Highland Portrait (5 page)

Robbie dismounted and tied Grey upwind from the pyre.  He approached the young man quietly, looking at the slack jaw, madness incubating in his glazed eyes.  He touched the young man gently on the shoulder.  There was no response or recognition from him.

“Who?” asked Robbie looking at the charred body, already knowing what the answer might be.  The young man did not acknowledge Robbie or move his eyes.

“Me mam.”  He spoke so softly Robbie had to lean closer to hear him. “She was nay a witch, but a healer.”  It was as Robbie suspected.  The very suspicion of witchcraft was punished swiftly and brutally.  There were no trials, no questions.  Suspicion was enough to take a life that was, in most cases, innocent of wrong doing.  Robbie turned his eyes away from the remains of what had been a mother, a wife, a daughter, and now was no more than a black mark on the souls of those that feared what they did not understand.

Robbie thought about his Aunt Elinor and all the sweet young lasses of Edinburgh.  He thought about the serving maid at the inn and he saw them all here, their youth and goodness burnt and seared, left for crows and wolves.  He felt a wretched anger that burned his stomach and twisted his gut. What had this woman done to be perceived as a witch?  Had she healed a child thought lost to death?  Had she touched another and it died, lost to the rapacious appetite of disease?

Robbie knew that medicines and miracles came from the herbs and barks of these women and these simple healers were the vanguard of their craft, and their craft was science, not magic.  Robbie turned to the scattered belongings of the croft and finding a shovel dug a grave underneath a young oak tree.  When finished digging he searched for a plaid or blanket in which to bury her.  Finding a green plaid, a plaid she may have woven herself, he reverently untied her ghastly remains from the stake and wrapped her in the shroud.  Robbie thought about the body knowing that in years hence the young tree would claim it for its own and her body would give life to the tree. He wondered if her story would ever be told, or would it be long forgotten, swallowed by the oak tree and buried under the fast growing surge.

The young lad had not moved from where he stood as Robbie buried her, not watching his mother laid to rest, nor did he cry.  He only stared at the spot where she had last taken breath, screaming for her life. When the last shovelful was packed tight Robbie found rocks and piled them on the mound, to mark the spot for the lad and to keep the wolves from digging up the body.  Returning to the spot where she had died Robbie began to methodically scattered the charred remnants of her death, throwing shovels full of dirt on the embers, dousing the blackened smoldering wood.  When he had almost finished he looked at the lad and saw one single tear traveling down his chin, dropping to the earth, watering the blackened ground.  He looked at Robbie, his eyes registering nothing.

Robbie knew that there was no consolation for this young man.  Robbie had no words that would undo this wrong and he trembled with rage and a need to avenge him, but knew that it would take more than a sword and a righteous anger to dispel ignorance.

“Come w’ me, lad, I’ll take ye to my home,” he said gently.  The lad turned swiftly away and ran toward the wood.  Robbie thought to chase him, but knew that in the catching of the lad he would not change what was happening to him.  Two lives had been lost here.  One gone to great glory, the other left to wallow in a black madness of hatred and sorrow.  Robbie wondered how many more would suffer once that madness burst forth fully formed.

In spite of his great love for the Highlands he knew of no other place where the culture was so entrenched in that volatile mix of magic, superstition and fear.  Taking one last glance at the small, sad mound under the oak tree Robbie mounted Grey, and whistling for the dog, he rode from the clearing with a heaviness of heart, a prayer for the woman and for the black souls of those that had destroyed the lad.

Chapter Three

Texas, Present

Stella panted, running faster than she had ever run in her life.  Her pursuers close enough she could smell their hot breath at her ear.  Safety was at the edge of light and it was still too far ahead.  They were screaming for her blood, the noise reaching a crescendo of harsh ringing. The ringing persisted and she gasped for breath.  Startled awake she reached to grab the phone from the bedside table.

“Hello?” she said, still panting from her dream.

