he felt muscles relax that he had long forgotten were ever tense.

The cup was taken out of his hand, and he looked down to see Nora kneeling in front of his chair.  “Sleep here, tonight, Duncan, in front of the fire.”

He shook his head groggily.  “Nay, ‘tis not right.  You shouldn’t…”

“Tis not right for you to sleep out in the cold when you can be comfortable right here.”  Nora touched his face and he found himself leaning into her hand.  “Sleep, Duncan.”

He stretched out on a cushion of their spare rugs and his own pelts, sheltered from the cold wind and with the comforting sounds of the snores and snuffles and stirrings of others around him.  Unused to all those normal, human noises, he woke several times during the night with a start, then immediately relaxed, falling quickly back to sleep.

Duncan rose when Alexander got up before dawn to stir the fire, and Nora put on some porridge.  The adults let the children sleep while they spoke quietly of what Alexander’s expectations were for the day.  He was heading out to sea and would be gone for a day or more.  He usually fished alone, but sometimes took one of the village lads with him when the seas were rough.  Duncan and Alexander stepped out into the morning chill, with the smell of the ocean thick in the air, and a heavy morning mist masking the waves crashing against the rocks nearby.

He followed his host down to the water and helped him pull his big, round-bottomed boat to the water’s edge.  It was a battered but sturdy single-masted skiff that had long oars as well as a large sail to use to catch the strong winds that swirled around the many islands of the Hebrides.  Soon, the weather would make a dangerous livelihood even more deadly, but it would be unlikely to stop men like Alexander, whose families relied on the bounty of the sea for survival.

Duncan stood at the ocean’s edge, looking westward to the vast emptiness of the ocean.  Water had always called him, soothed his senses, and perhaps he had found a respite from his wanderings.

“Alexander,” he called.  The man looked up from sorting out his traps and his nets.  “Take me with you.”

The fisherman looked surprised, cocking his head at his guest.  “Why?  You would be better off leaving Scotland.  You should head south to the lowlands, or even to England where they never heard of Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”  He looked out over the blackness of the ocean, still waiting to be revealed by the dawn.  “These islands have more legends and superstitions, more tales of gods and demons and magic than any place in the land.  I would think they would be the last place you would want to go.”

“Even so,” Duncan whispered, unable to take his eyes off the horizon which was just beginning to appear as pre-dawn light began to outline the sky.  “This is something I could do to help you, and which won’t put me in the middle of some witch hunt.  I could find a small shelter away from the village when we’re on land, but spend most of my time out there.”   He indicated the ocean with his chin.  “And you told Nora you were hoping to find someone strong to help with the boat now that winter is almost here.”  Then he stopped.  Perhaps Alexander’s hesitation was because of who he was, and his offer was unwelcome. 

Alexander stood beside him for a few minutes as they both watched the light change from misty blue to soft gray.  “I willna pretend there might not be some trouble, Duncan, but if you keep to yourself, except when we’re out to sea, it might work.  And I would surely be grateful for a strong back to help me when the weather turns, as it surely will.”

It was a glorious feeling, being out in the vastness of the ocean, riding the swells, sea spray dampening his face and hair.  There was a timelessness, a deep sense that there must truly be a beneficent, all-powerful God watching over them, if He could create such wildness and beauty, yet allow man to use its bounty in such great measure.  Alexander tacked south and west.  Then Duncan helped him unload his net, row or sail a distance until the fisherman judged the load of weight of the net was right, then hauled it back in.  It was backbreaking work, but very satisfying as the bottom of the boat began to fill with slippery, wriggling bodies of cod and herring.

For weeks Alexander and Duncan would fish until the boat was full and heavy, then Alex would head for the mainland, or for Mull or Skye, where Duncan thought he could sometimes see Dunvegan Castle, where the MacLeod Chief resided, distantly outlined against the sky.  Duncan would stay with the boat while Alex dealt with those who might trade goods, or if they were very fortunate, money, for his catch.

When ashore, Duncan kept to himself in a small hut that had originally been a storage shed, but frequently took his dinner meal with the Macphersons, who treated him like a member of the family.  But when fifteen-year-old Rachel began openly and outrageously flirting with him, Duncan and Alex mutually agreed that Duncan should keep his distance. 

