Duncan left the Macphersons behind with regret, but also a little relief.  The need to keep his identity cloaked had become a strain which would only get worse come spring when village gatherings and celebrations would make his presence more difficult to ignore.  The last thing he wanted was to be a burden or an embarrassment, and he knew the Macphersons would willingly endure the cruelties of the other villagers out of their misplaced sense of obligation.

With their simple acceptance of his presence in their lives, Nora, Alex and their boisterous children had long since repaid any possible debt for something he had been glad to do in the first place, and his conscience told him he had worn out his welcome, no matter their protests to the contrary.  Even so, had he not had these past few months of contact with good people who did not think him evil, he did not know how he would have had the strength to go on in the wake of his father’s death and all the turmoil of the past three, long miserable years.  He recalled when he had stood alone at the top of a cliff, watching the crashing waters far below, and finally acknowledged to himself that what he had really felt at the time was a bone-deep desire to step off, letting his body disintegrate on the rocks.

But that was a coward’s way, and even thinking about it now made his face flush with shame.  Giving up was not what his father had taught him, and it went against his nature.  He remembered his mother laughing at him as a child for believing it was possible that good would always overcome evil and he was not ready to give up on that certainty. 

Besides, ever since those blurred, endless, dreadful days in the storm with Alex, he had felt a strong desire to see the green, forested hills of Strathconnon, west of Inverness.  It was a good place to go, wild and uninhabited.  He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before.  There were said to be old ruins and caves deep in the woods, and maybe that’s where he could settle, far from those who would condemn him for something he did not understand, and over which he seemed to have no control.  This needy dependence on the presence and acceptance of others would simply have to be overcome.

The trip north and east was cold and wet, but went fairly quickly since he had a real destination in mind.  Initially he kept to the coast to avoid passing anywhere near Glenfinnan. There were still periodic heavy snows this early in the spring.  Game was sparse, and edible vegetation even more rare, but he now took some pride in the sturdy resilience of a body that could be pressed beyond normal human endurance.  The miles passed underneath cold, numb feet as he skirted to the east of Lochailort, staying well west of Strathan, where the villagers had attacked him.  Once he was north of there, he didn’t feel quite so vulnerable to those who might know his face, and he allowed himself occasional contact with fellow travelers, who were few enough this time of year. 

He had to skirt way around Loch Quoich, then work his way past some impassible river crossings, taking him due east for a while before he could cross the Five Sisters mountains.  The cold weather broke unexpectedly, the snow turned into sleet, then cold rain that melted the remaining slush, leaving the ground soft and muddy, and slowing his progress.  Some nights, huddled in the cold and wet, unable to light a fire, eating whatever meat he could catch raw and bloody, the thought occurred to him that what he was doing made no sense, and perhaps Alexander Macpherson had been right, and he should leave the country entirely.

But such thoughts were fleeting, and quickly forgotten in the basic struggle for survival as he persistently moved north and east, following river valleys until he finally met up with a small group of peddlers outside the village of Scardroy on the Meig River.  He warily approached their fire, staying to the edge of the campsite and calling out.

“Who’s there?!” a rough voice answered.

“A fellow traveler, alone and harmless,” Duncan answered.  Then he stepped closer to the smoky fire they had built close to their wagon and covered with a tarpaulin to keep away the wet.  “And cold and hungry,” he added, spreading his hands to show he had no weapon drawn.  “But I’ve caught some game I’d be happy to share in return for a place at your fire.

The figures around the fire appeared to consult with each other, then the largest one stepped up and nodded.  “Be welcome, then, traveler.  I bid you peace and hospitality.”

“And to you.” Duncan stepped closer.  He had tried to keep himself fairly respectable looking and he was glad of it as he felt all their eyes inspecting him closely.  He held out the four red squirrels he had caught that afternoon, and after a pause the bear of a man who was their leader took them, then clasped his forearm in greeting.

“Angus is the name, and this here be Colin, my son, and his wife, Rose.”

Two barely discernable shadows had half-stood and bobbed before sitting back down close to the fire.  Duncan hardly blamed them.  It was cold and drizzling and their small shelter looked inviting.

