"Certainly not!"
"Even in the dreams?"
"No."
"That's good. I'm sure that helps. Now, begin at the beginning."
Trying to have faith that he was not dealing with a lunatic, Toby began at the beginning, the hob's warning. Father Lachlan displayed a talent for asking penetrating questions and proved to be a concerned and attentive listener, despite his distracted manner. Much to his surprise, Toby found himself telling everything.
Rory seemed to know where he was going, although the woods were totally bereft of landmarks — it would be difficult to become seriously lost in a gorge like Glen Orchy. He strode on confidently, chatting with Meg and keeping Hamish at hand, so he did not linger and eavesdrop on the conversation proceeding in the rear.
Toby's tale had progressed only to the laird's dinner when he saw that the others had stopped. Rain had begun to fall, a fine misty rain sifting down from the brooding morass of gray clouds. Meg was arranging her cloak over her head. Hamish and Rory were similarly adjusting their plaids. The waxed wool would resist the rain, at least for a while.
Toby began to follow suit and at once ran into difficulties with his broadsword. Rory watched his struggles with open scorn. "Throw it away, Longshanks! It's worse than useless!"
True. But to throw it away now would be to admit that he had been wrong all along. So he wasn't going to.
Gaining no response, the rebel frowned. "This is irrational! Why? Do you think you look romantic with it? Do you expect Miss Campbell to swoon when she looks at you? Even you can't swagger with a thing that size."
Still Toby did not reply. He did not know why he was keeping the sword. He hoped he was motivated only by pride and mulish stubbornness, not by demonic possession, but the great weapon still gave him the same seductive thrill he had felt when he first handled it in Annie's cottage. He wanted to part the air with it, hear it whistle. A fast blow, and torrents of blood… When the others moved off again, he followed with the broadsword back in place over his plaid, its straps threatening to rub holes in his shoulder.
Father Lachlan had pulled up the hood of his robe, but it forced him to crane his neck to look up at Toby, so he soon let it fall back again. He was fascinated by Toby's account of having seen himself from the outside. "That must have been a strange experience! Were you looking at yourself from one direction, or from all around?"
Toby thought about it. "From all around, I think. I could see the signs painted on my chest and the marks the manacles had made on my back, too."
"At the same time?"
"Um… Think so. I'm not sure."
"Remarkable, though! What color was the light…?" He caught his spectacles just before they fell off.
The trees were thinning out, giving way to settled countryside, with crofts, and cattle, and dry-stone pens. The glen itself was widening into a strath and starting to look familiar. The hills to the left were still cloud-capped, but the precipitous slope on the right must be Beinn Donachain. Soon the travelers would reach the Glen Lochy road, with Dalmally no more than a couple of miles ahead.
This was the heart of Campbell country. Were the weather better, Ben Cruachan itself would be visible from here, as Hamish had annoyed Rory by mentioning. "Cruachan!" was the war cry of the Campbells, and Rory had shouted it to attract Jeral's attention when they escaped from the bog. Therefore Rory was certainly no MacDonald and not from Glencoe.
So who was he? Why would he go to such trouble to assist three young fugitives who had absolutely no claim on him? Toby would dearly like to know what his real motives were. His only failure so far had been with the wisp, and that could be blamed on Toby's resident demon.
He told himself to stop being a sourpuss and just be grateful for the unearned and unexpected help. Trouble was, he was not good at gratitude; he lacked experience.
CHAPTER THREE
Drizzle grew to downpour. Toby completed the story of his adventures and then described his loathsome dreams also. The rising wind threw rain to cool the flush on his face and snatched the hateful words from his mouth. Father Lachlan listened in silence, nodding and pursing his lips, but otherwise showing no reaction until the story was ended.
Then he sighed. "That's all? You don't remember the name she was calling you?"
"No, sir. I think it was a woman's name… but I'm not sure. It was only a dream, not real."
"Never mind, then. Can you remember anything you've left out? Anything at all you didn't mention because it didn't seem important?"
"No, sir — Father. I think I've told you everything."
He was astonished that he had so easily confided his troubles to a total stranger and even more surprised that he should feel such a sense of relief at having done so. Now he waited anxiously to hear what the acolyte concluded, but Father Lachlan just plodded on, staring blankly at the watery landscape, biting his lip. The movement repeatedly caused his eyeglasses to slide down his nose, and he would push them back up again with one finger.
At last Toby could stand it no longer. "I wondered if the hob helped me escape."
"Something did," the acolyte muttered absently. "But what? And escape from what?"
"Am I possessed?"
"Mm?" Father Lachlan looked up as if surprised. Then he smiled faintly and reached overhead to pat Toby's shoulder. "I don't know, my son, but you do! If you had a demon, you would know it, because you would be caged up in a tiny corner of your mind, unable to do anything but watch. A demon enjoys tormenting its host by letting him see what horrors his body is performing. I don't think that is what you are experiencing — is it?"
"No, but that's how it began, and then—"
"Demons do not go away of their own accord!"
"Not even…" Toby wished he was better at explaining things. "I thought it might be like owning a horse. Sometimes the owner rides the horse, other times he lets it run in the pasture."
Father Lachlan chuckled and shook his head. "Never heard of a demon dismounting, not even for a minute! Demons enjoy tormenting their hosts as much as hurting other people. Granted, possession can be hard for outsiders to detect if the demon is wily, but the victim knows the truth. Sometimes possession is completely obvious, of course. Those two you think you killed in the dungeon, for example — were they men or demons? Well, the test in their case is whether they are truly dead, or if their bodies are still walking around."
More than the lashing rain made Toby shiver. "That's really possible?"
"Oh, yes. Only for a few days, then the flesh decays too far to sustain even a demon. But that's not a test we are about to apply to you!"
Others might not be so well-intentioned. How could a man prove that he was not possessed without dying? Father Lachlan's opinion would be comforting, if Toby had any reason at all to believe he was telling the truth.
"Do you not have powers to find out?"
The little man blinked at him. "Powers? My son, I have no powers!"
"None?"
"None at all! I have some knowledge of matters spiritual and demonic. I obey the precepts of my order, and I serve the Glasgow tutelary, which has on occasion granted my petitions, so it would seem to approve of my efforts, but—"
"Efforts to do what?" Toby said angrily.
"To aid others. This is my vocation — to help others."
"Help how?"
"As an acolyte, by interceding with the tutelary on their behalf. As a friar, by giving comfort, by spreading the philosophy and ethics of the great founder of my order."
"You even help strangers?"
"Why not?" Father Lachlan smiled gently. "Anyone will help his friends and family! You are troubled and I am honestly trying to be of assistance. Why do you suppose I have been asking so many questions, my son? Just out of nosiness?"