To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull #1)

Chapter Two

S honey raced through the woods, her heart pounding in her ears and her mind spinning with terror. She did not know what scared her more, the prospect of the giant gaining consciousness and chasing her down or the approaching darkness. She should have returned home earlier, but all she had to show after a full day’s hunt were a couple scrawny pheasants and a red grouse; then she had spotted the stag.

She shot a quick glance back to check if the giant followed, but the darkness obscured the forest—an advantage Shoney knew he would welcome. Not for a moment did she believe he was afraid of the dark. Even now, he might be trailing just behind her, like a wolf stalking a panicked fawn that had lost its mother. As longing for her mother’s protective embrace filled her heart, she realized it was an apt description. Her mother, Brethia, had died three years before, leaving Shoney with a wound impossible to heal. Without her, she was alone in the world—hated, feared, and alone.

Shoney glimpsed light ahead and surged forward to hasten her passing from the gloom of the wood onto the open moors where her way would be lit by the final efforts of the setting sun. When she at last cleared the trees, she knelt straightaway to the ground and readied her bow. If only she had her sword. Her eyes scanned the tree line and the surrounding hills, which were painted with the violets of dusk. As far as she could tell, she was alone. Even so, she held her breath, expecting the giant to launch out of the woods and attack.

After several peaceful moments passed, she lowered her weapon. He did not give chase and likely remained on the ravine floor in forced slumber. Now, she need only contend with the approaching shadows. But despite how she longed to race home to safety, she dared not run without the coverage of the trees—too many clansfolk could spy her crossing the open moors. She stood up and twisted her strong, young back to the left, then hunched her shoulders. The wind blew her hair across her face. She swore loudly, remembering to pull the hood of her cloak down low over her brow to mask her true identity from the villagers.

“Who’s afraid of the Witch of Dervaig?” she sneered. “Everyone.”

She stooped over once more and hobbled off toward home. Concealed beneath the folds of her cloak, nightfall did not frighten her as much, for it was always dark under the cloak. Anyway, her mind churned with images of deep brown eyes and wide shoulders, which also proved a good distraction from her fear.

He had seen her.

No one had ever seen her before. The villagers knew her only as the crippled and terrifying Witch of Dervaig. She grimaced as she imagined her mother’s fury. Brethia never ceased warning her about the wicked prejudice of the Gaels and was forever reminding her that their only protection from the clan was concealment under the Witch’s cloak. But he had taken her by surprise. One moment, she was aiming her arrow at the heart of a stag, the next she was staring at a man—an enormous man. Before her mother died, she had warned Shoney about men in particular, paying special attention to their salacious appetites for young women.

“Fool,” she spat.

Why did she not flee the forest when they first spotted her near the road? She had almost laughed out loud when the giant and his companion dove for cover as they hid from the Witch of Dervaig. Little did they know it was not a toothless hag concealing her gruesome facade beneath the dark folds, but rather a young woman more frightened of them than they could ever be of a wrinkled old witch. She overheard his name. It was Ronan, but she could not remember the little one’s name.

“Mother of all,” she swore. What did their names matter? She cursed again. Her mind was racing and fixating on the most trivial points. She had to face the magnitude of her mistakes. She should not have risked lingering in the wood when she knew there were men nearby, and she never, ever should have chanced removing her hood. No buck was worth discovery, even one as grand as that which had been in her sights.

“Damn him,” she swore, lamenting the wealth of meat and the fine pelt lost because of their chance meeting.

Finally, she glimpsed her home outlined against the twilight. Situated near the cliffs on the western edge of the island, her hut stood just beyond the Dervaig Stones. Centuries before, the stones towered above the earth in a long line. The women of Shoney’s descent worshiped amid the tall stones, but war and weathering brought about the collapse of many. The alignment’s former glory lived on in stories passed from generation to generation. To Shoney, they were sisters asleep on an earthly bed, and the power of the stones remained undiminished in her heart.

She shivered as the last light vanished and darkness fully ascended. Her pulse began to race as she tried to limp faster. But her foot caught on a jutting rock, and she stumbled, landing on the game birds, which hung from her belt.

Mother of all, could this day just end?

Hobbling past the Dervaig Stones, her resolve and strength began to return. Darkness had always been her weakness, even when her mother was alive. Tomorrow she would pray again to the goddess of shadows for courage to face her fear.

She opened the heavy wooden door and passed into her small stone hut. The over-sized entrance, better suited for a large abode, was fashioned with intimidation in mind. Dragons and other fierce animals were carved into the surface, and in the center was the head of a serpent baring sharp fangs. It was one of many devices the women of Shoney’s descent had used over the years to stave off harassment from the clan. Feeling the weight of it and hearing the loud thud as it closed behind her gave Shoney the reassurance needed to rid her mind of the last dwindling notions of terror. She swept the heavy folds of the Witch’s cloak off her shoulders and breathed a sigh of relief as she hung it on a peg and turned away. It would be ignored until she ventured out again.