Duncan did not blame the Macphersons for not wanting their eldest daughter to risk consorting with someone like him.  But it hurt, nonetheless, and made his evenings huddled in his small hut all the more lonely, especially when winter weather prevented the boat from going out at all, and he had too much time on his hands.  He had not been with a woman in three long, hard years and his body as well as his mind sometimes rebelled at the enforced celibacy – not that he would dare touch a woman anymore.  To do so was to risk the delicate balance he had found that allowed him at least some human contact.

But at least, when the weather permitted, he had his days on the sea, with Alexander.  The winter storms made the work more dangerous and exhausting.  Even so, there was something thrilling about fighting and conquering the limitless power of the sea, and it got to where he and Alexander needed no words to communicate between them. 

They had been out for several days still in the most dangerous parts of the Winter season, fishing between Alexander’s village of Sanna and the outer islands of Ruhm and Canna, and were headed back towards the mainland when the wind unexpectedly whipped around, now coming strongly from the northwest. The deep-bellied vessel’s over-large sail flapped and billowed, and the heavily-laden boat dipped alarmingly into the next swell while Alex and hauled on the tiller and Duncan dove to tighten the canvas.

Alex studied the skies and the horizon, a grim set to his mouth.

“What is it?” Duncan had to shout above the wind.

“Tis a storm coming,” he shouted back.  “Sometimes the currents and the wind can all shift back on ye and carry ye right into the rocks if ye’re not careful.  This one looks like it is going to carry us south.  Tie everything down tight, Duncan.  We’re in for bit of a blow.”

Alexander was a master of understatement.  They were tossed about like they were just another bit of sea spray, irrelevant and helpless against the power of wind and water.  Each time Alexander would head inland, the current and the wind would grab the small craft and if they dared move closer they would have been smashed against the rocks.  Duncan watched in admiration as Alexander steered the bobbing craft, using the raging wind when he could, riding out the swells that crashed over their bow.  They lost much of their catch, and tore their sail.  If there had not been two of them, both strong and stubborn, they would never have gotten the spare sail up, which gave them some small margin of control, masterfully managed by Alexander, who after almost twenty-four hours of fighting the waves, was gray with cold and exhaustion. 

They sailed through the night, finally giving up on trying to reach land, which seemed even more dangerous than fighting the storm.  And when the gray light of morning washed through the dark clouds, the cold rain began to slack off, and visibility improved.  Duncan had no idea where they were, but spotted a small irregularity on the horizon in what he thought was probably to the west, although he had no reliable frame of reference for direction except the dim light from a cloud-shrouded sky.

He pointed, and Alex nodded, his face lightening momentarily with a strained smile, and he wrestled the boat around to head in that direction.  It took over an hour, but at last they could see the outline of a small island, its beaches shining white even in the grayest of light, and both men sighed with relief at the possibility of a safe beach landing.  Even the sun seemed to recognize the turn of events and made a rare appearance as they approached, highlighting the outline of a large building not far from the shore.

When he turned to Alexander, the man’s smile had broadened, and the fisherman leaned closer to speak.  “Tis a safe haven for sure,” he shouted over the wind.  “The monks will buy what’s left of our catch, then we can head home.  Nora will be frantic by now.”

An abbey, then, Duncan thought, his heart sinking.  This was no place for the likes of him.  He said nothing until they had finally heaved the boat onto the beach.  Both men stood for several minutes, hanging onto the small craft, grateful to have their feet on solid ground, gasping with relief and exhaustion. 

Alexander stumbled away towards the abbey.  “Come on, Duncan,” he gestured.  “There’s hot food and maybe even a dram of whisky to be found here.”

“Nay, I canno’,” Duncan answered, then waved away Alexander’s protest.  “I don’t belong here, you know that.  I’ll stay with the boat.  I’ll be fine.”

“Duncan, whatever you are, this place is sacred.  Nothing bad will happen to you.”

“No,” Duncan answered stubbornly.  “I willno’ go through that again, Alex.  You don’t know what people can do, how cruel they can be.  I’ll get some sleep here.  I’ll be fine.  You go on and take as long as you need.”  He got back into the boat and helped take the remaining baskets of fish they had up to the top of the beach, then retreated, finding a ledge where he could sit out of the wind while Alex did business with the island’s inhabitants.

He quickly fell asleep, wakening with a start at midday when the light penetrated his eyelids with painful brightness.  The clouds had blown away and a pale winter sun had washed the bright white sands with a soothing light, the wind had died somewhat, and Duncan recognized he had slept so easily at least partially because there was a true sense of peace about the place.  He stood and stretched.  His belly grumbled noisily from hunger, and his mouth was sticky with thirst.  He found the small amount of remaining fresh water they had in the boat and finished it off, trusting that Alex would bring him back a little food, and more fresh water when he returned. 