“Stella, this is Kyla. I’m so sorry to call so early, but I have the worst news!”  Stella glanced at the clock.  It was nine in the morning.  She hoped the worst news wasn’t that the commission had been delayed or canceled.

“What’s up, Kyla?” Stella rose up on her elbows steeling herself.

“Shawn, the model I sent to you yesterday, had an accident and won’t be able to return today.  He was at the gym and a piece of equipment pulled away from the wall and struck him right in the face!  It’s really bad.  He had surgery yesterday evening, but he may have some permanent damage.  His nose and cheek bones were crushed and his lip split open.”

Stella lay back on her bed and stared at the ceiling.  “Oh my gosh, Kyla.  Will he be ok?” 

“He’ll survive, but Stella, he’s probably lost his career.  That man’s whole life was his face and now that is in serious jeopardy.  It’s so sad.”

“I’m so sorry, Kyla.” In the inner most reaches of her mind Stella knew this was no accident and felt a tide of dark guilt wash over her.

“Stella, did you get enough sketches yesterday to finish the project?  Can you finish this without him?  I don’t want this accident to delay the project.”  There was an edge of mild hysteria on Kyla’s part that made Stella want to laugh in spite of her guilt.  Kyla was pretty transparent in what she valued and it wasn’t Shawn’s well being that mattered most here.

“Oh yeah, I won’t have a problem, Kyla.  I have a ton of sketches and I started the canvas last night.  I can finish without him.  Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.  I’ll be back with you in about a week to see how things are going.  If you need anything just call.”

Feeling contrition seep through her bones she got up, swinging her long legs onto the floor and called for Casper.  She wondered if he was still sitting outside the studio door whining.  Still dressed in her clothes from last night she got up and opened her bedroom door.

“Casper.  Hey buddy, where are you?”  She walked down the hall but found no sign of her dog.  “Casper!  Come on, boy, time to go outside and pee.” 

She heard him barking, but the sound was coming from the studio.  She stood in the hall outside the studio staring at the door; Casper was barking from inside.  She had slammed that door shut last night and Casper had been out here in the hall.  Stella touched her fingers to the door, and shook her head listening to him barking to be let out. 

Gingerly she opened the door and Casper came bounding out headed for the back door.  She turned and went with him to let him out, then walked back to her studio.  She stood in the open doorway, flipped on the light, and slowly reconnoitered the room. 

All seemed ok, just as she had left it last night…all except her canvas.  She forced herself toward it not believing what she was seeing.  Her heart was slamming against her chest now as she looked at the image she had worked on so diligently last night. Shawn’s image, with the painstaking attention to every detail of his face, was gone and in its place was another.  A warrior still, but no longer Shawn.  This warrior did not have a perfect face, he was not ungodly handsome, nor was he buffed and shiny.   This was not a pretty-boy warrior, but a man in the heat of battle.

His face was unshaven with rivulets of blood and dirt, the dust of battle and horses having found purchase there in his beard.  Dark blonde hair loosened from its queue was matted to his skull, slick with sweat, his lips a thin line of grim determination.  His eyes were angry, with dark circles, the lights in them having dimmed from a burden carried too long, a deep sadness hanging heavy in his soul.

He held a broadsword in one hand, a smaller dirk in the other.  He was dressed in trews and a tunic with a baldric across his chest and he was running toward something, brandishing the sword, ready to strike.

Stella looked closely at the face and felt a faint recognition.  She was sure she didn’t know him, but a vague familiarity tugged at her memory and once again she had the uncanny feeling that someone – something, was here in the studio with her. The sketches still littering the floor did not move, she felt no breeze or draft in the room, but something was here.  She slowly walked to the canvas, splayed her fingers and ran her hand down the body of the image. The paint was dry and felt warm.  Delicately she leaned into the canvas and smelled the image.  It smelled of sweat and blood not oil and turpentine.  She wrinkled her nose and backed away from the canvas.

The lights flickered and dimmed.  Stella could still see the canvas, but the studio was now cast in a soft blue glow.  It was not as frightening as she would have imagined, but ethereal and calming.  She could hear a slight, low pitched pulse, like a heartbeat. 