“Those two over there,” Angus pointed to an irregular lump under a stained, old plaid whose colors were indistinguishable.  Small heads poked out curiously, and bright eyes were reflected in the low firelight.  “Are their wee ones, Little Angus and Donald, but they’re practically asleep, aren’t you, boys?” Angus directed the question at the two as if it were an order rather than a description.  The two boys’ heads disappeared quickly, but Duncan could hear murmurs and whispers coming from under the cloth, bringing to mind many nights when he and his cousins would huddle together by the fire, telling each other wild tales until his father would threaten them with some distasteful chore.

“Come!  Come,” Angus gestured, and Duncan came closer, curious that Angus had left off any clan designation and had not asked him his name.

“My name is Duncan,” he offered.  “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”  If they were going to chase him off, he'd rather know it now.

There was a heartbeat or two of silence, and he saw a look pass between Angus and his son and daughter-in-law.

“Well, Duncan MacLeod, those are some fine, fat squirrels you’ve got there,” Angus finally observed heartily.  “Let’s add it to the stew Rose has made.  We already gave the boys most of what meat we have, and were not looking forward to the thin stew that remains.  Let’s skin these and see if we can make a meal of it, eh?”

The conversation was stilted and careful, and Duncan quickly became aware that this little group had as much reason to fear identification as did he.  For even though he had not given his clan name, Angus wore a sprig of pine jauntily in his cap.  When he caught Duncan eyeing it, the two men shared a long look.  When Duncan just smiled at him and gave a brief nod, Angus seemed to relax a little, and ultimately pulled out a small jug of whiskey to pass around, “to keep away the chill,” he said.

For surely, Duncan decided, these people must be of the Clan Gregor, whose use of the name had been proscribed ever since the battle at Glen Fruin twenty-odd years before.  The whole clan had been branded outcasts by King James VI, who every Scot knew was a man who paled at the slightest mention of bloodshed.  The lily-livered Sassenach King had been swayed by accusations of Archibald Campbell, 7th Earl of Argyle, that it had been MacGregors who had murdered John Drummond after the Royal Forester caught a few of them poaching, and had then hung the suspects without a trial.

The story went that the outraged MacGregors set an ambush, captured Drummond and beheaded him.  They then rode to Ardvorlich House, where Drummond’s sister welcomed them and offered the travelers traditional Highland hospitality.  The Lady proceeded to see to the preparation of food and upon her return to the hall, was greeted by the sight of her brother’s head, mounted on the table and stuffed with cheese and bread.  It was said she went mad, and now either she or her ghost could be seen haunting the woods of the area.

The terrible accusation and the resulting raids and bitterness between the clans ultimately led to the massacre at Glen Fruin, where the MacGregors slaughtered some 200 of the King’s men, led by the Colquhoun, Laird of Luss.  That victory for the MacGregors led to their disastrous downfall when James VI and his Privy Council issued an order proscribing the very existence of the clan, forcing them to change their names and removing them from their lands. 

But Duncan knew the story of Drummond’s death to be false from Neil MacGregor himself, who had refused to give up his clan’s name despite the proscription.  Neil had always claimed that it was not the Gregors who murdered John Drummond, but the Maclans of Glencoe, and that the Campbells were responsible for the disgrace and downfall of his entire clan.  Duncan’s father had known Neil’s family since childhood, and their mutual hatred of the Campbells had meant that he never tried to enforce the proscription after Neil and his family had been forced north. 

Some people would have had greater tolerance as a result of their own travails, but not Neil MacGregor, who had ever been a bitter man.  His eager endorsement of Duncan’s banishment, and his ascension to the leadership of Glenfinnan seemed to be, at least in some measure, a reaction to all that had been taken from his own family.  Angus broke Duncan's bitter train of thought by passing him the jug of whiskey. 

Duncan paused a moment, then raised the jug.  “To Alasdair of Glenstrae, Chief of the Gregorach,” he said quietly, referring to Neil’s late father, the Clan leader of the MacGregors and hero of the Battle of Glen Fruin.  Then he took a small sip, holding it on his tongue for a moment, savoring the smoky, stinging flavor before he let it slide down his throat. 