He hoped the man wouldn’t be too long, although it would be best if Alex slept a least a little before they started on their long trip back to Sanna.  Duncan was learning a lot about the hundreds of inlets and islands of the Hebrides, but it would take a lifetime to have the bone-deep understanding of someone like Alexander, and he had no idea where they had landed.  He wandered up the beach a ways, peering at the large stone building with the steepled roof.  From here, he could see an impressive Celtic cross, as well, and looking carefully around and seeing no one in sight, he walked towards it, since there had been no dire consequence before from his treading in graveyards.

He was stunned at what he found.  Slab after slab of dark gray stone was set in the ground, all carved with images of warriors and heroes, many with ancient, weathered writing on them.  He wandered among them, admiring the carvings and wondering who all these obviously important men might have been.  When he looked up at last, he realized he was practically at the door of the abbey.  For reasons he later could not bring to mind, his footsteps led him to the threshold, then inside, where the cool, dark vaulted space sent a shiver sliding up his spine and across his shoulders.

Even as some voice kept insisting he did not belong here, he surveyed the interior.  There were rows of chairs leading up to an altar, with one long aisle left down the center. The place felt so quiet, so peaceful, the chairs irresistibly inviting.

He was so tired.  Tired of running, tired of being afraid, so tired of being alone.  He sank into a chair on the aisle of the ancient chapel, his eyes tracing the candlelit shadow of the tortured man on the cross.  Like poor Gavin MacAndie, the carved Christ’s eyes were open, cast up to the heavens as though begging for release from the pain inflicted on his mortal flesh.

Duncan closed his eyes, but he could still see the outline of the crucified man, as though it were etched on his eyelids as he let his mind drift, his thoughts still heavy with the exhaustion of the last several days. 

Pain. Hot, stabbing pain. He jerked, but couldn’t seem to open his eyes.  A sword flashed behind his eyelids and again he shook himself, but something held him frozen in place.  A deeply shadowed figure in a long robe was standing before him outlined in flickering, dusty, golden light.  The figure’s skeletal arm reached out towards him, the hand beckoning.  Only it wasn’t a hand.  It was only old bones, with bits of skin still clinging to them.  “Strathconnon Forest,” a dead voice whispered, but he could not see the figure’s face, only an outline of wild, long hair.  “Come to me,” the voice whispered again.  “You must meet your destiny, or else...”  the robed figure turned and pointed behind him, and something was there, a presence, something…the vision grew larger and larger in his mind, of blood and death and...

“Duncan?”

He jerked back, falling, scrambling back, full of a nameless, formless terror, but it was only Alexander, his face peering at him closely, his reddish eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“Are you all right?” Alexander asked.

“I…did you see him?” he asked, looking frantically around, but there was no one but Alexander, who held out a hand to help him up.

“Who?” 

“The man.  The man in the robe with the…”  With the what?  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the edge of the images that had shattered his thoughts seemed to fade and blur, quickly disappearing from memory like a bad dream.  He had no idea how long he had been sitting there, but he was chilled to the bone, his clothes soaked with sweat and he felt like he had just run for miles.  He found the nearest chair and sat heavily.

“Duncan, what happened?” Alexander sat next to him, and Duncan was grateful for the man’s strong hand on his forearm, like an anchor keeping him in the here and now.

“Nothing.  Nothing,” Duncan immediately answered.  It wouldn’t do to have the one person who treated him like he was just another man know he saw…what?  Visions?  Daydreams?  Heard voices?

“They say,” Alexander whispered, “that the veil between this world and the spirit world is thin on this island.  Perhaps…”

“It was nothing,” Duncan insisted, shaking off Alexander’s hand.  “Did you complete your business?” he asked.

“Aye.  I’m sorry I took so long, but when I fell asleep at the good monks’ table, they let me rest, not realizing you were waiting.” Alexander stood, nodding towards the beach.  “The tide is on its way out and we should be leaving.  It will be a long trip back and I’m anxious to get home.”

“Then let’s be off,” Duncan stood and clapped Alexander on the shoulder.  The two men stepped out into the sunshine, blinking at the harsh late afternoon glare.  Duncan was anxious to be off, too.  He needed to move, to travel.  North and east.  There was a place he had always wanted to visit, and now was as good a time as any.  Strathconnon Forest.
 
 

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