In the center of her hut, she knelt by the fire pit. Soon warm crackling flames illuminated her surroundings, but the comforts of home provided only a momentary respite from her troubled thoughts. Something unprecedented had occurred: she had been seen. She now existed to the outside world.

Unable to reconcile herself to the reality of the day’s events, she could not begin to consider the consequences sure to arise from her carelessness. Would this Ronan connect the girl in the forest to the Witch? She removed the hood of the cloak to shoot the stag but not the cloak itself. In one day, all of life’s certainties had receded into memory, and she faced a new world, one in which the secret of the Witch of Dervaig might have been discovered at last.

Perhaps right at that very moment, the giant, backed by the might of his whole army, was crossing the moors, armed with swords and torches. Would they drag her out from the safety of her hut and burn her alive ?

She shook her head. She was being foolish; even if Ronan were to figure out who she was, nothing would change. For generations, her forbears disguised themselves as the Witch, and the clan had yet to muster the courage to purge their island of her so-called black soul. Whether crone or maid, they would still be afraid...she hoped.

This Ronan, despite his great size, had hid from the Witch in the forest. He had feared her as much as anyone else.

Ronan.

His name echoed in her mind. She could not recall why it sounded so familiar, and then she remembered. Her mother had gleaned details about clan life from stories told by her lover. She had always said there were only two good things that had come from her brief love affair: Shoney and knowledge. As it turned out, a deeper understanding of their neighbors was Shoney’s only legacy from her father. He had fled Brethia’s side before Shoney’s birth, and Brethia had refused to speak of him except when instructing Shoney in the ways of the clan. She asserted it was essential to their survival.

Her father had described two competing clans living on their island, the MacLeans to the south and the MacKinnons to the north. According to MacKinnon law, Shoney’s home was on their land, although she was certainly not governed by their law or by their leader whom Brethia had called laird or chieftain. If Shoney remembered her lessons correctly, the laird of the MacKinnon was named Nathair, and he had a son, Ronan .

Her eyes widened. She had indirectly rendered the future chieftain of the Clan MacKinnon unconscious. She remembered how he had looked as she peeked at him over the ravine edge. He had been lying on his back, and beneath his head gathered a small pool of blood. She had thought him dead at first, but then he had groaned, causing her such surprise that she had scurried back and darted into the woods. And she had not stopped running until she cleared the forest.

She shrugged off her fear. Mayhap he did die, and she had naught for which to worry.

It was no less than he deserved. She had tracked the buck and took first aim. Anyway, he was of the clan, a Gael. The clansfolk had branded all of Shoney’s ancestors as witches, long before the legend of the Witch of Dervaig had taken root, but they were not witches. They were Picts.

She doubted whether Ronan even knew of the ancient people who had lived and died on her island long before the Gaels had come to stake their claim. The Picts were a magnificent people. The women fought as warriors alongside their men. Together, they had safeguarded their kingdom against the Roman, Angle, and Viking campaigns, but it was the Gaels who had finally broken through their defenses. Their arrival had marked the beginning of the end for the Picts. They had infiltrated Pictish lands and society with the goal of establishing a Scottish crown, and in time, they succeeded.

Kenneth MacAlpin had been the son of a Gaelic warrior and a Pictish princess, and, because the Pictish throne was inherited through the maternal line, he had stood in striking distance from the crown. When called upon, his Pictish mother legitimated his claim, believing in his commitment to the Picts. Then he met his mark in battle defeating all other challengers and became king. Once in power, he betrayed his mother by ruling that the crown would pass to the closest male relation on the father’s side. In the end, he demonstrated his true allegiance by ensuring a Gael sat upon the throne even upon his death.

Only with further bloodshed could the Picts have taken back the throne, and after centuries of war, they had little fight left. Besides a few minor uprisings, the Picts ceased to rebel, ultimately ushering in the age of their own demise. They had to submit to a new language, a new law, and a new god, or they were banished and became recluses like Shoney’s mother and her mother’s mother, going back centuries. Little evidence remained to prove the Picts had even existed. It was as if they had been consumed by the Gaels, absorbed into the body of Gaelic tradition. Only women like Shoney remained trained in the art of healing and charms, celebrating the gods of the land, sea, and sky, but even she could only speak the Gaelic language. Pictish had long since been forgotten.

Not only was Ronan of Gaelic descent, but to make matters worse, the MacKinnons were the direct descendants of King MacAlpin himself. Shoney’s hand closed into a tight fist. Fury took hold of her every time she remembered this ancient betrayal. As usual she found herself wishing for something to strike, but now she could imagine her target—Ronan’s face.

Shoney’s forebears had suffered centuries of prejudice and abuse, but all that had stopped with Tharain. She was Shoney’s great-great-grandmother and the first to don the cloak and feign the extravagant hobble of the Witch of Dervaig. A legend was then born. Tharain hid her own daughter from sight, and when her daughter grew, they took turns using the cloak. The villagers only saw the Witch, but all the while it was a disguise used by both women and then passed down from generation to generation.