The other three faces around the fire looked warily at one another for a moment, then Colin took the jug from Duncan’s hand with a smile.  “To the Gregorach,” he said, took a sip, then passed it to his wife, who repeated the gesture before giving it to Angus, who took a long swallow, then grinned at their guest. 

“Tis good to warm the belly on a cold, wet night,” Angus said with a conspiratorial wink, then laughed a great chortle that echoed around the glen and he lay back, relaxing at last.

“All the nights in the Highlands are cold and wet,” Duncan observed with a smile as he carefully added fuel to the fire. They had shared a stew that contained a generous portion of the meat he had caught, as well as a few meager vegetables.  He wasn’t nearly as hungry as usual, and the cold and damp hardly bothered him, but he had reasons other than the pleasure of human company, the shared meal and a rude shelter for seeking out these travelers and gaining their trust. 

“Have you come from Inverness?” Duncan asked.

“Oh, aye,” Angus nodded, taking another sip from his jug.  “But we stayed to the outskirts.  There’s more tinkers and peddlers there than is good for business, and we must ever be wary of Campbells and the King’s men, even this far north.”  He passed the jug to Duncan again.

Duncan nodded, sipping carefully, then passing the jug to Colin.  “Then you passed through Strathconnon Forest coming this way?” he asked casually.

“Och, there’s a place that’ll give ye a richt fleg,” Colin’s wife observed.  She had rejoined them at the fire after checking on the children, who now seemed to be genuinely asleep.

“And why is that?” Duncan asked.

“It feels like someplace the Daoine Sithe would gather, full of dark places, caves and old ruins.  I swear we saw a light coming right out of the side of a mountain one night when we camped there years ago,” she told him in a loud whisper, looking carefully over her shoulder as though the spirits in question might be listening.  “We always pass through as quickly as can be.  Tis only a day’s travel east of here, and I advise you to head south if you want to skirt round its darkest parts.”

“Enough of your tales, ye bletherskate!” Angus growled, passing the jug around once more.  “Tis all nonsense.  You would’na know a cruithneach if one came and pinched your arse.  For all you know, young Duncan here might be the devil himself!”  Angus leered a little drunkenly at him and Duncan decided they had all had enough to drink, and passed the jug without swallowing any of the strong liquor. 

He slept in the MacGregor’s camp that night, his sword kept close by his side, no matter that they had a shared reason for distrust of authority, and of nosy strangers.  The next day they parted company, with the peddlers heading west for the small village of Scardroy while Duncan turned east on the final leg of his journey.

The forest grew thicker around him, dimming the already gray light.  Eventually he turned off the trail left by previous travelers on the road from Inverness, and moved upwards, climbing a barely marked trail into steep, rocky hills.  The afternoon waned and the rain finally slacked off, and still he kept moving even though he was hungry and cold and tired.  Each time he thought about stopping to rest, to set some snares for his dinner, he found himself moving again before he could decide on a decent camping sight. 

Night fell, and he was still walking, trodding step after step, sore and tired, his mind almost blank as whatever force kept him going pushed him further into the hills.  He picked anything edible he could find as he went, chewing just to keep something in his mouth, to trick himself into thinking he was eating.

Then he froze, still in the process of chewing a bitter, dried berry he had found.  An ugly, terrifying and vaguely familiar sensation had settled over him – of sound that wasn’t sound, a feeling that made his heart clutch in his chest and his hand instinctively close over his sword.  He swiveled his head around nervously, certain there was some threat just out of reach, but found only a soft flickering glow that seemed to come from within the ground itself, and he remembered the MacGregors’ warning.

He took a few deep breaths, chastising himself for his childish fears.  It was only a cave, lit from some campfire within.  The smell of cooking meat wafted out to greet him and his mouth flooded and his stomach rumbled in response.  He moved cautiously forward, parting the bushes that shrouded the entrance, letting his eyes adjust to the large and well-lit space.  Torches were placed in niches in the cavernous walls, and a well-made fire blazed merrily under a spit where meat was cooking, its juices dripping into the popping, snapping flames, the delicious smell mixing with an underlying odor of smoke and dust and decay. 

