Was that now?
In the distance comes the boom of surf signaling the sea. Soldiers and prisoners alike seem preoccupied. So I seize the chance and, staying crouched, I duckwalk backward away from the road. Finally, I stand and run for it, bounding through the moor, then cutting back to the dirt road so as to move faster.
I hear shouts behind.
And the distinctive pfoom of a black-powder weapon.
I STOP.
The shot hadn’t come my way, but I decide not to wait around to see if my presence had been noticed. I keep running. I’m in good shape for a guy staring down fifty. Finally, I realize no wolves are in pursuit, so I stop to rest, wondering what the hell to do next. I’ve known from the instant I awoke by the stones that something is not right, and it’s getting worse by the minute. My sense of logic keeps insisting that I’m just seeing things wrong, that I’ve made a mistake, taken a wrong turn somewhere, drawn the wrong conclusion. But my analytical brain tells me that I’m not in Kansas anymore. I recall that the village of Clebost is a half hour or so by car from Castle Ardsmuir, and the road I’m on leads there.
So the smart play is to head for the village and see what I can learn.
But after two hours of walking the only other signs of life I see are seagulls and a fox that crosses the road. The landscape casts a somber, eerie quality, tranquil but ominous. Then a pair of horses approach and I decide to flag the riders down.
A man and a woman.
The man is older and plainly not well, hunched in the saddle, half falling. The woman is tall, slender waisted, and buxom. Her complexion is a creamy blond with hair to match, done up in a loose coiffure, half hidden under a lacy blue cap. Her eyes are a deep shade of green and I catch a glint of interest within them as she looks me over. They are both dressed nothing like someone from the 21st century, their odd clothes as jaded as my nerves.
I decide to use some southern charm. “I beg your pardon. I wonder if you could tell me how far it is to Clebost?”
“Who are you?” the woman asks. Her long-lashed, slightly slanted eyes add a troubling, mysterious quality to her.
“My name is Harold Earl Malone,” I say, deciding that “Cotton” might be hard to explain. “And you are?”
“Melisande Robicheaux,” she says, with a one-sided curl of her mouth that makes me realize that is definitely not her name. “That’s Duncan Kerr,” she adds, with an offhanded nod toward her companion.
The old man slides off his horse with a moan, making a croaking, gargling sound, like speech, but inarticulate. He staggers into the bracken where he throws up and collapses.
“I told him not to risk the jellied eels,” she says. “But do men ever listen? Where did ye come from, then?”
“Castle Ardsmuir. I drove there last night. From Strathpeffer.”
“Did ye indeed?” she says, looking at me intently. “Ye drove, was it?”
I catch an instant of recognition in her question and my self-imposed restraint breaks down. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Aye, maybe.” Her lids are half lowered in thought. “If ye’re staying at the castle, what is it ye’re seeking in Clebost, though?”
I catch her evasion of my inquiry, but decide to go where she’s leading. “I came out for a walk across the moor after breakfast and didn’t pay attention to where I was going. I’m lost.” I gesture at the vast expanse of undulating green. “If I can get to the village, I can make arrangements for someone to take me back to the castle.”
I choose my words with great care, but I still have the impression that she understands what I mean by “drove.” She slides off her horse in a flounce of petticoats, shakes herself into order, and steps close. I can’t help but stare at the creamy skin that shows at the neck of her dress. She seems supremely aware of her femininity and notices my interest. The corners of her mouth turn up.
“I have a proposition for you, Mr. Harold Earl Malone. I find myself in urgent need of a man.”
The hell you say, I think.
This woman radiates a sexual vibe I can almost touch.
But I’m not about to try.
Her expression looms easy and calm, but her eyes are intent on me, studying, judging. Her face shimmers in soft peach and vanilla tones and she tosses me a smile that shows her teeth but not her thoughts.
Then she gently touches my arm.
“Duncan’s not able today,” she says, with a careless wave at the other man, curled up in a heap amid the bracken. “And my errand’s urgent. If you’ll help me, I’ll see you safe on your road home.”
“What kind of errand?” I ask cautiously, and she motions toward the west, where I again hear the faint rush of an unseen ocean.
“I need a man to row me out to one of the bittie wee isles just off the coast. It’s not far, but the current’s tricky and it takes a strong back. It’ll not take long,” she adds, seeing my curious look. “I’ll have ye back on dry land and on your way home before sunset.”
Every radar synapse in my brain rings an alarm. I try to let my emotions subside, my mind to stop questioning the fantastical. A sense honed from my years as a Magellan Billet field agent tells me she’s trouble, but what choice do I have? My options are severely limited. And experience has taught me that in every operation there comes only one course—blind risk—where trust has to be placed in something that might otherwise be senseless and all you can do is hope for the best.
Like now.
So I tell her yes, hoping she’s not spotted any of my skepticism.
Pleased, she offers me the other horse, leaving her former companion lying in the bracken. We ride, with her in the lead, across the moor to the cliff edge and down a precipitous rocky path to a small settlement that huddles at the bottom. There she bargains with a fisherman in rapid Gaelic, paying him with coins. The man counts them carefully, nods, and gestures toward a small boat lying upturned on the rocky shore just above the tide line. She removes a saddlebag from her horse and, with a jerk of the head, leads me toward the sea.
“We’ll take that one,” she says. “The red-and-yellow one. It’s painted that way to ward off the bad spirits and coax a good catch from the sea, aye?”
“You sound like an expert.”
She shakes her head. “No but what I’ve heard.”
The small wooden boat has no oarlocks, but I develop enough rhythm to propel us through the surf and out into open water. She sits on the gunwale, one hand shading her eyes. I glance back over my shoulder and spot at least six tiny islands ranging from a knob covered with birds to a couple big enough that it would take half an hour to traverse. Overhead the sky rolls with clouds bound to storm. Not here, maybe, but somewhere.
“Which one do you want?” I ask, and almost drop an oar when a wayward current slams into the stern and whirls us around.
She lets out a hoot of laughter at my mistake and points over my left shoulder. “That one. The silkies’ isle.”
I know a silkie is a seal. And I have already heard their hoarse barking, coming in snatches on the wind. A quick look, taking care to hold on to the oars and be mindful of the swells, and I see the island—a dark, rounded hump with flat ledges, packed with the sausage shapes of slick-wet seals. After fifteen minutes of fighting the current, I ask her why she just didn’t pay the fisherman to row her out.
“Because he lives here,” she says. “I don’t want him to know where I’m going, nor what I do when I get there. You”—she smiles, as though to herself—“will be gone, away to your own place by nightfall.”
The currents are murder, and a chilly breeze stirs the water to a froth. I’m relieved when we finally reach the island. I skirt the shore, searching for a landing place, fending off a few of the curious residents who pop up alongside the boat. Finally, I spot a small notch wide enough for the boat to pass through and nestle against a rocky ledge. A narrow, slitlike crevice eats up into the cliff face and winds a path to its top.