As a young girl, Shoney remembered never being permitted beyond the confines of their back garden, which faced out to sea. Her mother had draped herself in the ugly folds of the witch’s cloak and had bade Shoney stay put before she set out to hunt or gather fresh herbs. She remembered asking her mother—whose beauty rivaled the most vibrant sunset—why she wore the cloak and made herself appear ancient and grotesque. She told Shoney she terrified the people as an old crone. She said it was a trick she had learned from her own mother. A repulsive hag evoked greater fear in the hearts and minds of the villagers, which ensured they kept their distance.

Although not everyone stayed away, they had the occasional midnight visitor.

Every now and then when the moon was high, there came a soft rapping on the door. Her mother would sweep the cloak over her shoulders and motion for Shoney to hide. With a candle in hand, Shoney climbed down into a deep dug-out concealed by a trap door beneath the table, which had been built by Tharain for the purpose of concealing her own beloved daughter. Shoney would sit very still and listen. It was always the same. A woman had stolen away in the night to seek out the aid of the Witch of Dervaig. Her monthly flow had stopped; her monthly flow would not stop; her child was ill; her husband refused to pick up a plow; faeries were stealing their goat’s milk. Depending on the complaint, her mother would whisper charms or send her home with potions or poultices.

One night, Shoney had climbed out from her hiding place after hearing the thud of the great door, signifying a woman’s departure. She asked her mother how the clansfolk could hate them so but still come to beg for relief.

“They come in secret,” her mother had answered. “’Tis a secret they keep from their men, from each other, even from themselves. They come because they feel I am their last hope.”

Brethia had held in her hands a bowl with murky water, the remains of a potion. Shoney knew she would go outside and pour it into the ground among the sacred stones as a prayer of gratitude to the Mother of all for the power to heal. As she opened the door to leave, she turned to Shoney and said, “They come because their god does not hear the voices of women.”

“If they will not speak of their visit to anyone, why must I hide?”

“Because ye’re precious to me. ‘Tis the duty of all mothers to protect their children.”

Shoney had scowled at her mother in frustration. Then Brethia placed the bowl down and cupped Shoney’s cheeks in her hands. “I know ye feel like a bird whose wings have been clipped, but the cage that awaits ye out there I cannot save ye from forever. Ye will be desired for yer beauty, but yer name demands ye be loathed. The blending of desire and hate will create deception, desperation, and pain. I will shield ye from this fate for as long as I live, but after I die, it will be up to ye.” Her mother had placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and smiled her beautiful smile, and then she left.

For a moment, Shoney felt her mother’s presence again. She saw her elegant, slim figure cross through the doorway and her blond hair shimmer in the moonlight like ropes of silver. Her mother had been so exquisite to behold, but she disguised this well; the clansfolk had only ever seen an old crone, with a bent back, covered from head to toe in a dirty and tattered cloak.

When her mother died, Shoney had vowed to honor her wishes. She took the cloak down from its peg and swept it over her shoulders and pulled the hood low over her head. With a bent back, she mimicked her mother’s walk, and so the witch lived on. The clan knew nothing of Shoney’s real existence, until now.

Shoney released a sigh as she turned her attention to a large, intricately carved wooden table, which dominated her small quarters. She began to empty her pockets of the herbs she’d gathered that day. She gazed upon the series of small glass bottles and leather pouches, littering the table’s surface. Each one possessed healing powers to safeguard one’s body or soul from harm. They were curative and soothing, but because they were made by her hand, the clan considered each one to be an act of witchcraft .

“So much waste,” she sighed.

Shoney was a gifted healer, and she knew she could bring relief to many who suffered, if only they welcomed her.

And then ye wouldn’t be alone.

The words came unbidden to her mind, and she chased them away with a shake of her head. She did not need anyone.

Her lips curled in a wry smile. Potion making was not her only talent. She inherited a special gift. Like her mother before her, and like all the women of Shoney’s descent, she could see beyond what her eyes allowed. She had visions. A warning flash of white light preceded each one, and then Shoney gave herself to her dreams. Truths were revealed and fortunes told, but the visions came to her; she did not control them, which meant she could not see everything that had yet to be, or else she might have known to keep her head cloaked that day when taking aim at the buck.

Shoney exhaled a slow breath as she glanced around her empty house. The silence at times seemed more deafening than the crashing surf at high tide. She knew no potions or chants to cure that which ailed her most—her unrelenting loneliness. She imagined Ronan for a moment in his home surrounded by a multitude of friends and family, laughter and warmth. Once again, she was filled with rage. She felt consumed by it, and, acting on impulse, she rushed outside and cried out in the direction of the MacKinnon village of Gribun .

“My gods are born of this land,” she yelled as she stomped her foot on the brown earthen floor. Then she twirled in a circle with her arms raised high as if straining to touch the canopy of bright stars above her head.

“My gods are of the trees and sky and of the ocean that surrounds us all.”

Then she ceased her spinning and whispered, “I am of this land, Ronan, son of Nathair, future laird of the MacKinnon. Ye are not.”