Carefully mortared arches and an old carved Celtic cross identified the space as more than a cave, but its original use had been long abandoned.  The smoke and the wavering torchlight seemed to wash the color out of the room, leaving only the red-gold of dust of ages that covered everything, including the robed figure sitting by the fire.  The man turned to eye his visitor and Duncan froze. 

“It took you long enough.”  The man’s speech was slow and hoarse, as though his voice was rusty with disuse.  “What’re you lookin’ at?” he demanded.  “Come by the fire.  It’s ne’r fit a day for man nor spirit.”  He lifted the spit of meat, delicately pulling a piece off and popping it into his mouth.

“Aye,” Duncan agreed, moving a little closer to the food.  If he were polite and agreed with the old man, maybe he would share a little of his dinner. 

“Help yourself.”  A scrawny hand gestured towards the food, but as much as Duncan wanted it, some voice within urged caution.  The cave seemed eerie and almost unnatural, a place out of time, as did the man by the fire, whose hair and beard were long and unkempt, his face drawn and thin like some long-dead corpse. 

“I did not know anyone lived in these parts.”  Duncan cautiously moved closer to the food but kept his hand on his sword. 

“Aye.  It’s a good place for a man to lose himself,” the old man said, his eyes lighting up with a sly smile.  “They canna’ find you here, the ones who call you demon,” he added with an ugly laugh.

“No one calls me demon!” The lie escaped Duncan’s lips before he had a chance to think about it.  Was there now some mark on his face, some indelible brand that let everyone see what he was?

“You been w’ nae home nor clan for three years, now,” the old man observed, but the closer Duncan got to the food, the less he really listened to the old man’s babble, and now the odd man was almost singing to himself.  “But that’s over,” he lilted.  “Soon he’ll find you.”

“Who?” Duncan's entire concentration was now on the food, and he asked the question only to be polite.  He knelt and tore a large piece of meat off the spit, burning his fingers, but eager to eat it before the crazy old hermit changed his mind and chased him away.

“The one who will teach you what you need to know,” the man answered in a sing-song voice, ending with a high, giggling laugh.

“Who are you talkin’ about?” Duncan asked in disgust, mostly at his own earlier fears of the harmless loon.

“Your kinsman, Connor MacLeod.”  The man’s odd, light eyes drilled into him as though he knew him.

Duncan paused with more meat halfway to his mouth.  Then he shook off the moment of strangeness.  “Connor MacLeod is a legend,” he scoffed.

“Oh, so you say, young Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”  The old man pronounced the name carefully and distinctly. 

Duncan froze, the old man's words finally coming together in his mind.  He stood, backing away from the fire and from the man’s eerie declaration.  “How do you know my name?” he demanded.

“Oh, I ken your name, Duncan MacLeod, and I ken your des-ti-ny.”

“No man knows that,” Duncan insisted, even though the words sparked an ominous thrill of a memory, or perhaps a snatch of an old, bad dream.

The old man’s voice sank to a whisper and his eyes seemed to focus on something only he could see.  “What we are is written in the wind long before we walk this world, the roads we travel and where they lead us.”

At last things seemed to fall into place – the driving need that had led him here, and all the old man’s strange babbling.  “You’re a seer!” Duncan whispered, kneeling so he could see the man's face better in the flickering light.

“I have waited in this place for 600 years for you!” the man declared. 

Whatever else the man was, he clearly was insane and Duncan carefully checked behind him to make sure the cave mouth was close.  Then the hermit moved with a strength and suppleness that belied his age, suddenly grabbing at the pile of discarded bones by the fire, startling Duncan into jumping up and backing away. 

“The bones!” the hermit whispered as he crouched, fingering the well worn remains. “The bones will tell your destiny.”  He tossed them in the air then studied the patterns they made as they fell in the dust.  “Aye, you’re blessed and you’re cursed.”

Duncan looked at the random scattering of old bones in confusion, wondering if they were human remains...wondering how anything could be known from them, for surely he was cursed.  But blessed?