“ T’is me, a moment a’fore I died, lass.”  The deep male voice was so close to her she jumped and swirled around to see who had come into her studio, but no one was there. Stella edged away from the canvas toward the door.  She put her hand on the door knob but heard it lock.  It was him, he did that.

“Don’t leave me, lass.  Stay.”  The Scottish brogue was at once terrifying and soothing.  She knew she should not be hearing voices from her canvas but she had called upon the magic and it had answered.   She was on the edge of something she was too frightened to experience and too excited not to. She wondered if that, too, was out of her control.

  She slowly turned around and looked at the painting. 

“Are you Robbie?” she asked softly.

“Aye, lass, it is I.  I have waited a long time.”  The sweat on his body glistened and she felt his fear.  An overwhelming fear not of death, but of loss.  A loss so great that even now these centuries past it still lay heavy on him, tormented him and kept him tied to the world, would not give him release. 

She had an impulse to run but didn’t move, her curiosity a racing train that would not stop to let her off.

“What have you waited for, Robbie,” she asked.  She looked directly at the canvas but his voice came from beside her, not from across the studio. She could feel his breath at her ear.  She could feel his nearness radiating.

“Fer ye, lass.  I ha’e waited these long years t’ see ye again.”  She whirled around thinking she might see him, but there was nothing. If he were a ghost shouldn’t she be able to at least see some kind of shadowy specter?    She could hear him, why was he not visible?

“Again?”  she asked. Robbie’s choice of words puzzled her. “I have no memories of you, Robbie.  Have we met?”

She felt, rather than heard him chuckle.

“Aye,” he said, his voice soft as a lovers, his breath warm at her ear. “Aye, we have met, my sweet Faerie Queen.”  She felt a tingling on her head as if he was running his hand gently through her hair. “I’ve missed you so, lass.” 

She pulled away from him frightened by his nearness. 

“Ok, Robbie, I’m pretty sure that you’ve gotten lost somehow there’s been some kind of mistake or something.  I don’t know a Robbie.  I don’t know any Scotsmen, or warriors, so if you’d please get on with your business and go back to where you came from.”  She kept looking around her, but she could feel him follow her, he was coming closer, his arm reaching out to her.

“Don’t be frightened, my sweet Faerie Queen…”

“I’m not a Faerie Queen, I’m…”

“Stella.”  A jolt shot through her veins as she heard him call her name.  It was an intimate connection and she could feel cords of longing reach around her, binding her to his voice.  She was suddenly awash in the sweeping feeling of a love so pure in its intent that she ached inside, wanting desperately to touch the source. It was a love she had never experienced and yet was familiar to her.  She wanted to feel this love deeper, but as suddenly as it had come, just as suddenly it vanished and her heart cried out in pain at the abandonment.

“Who are you, Robbie?  How did you find me?  Why can’t I see you?”

“Ferghus found ye.  He led me here.”

“Who is Ferghus?” Stella frowned looking for yet another ghost.

“Stella, beautiful Stella. Come to me.”  Again she felt his warm breath at her ear, his hand on her arm. She pulled away.

She stood taller, not wanting to lose control of this magic. “I’m not going anywhere with you.  Can you please tell me who you are?”

“In three days I will return for ye, Stella, my love.”  The blue lights gradually lightened and the small pulsing noise disappeared.  She no longer felt his presence and she was at once disappointed and relieved.  He was gone, but the warmth of his presence remained and she felt as if a portal had slammed shut leaving her on the outside of some grand adventure.

“Robbie!  Wait.  I’m not going anywhere, Robbie!”

As her heart slowed down Stella wondered about the feeling of absolute love she had felt, questioning the source.  Was it Robbie?  Was it her? How could she love someone she had never met, someone that had died hundreds of years before she was even born?  It didn’t seem logical, didn’t make sense.  But more importantly she didn’t want a soul mate that was dead.