“Did the boy call you?” said the lad.
“It was no boy,” I told him, “but me myself, it was. And they’d had me, and still I walked out the door and through their fingers.”
The boy laughed. Then he said, “Why were the Campbells after you?”
“It was a disagreement about the ownership of cattle. They thought the cows were theirs. I maintained the Campbell’s ownership of them had ended the first night the cows had come with me over the hills.”
“Wait here,” said young Calum MacInnes
I sat by the burn and looked up at the house. It was a good-sized house: I would have taken it for the house of a doctor or a man of law, not of a border reaver. There were pebbles on the ground and I made a pile of them, and I tossed the pebbles, one by one into the burn. I have a good eye, and I enjoyed rattling the pebbles over the meadow and into the water. I had thrown a hundred stones when the boy returned, accompanied by a tall, loping man. His hair was streaked with gray, his face was long and wolfish. There are no wolves in those hills, not any longer, and the bears have gone too.
“Good day to you,” I said.
He said nothing in return, only stared; I am used to stares. I said,“I am seeking Calum MacInnes. If you are he, say so, I will greet you. If you are not he, tell me now, and I will be on my way.”
“What business would you have with Calum MacInnes?”
“I wish to hire him, as a guide.”
“And where is it you would wish to be taken?”
I stared at him. “That is hard to say,” I told him. “For there are some who say it does not exist. There is a certain cave on the Misty Isle.”
He said nothing. Then he said, “Calum, go back to the house.”
“But da—”
“Tell your mother I said she was to give you some tablet. You like that. Go on.”
Expressions crossed the boy’s face—puzzlement, hunger, happiness—and then he turned and ran back to the white house.
Calum MacInnes said, “Who sent you here?”
I pointed to the burn as it splashed its way between us on its journey down the hill. “What’s that?” I asked.
“Water,” he replied.
“And they say there is a king across it,” I told him.
I did not know him then at all, and never knew him well, but his eyes became guarded, and his head cocked to one side. “How do I know you are who you say you are?”
“I have claimed nothing,”I said.“Just that there are those who have heard there is a cave on the Misty Isle, and that you might know the way.”
He said, “I will not tell you where the cave is.”
“I am not here asking for directions. I seek a guide. And two travel more safely than one.”
He looked me up and down, and I waited for the joke about my size, but he did not make it, and for that I was grateful. He just said, “When we reach the cave, I will not go inside. You must bring out the gold yourself.”
I said, “It is all one to me.”
He said, “You can only take what you carry. I will not touch it. But yes, I will take you.”
I said,“You will be paid well for your trouble.”I reached into my jerkin, handed him the pouch I had in there.“This for taking me.Another,twice the size,when we return.”
He poured the coins from the pouch into his huge hand, and he nodded. “Silver,” he said. “Good.” Then, “I will say good bye to my wife and son.”
“Is there nothing you need to bring?”
He said, “I was a reaver in my youth, and reavers travel light. I’ll bring a rope, for the mountains.”He patted his dirk, which hung from his belt, and went back into the whitewashed house. I never saw his wife, not then, nor at any other time.
I do not know what color her hair was.
I threw another fifty stones into the burn as I waited, until he returned, with a coil of rope thrown over one shoulder, and then we walked together away from a house too grand for any reaver, and we headed west.
The mountains between the rest of the world and the coast are gradual hills, visible from a distance as gentle, purple, hazy things, like clouds. They seem inviting. They are slow mountains, the kind you can walk up easily, like walking up a hill, but they are hills that take a full day and more to climb. We walked up the hill, and by the end of the first day we were cold.
I saw snow on the peaks above us, although it was high summer.
We said nothing to each other that first day. There was nothing to be said. We knew where we were going.
We made a fire, from dried sheep dung and a dead thorn-bush: we boiled water and made our porridge, each of us throwing a handful of oats and a fingerpinch of salt into the little pan I carried. His handful was huge, and my handful was small, like my hands, which made him smile and say, “I hope you will not be eating half of the porridge.”
I said I would not and, indeed, I did not, for my appetite is smaller than that of a full-grown man. But this is a good thing, I believe, for I can keep going in the wild on nuts and berries that would not keep a bigger person from starving.
A path of sorts ran across the high hills, and we followed it and encountered almost nobody: a tinker and his donkey, piled high with old pots, and a girl leading the donkey, who smiled at me when she thought me to be a child, and then scowled when she perceived me to be what I am, and would have thrown a stone at me had the tinker not slapped her hand with the switch he had been using to encourage the donkey; and, later, we overtook an old woman and a man she said was her grandson, on their way back across the hills. We ate with her, and she told us that she had attended the birth of her first great-grandchild, that it was a good birth. She said she would tell our fortunes from the lines in our palms, if we had coins to cross her palm. I gave the old biddy a clipped lowland groat, and she looked at my palm.
She said, “I see death in your past and death in your future.”
“Death waits in all our futures,” I said.
She paused, there in the highest of the high lands, where the summer winds have winter on their breath, where they howl and whip and slash the air like knives. She said, “There was a woman in a tree. There will be a man in a tree.”
I said, “Will this mean anything to me?”
“One day. Perhaps.” She said, “Beware of gold. Silver is your friend.” And then she was done with me.
To Calum MacInnes she said, “Your palm has been burned.” He said that was true. She said, “Give me your other hand, your left hand.” He did so. She gazed at it, intently. Then, “You return to where you began. You will be higher than most other men. And there is no grave waiting for you, where you are going.”
He said, “You tell me that I will not die?”
“It is a left-handed fortune. I know what I have told you, and no more.”
She knew more. I saw it in her face.
That was the only thing of any importance that occurred to us on the second day.
We slept in the open that night. The night was clear and cold, and the sky was hung with stars that seemed so bright and close I felt as if I could have reached out my arm and gathered them, like berries.
We lay side by side beneath the stars, and Calum MacInnes said, “Death awaits you, she said. But death does not wait for me. I think mine was the better fortune.”
“Perhaps.”
“Ah,” he said. “It is all nonsense. Old woman-talk. It is not truth.”
I woke in the dawn mist to see a stag, watching us, curiously.
The third day we crested those mountains, and we began to walk downhill.
My companion said, “When I was a boy, my father’s dirk fell into the cooking fire. I pulled it out, but the metal hilt was as hot as the flames. I did not expect this, but I would not let the dirk go. I carried it away from the fire, and plunged the sword into the water. It made steam. I remember that. My palm was burned, and my hand curled, as if it was meant to carry a sword until the end of time.”