“When your time comes you must be prepared to face an evil beyond any you can imagine,” the hermit intoned, then his voice lowered, echoing oddly against the rocks of the cave.  “And evil is n’or the color black.  Tis the color of blood.  Every thousand years he comes, and he must be fought.  Long ago I did my part.  But now the responsibility is yours.”

“What responsibility?” Duncan scoffed.  “I have no clan, no people.  No place.” The seer could not be speaking of him, since a clanless wanderer was of no use to anyone.

But the hermit stood smoothly and the heavy mantle of age seemed to fall away.  “But you have your destiny!” he assured him in a ringing voice.  “Raise that blade!” he demanded, and put his hand to his own throat.  “Strike here.  Take my head.  Taste the truth of what you are!”

“Och, you are mad,” Duncan breathed in horror, backing away.  “I have no quarrel with you!” 

“No, listen.  Listen!” the man insisted.  “My road is ending, but yours has far to go.”  He reached out with a powerful hand and grabbed Duncan’s shirt.  “Take my head!”

“No!” Duncan pushed away, and turned to go, but the distinctive sound of metal against stone made him turn back and he saw the man, whom he could no longer call old because he moved like a seasoned warrior, was threatening him with an ancient sword. 

“You must kill me, Highlander!” he shouted as he charged.  Duncan yanked his sword from its scabbard, ducking around the cave’s irregular formations and blocking blows as the hermit swung at him.  All Duncan wanted was to get away.  The very thought of killing this mad seer made his blood run cold. 

“Come back here, ya wee scamp! You’re a disgrace to your clan,” the hermit taunted, moving far more quickly and easily than Duncan would have expected.  They traded blows as Duncan fended the man off, backing away and ducking.  But suddenly the hermit had grabbed hold of Duncan’s blade with a bare hand, yanking it up to his beard-shrouded neck.  There was a look of wild triumph in the crazy man’s eyes and Duncan would have pulled his blade away, but doing so would have severed the hermit’s fingers.

They froze, and for a brief second, Duncan hoped that the hermit had found some measure of sanity.  Then the man’s mouth widened into a parody of a grin.  “Yes!” he whispered, and Duncan’s blade jerked in his hand.

It happened so quickly, and so slowly, as though the nature of time itself moved and shifted.  The hermit’s head toppled impossibly away from his shoulders, then the body wavered and tipped, collapsing with a puff of ancient dust.

Duncan just stared at the rolling head and the headless body, dumbfounded and sickened.

A low moaning noise filled the cave, echoing through its chambers as the wind picked up, swirling around him, blowing the fire of the torches until their light distorted the cave’s many shadows and it seemed they moved and danced with malevolent life.

A spear of lightening flashed inside the cave and Duncan gasped and cried out at the snapping tendrils of energy flailing on and around him.  Then the bolts of energy struck again, and it felt like he was set afire.  It was in him, it was burning on and under his skin and behind his eyes in searing flashes of pain beyond any he had ever known was possible.  He was cast about like a child in a tempest, his muscles contracting of their own accord, his sword and his scabbard thrown into contact above his head where they seemed to attract even more of the energy that then ran down into his body, filling him and filling him and filling him until he screamed in terror and agony.

Surely hell had finally opened up and swallowed him whole.  Fire lit up in a wide circle around him and he was thrown at last to his knees, then onto his back where he lay, helpless and still thrashing uselessly, aware only of the horrifying, utterly alien visions that flooded his mind.  Visions of blood and death, of great evil and overwhelming power, and he could not tell whether the evil was within himself, or was something – as the crazy hermit had insisted – he was supposed to fight in some epic battle.  But it mattered not.  Nothing mattered. 

Nothing.
 
 

Pain…thirst…hunger. 
.
Cool…darkness…voices.

Cloth…sleep…food.

A hand…a light…a taste.

A voice, gentle and soothing.

“Come on, lad, you can do it.  That’s it.  A little more. One more spoonful.”

A round face swam in and out of focus.

“Well, God be praised, lad.  Are you looking at me?” 

Duncan reached out to see if the face was real. 

“You are!  Father Andrew, he’s looking at me!” 

Another face peered at him, this one darker, narrower.  A hand waved in front of his eyes.  “Can you see me, son?” the second face asked.

Duncan tried to answer, but his throat wasn’t working very well, so he nodded, and the dark face smiled broadly.  “We were beginning to worry about you, lad.  Here,” a brown-draped arm held up a cup, urging him to drink.  Duncan’s lips felt oddly numb, and the room tilted sickeningly as a strong arm helped him sit up and drink.

The liquid helped lubricate his throat and he finally managed to speak.  “What happened?  Where am I?”

“You are at the kirk in Strathconnon,” the monk explained slowly.  “We found you collapsed in the kirkyard three days ago.  You have lain here since, raving about fire and swords and pain, but the last day or so, you finally seemed to sleep for awhile.  Mrs. Cochrane here was just trying to feed you some soup.”

Duncan just stared at him, then let his eyes wander over the dusty, crowded room.  He was lying on a cot.  There was a table to one side holding one candle, a bowl of what smelled like soup, and a carafe of water.  Barrels, old chests and sacks of grain were piled against one wall and crowding the floor space, and the round-faced woman who he had first seen was standing by the door, looking quite pleased with herself.

“Do you remember any of what happened?” the priest asked.  "Folks said there was some sort of storm in Strathconnon Forest a few nights back, that the earth shook from the thunder and that some of the caves up in the hills collapsed."

Duncan thought back for a minute, but his heart began to speed and the air in the room grew very thin and cold, and he shivered.  The woman and the priest glanced at each other.

“It’s all right, lad.  You don’t need to think about it now.  Just rest.”  They left almost soundlessly, but Duncan was grateful they had not taken the lit candle.  He had never been afraid of the dark before, but for some reason the soft glow gave him some comfort. 

He lay back on the cot.  What had happened?  He closed his eyes, reconstructing events, his meeting with the MacGregors, then he had gone to Strathconnon Forest, had been looking for shelter for the night and seen a cave…

His heart started pounding again and he had to swallow from the cup of water left on the table to counter the painful dryness in his throat, holding it with both hands when he shook so hard he was afraid it would spill.  He didn’t want to think about what had happened.  It was something awful, something… 

He grabbed his head with a small cry.  No.  He wouldn’t think about it.  That crazy old man.  The flames.  The visions of blood and death.  The bolts of energy searing his flesh.  He had heard of rape, had even seen its aftermath, but now he knew.  He wrapped his arms around his knees and rocked, keening softly to himself, trying to block out the visions that had burned themselves into his eyelids.  This was the final proof then, of what he was, of what his life was to be.

He closed his eyes and rocked some more, trying desperately not to think about it.

Duncan had been put on a cot in a spare storeroom of the chuch while the priest and one of the local village women tended to his needs, since whenever they tried to take him out of the church, his ravings would grow frantic and he would start to fight them.  Even now that his mind had cleared, he was loath to leave the building, even though he knew in his heart that it was the last place he ought to be.  The visions he had seen, what he had…done.  Slowly the details came back to him, startling him with snatches of memory that made his blood run cold, leaving him shivering and rocking on his small pallet.

But whatever had happened, his body recovered with remarkable speed, and soon he found himself pacing the small cell, needing to move, his muscles twitching.  The very air seemed to caress his skin and he was more acutely aware than ever of his isolation, his enforced celibacy, his deprivation of touch, of taste, of smell – every sense seemed enhanced, every color more vivid and hearing the sounds of voices in the church, he was drawn to the door of his storeroom and across the hallway.

“I know they’re in the area, Father.  You have a duty to tell me if you’ve seen them,” a voice demanded.

“My duty, sir, is to God,” he heard Father Andrew say in a tight, snappish tone.

“And to the King,” the other voice insisted.

“And to his subjects, my lord,” Father Andrew stubbornly insisted.

Duncan looked around the edge of the archway and saw Father Andrew standing in the nave of the chapel, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, facing a man whose shoulders were covered in a dark, heavily embroidered cloak.  A leather and silver scabbard could be seen at his side, and tooled leather boots protected his feet.  The soft, dark blue velvet hat was decorated by a huge, exotic black feather that drifted gracefully with even the slightest movement.

Father Andrew’s eyes flickered over the other man’s shoulder as he spotted Duncan, and with a small, discrete gesture of his hand, the priest warned Duncan to stay out of sight. 

“Do not think your priestly robes will protect you if I find you have been harboring those criminals,” the noble insisted.

“It is not robes that protect me, my lord, but the spirit of God and his son, Jesus Christ,” the priest announced, his chin held high.

Duncan ducked back as the man gave a small growl of frustration and spun on his heel.  Duncan emerged a few seconds later after he heard the door of the church booming closed behind the unwelcome visitor.  Father Andrew gave him a tight smile, and Duncan noticed the priest was trembling slightly, his face pale and shiny with sweat.

“Are you all right, Father?”

Father Andrew nodded, then blew out a deep breath.  “Never get involved in politics, young man.  Tis bad for the health.”

“Aye, no doubt,” Duncan agreed.  He looked carefully out the crack between the old double doors to the sanctuary to see the nobleman who had been harassing Father Andrew mount an impressive chestnut stallion held by one of a dozen heavily armed men, most in the rich colors of the Campbell or MacKinnon tartans.

“Tis young Jamie Campbell, the Earl of Argyle’s second son.  He wants to make a name for himself and is convinced there are MacGregors in the area who have not abided by the proscription,” Father Andrew told him, waving him into the back of the Sanctuary and through a door onto a covered passageway that led to a small cottage.  The priest opened the door and gestured Duncan in.

The inside was sparsely furnished, but cheery nonetheless.  The smell of spices and meat filled the air and Duncan’s stomach grumbled loudly.  His flush of embarrassment drew an amused look from Father Andrew.  “No need to be shy about it, lad.  You’ve hardly eaten for days, and you look like you’ve traveled a hard road.  Sit,” he added, waving him into a chair.

“Father,” Duncan began, wondering how quickly he could leave.  If even the old hermit had seen he was a demon, surely a man of God would soon sense what he was.  “Tis kind of ye to take me in and all, but you needn’t…”

“Oh, sit, lad!” Father Andrew insisted over his shoulder.  He was already serving up thick stew into bowls and cutting of a large piece of bread for each of them.  “Mrs. Cochrane has been dithering over you for days, wondering whatever happened to so distress “such a ‘bra lad,”” he grinned as he put the bowls and bread on the table, and pulled up a chair for himself.  “If you’re not careful, I swear the good woman will be taking you home to meet her daughters.  She’s got three of them, you know, and none of them married.”  He eagerly dipped his spoon into his bowl and ate a large mouthful, so Duncan hesitantly echoed his actions.

“So, tell me where you’re from and how you came to be wandering in my graveyard,” Father Andrew finally instructed, and when Duncan looked up, the man’s dark eyes were studying him curiously.

“I…I honestly don’t know how I came to be here, Father,” Duncan answered slowly. It wasn’t a lie.  He remembered nothing after the flames had circled him and the lightening had thrown him to the ground.

They ate in silence for a moment.

“Can you tell me where you’re from?” the priest asked gently at last.  “You can speak freely here, lad.  I’m no friend of the English King.”

Duncan shrugged.  “I’m originally from Glenfinnan.  I…I was accused of…I don’t even know how to explain it, but there are those who said I was evil, and I was…cast out.  I thought surely you could…could see it on me, like a brand.”

Father Andrew was silent again for a long while, until both men had finished their stew and had sopped up the gravy with the bread.  Then he sat back and crossed his arms, studying his guest.  “It has been my experience that evil comes in all shapes and sizes, as does good, but that it doesna’ usually take refuge on consecrated ground.  Do you think you are evil?” 

Duncan closed his eyes, but all he could see was the old hermit’s head rolling off of his shoulders.  “I don’t know.  I don’t want to be.  I was told my destiny was to fight some great evil, but then…” A shudder wracked his body and he couldn’t say any more.

“Well, there is much evil in the world to do battle against,” the priest stated grimly. “Yon young nobleman for one, may God forgive me for saying so.”

“Why?”

“Jamie Campbell is determined to outstrip his brother, Archibald, who is destined to be the next Earl.  Young Archibald, frankly, is less inclined to play toady to the King, and thus has left an opening for his younger brother.  Jamie has already convinced the King to make him the Baron Kintyre, and his ambition to be a force in the Clans has made him ruthless.  I have seen him execute MacGregor men on the spot, and whip and sell into slavery women and children whose husbands refused to denounce and set aside their Gregor heritage.”

“And does no one stop him?” Duncan demanded, shocked that any Highlander would enslave his own people.

“Who is to stop him?  He has the King’s proscription behind him, and usually at least a dozen armed men.”

“No Highland man would stand by and let that happen!”

Father Andrew raised an amused eyebrow at him.  “If I didn’t know better, lad, I’d say you would be speaking treason.”

“Tis not treason to protect your clan!” Duncan snapped.  He had not been surprised the small family of MacGregors he had met were wary, but he had not realized they were in such immediate danger.  He sat for a minute, enduring the father’s indulgent smile, when a quiet realization washed over him.  It suddenly seemed so utterly clear and obvious, he felt stupid for not having seen it before.  “They are gathering, aren’t they?” he asked the priest.

“Gathering?”

“Aye.  A gathering.  The clanless, the outlaws, especially the MacGregors.  To fight the Campbells, to defend their families.”

“Well, I wouldna’ know about tha’,” the priest quickly turned away to tidy up from their meal.

“Father,” Duncan formed the words carefully, the ideas clarifying in his mind as he spoke.  “I have no clan, I have no gifts, no talents, no property.  All I have is my sword and this…ability…to survive.  Don’t you see, that’s what I am supposed to do!  That’s what the seer must have meant.”

Father Andrew was now studying him with concern.  “Easy, lad,” he came over and put a hand gently on Duncan’s shoulder.  “I know you’ve had a hard time of it, but perhaps you’re still not thinking clearly.  You should rest…”

“Nay!” Duncan stood, suddenly energized, his purpose clear for the first time in three years.  “You must tell me where I can find them, Father.  For this is one thing I can do, and do well, to fight for those who otherwise have few to defend them.  To die in place of those who have others to care for, and who care for them.”

“Och, I’ll hear no talk of dying, lad,” Father Andrew’s dark eyebrows crowded together under the shaggy line of thick graying hair that fell over his forehead.

Duncan laughed, but that only increased the priest’s obvious concern.  “But that’s why this is what is meant to be, did ye not know?  Had ye not realized what I am?  I’m Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, who was killed at Glen Garven, but refused to die!”  Duncan spread his arms, able to smile about what had happened for the very first time since that dark, horrible day.  But Father Andrew’s face paled and he stepped back and crossed himself.

That made Duncan chuckle even more, for reasons he could not have explained.  “Dinna’ fash yourself, Father.  I just need to know where the MacGregors or their defenders are gathering and I’ll trouble you no more.”

Father Andrew had backed to the wall, his lips pressed tightly together.  A bright spot of color had appeared on each cheek and he was blinking rapidly, but after a moment, he slowly nodded.  “Very well, then,” he said softly.  “You’ll find them in the mountains north of Scardroy.”

Duncan nodded.  “You may not want thanks from such as I, but you have them nonetheless.  No doubt I came here because it felt safe, and you gave me shelter and care when I needed it most.”  He held out his hand, but the priest hesitated, so Duncan took it back and just nodded, then headed back to the storeroom to collect his sword and other belongings before he headed off, his purpose clear at last.

He was outside the church, standing in the dusty road that ran through the center of the village, checking the sun to determine his direction when he heard a voice behind him. 

“God go with you, Duncan MacLeod.”

He turned, and saw Father Andrew framed in the doorway of the sanctuary, one hand raised in benediction.  He smiled.  “I know not whether tis God or the Devil who travels with me, Father, but I thank you anyway.”  Father Andrew nodded with a tight smile before he gently closed the church door.
 
 

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