The Journey Begins
Duncan MacLeod was born in a world where the rules were very clear. At lease until he died. Suddenly everything he knew changed. From the honored son, he became an outcast. What happened in the three years between that day and the day Connor told him what he really was, and changed his life again. "Well, Dawson, What do'ye think of ma' highlands?"
"They're beautiful, Mac. It must have been hard to leave this place." Now I was the one who had to look away. "Yes…" The Watcher laid a hand on my arm, mute sympathy in his eyes. "You know, this was all new to me. The Watchers didn't have a lot of information on your early life. Connor's Watcher pegged you after you showed up as his student. Apparently no-one in Glenfinnen wanted to talk about you." I didn't know that. It hadn't occurred to me that they'd poked around in the village. It irritated me for a minute. "They wouldn't talk to strangers. Never did." "You said Kanwulfe killed your father." "Yes. I always felt it was my fault. I should have been there." "But I thought…" I could almost smell the horses and damp wool, cold iron and hot blood. "There'd been a raid. Common thing, back then, cattle and sheep were important. We had to take back the livestock. We were dependent on them for milk and wool and once in a while for meat." "I was choking, couldn't breathe. I knew I'd taken a bad one. My heart was pounding and the cuts on my arms hurt more than the sucking chest wound that was killing me. I was so cold. "There was blood on my hands. It was pooling on my belly, warm and too much of it. I kept trying to ask my father if I was dying. I was terrified. Our priest was away and I was afraid to die with the killing on my soul. "My father said I was a good son and there was a roaring in my ears. I thought it was the waterfall. I didn't understand. I was lying there and then everything got very bright, as though I was looking into the sun. Then, there was darkness I was falling into it, into nothing. I opened my eyes… The pain was going away. How long had I been sleeping? The blood on my chest was still warm. I could breathe again. My head was spinning; the wound had been deep. Had it healed? I reached over to the basin to wash away the blood, and the old woman, Irene, started screaming My father came in to see what was wrong. I looked at him,
I knew I couldn't have been asleep too long, he He began cursing me, saying that it was the work of the Master of the world below. He kept repeating it, tearing holes in my life, my soul. This was beyond my understanding. I knew I'd made no pact with evil, but my father… Joseph, I don't know if I can explain. For that time and place, I was a well-educated man. I was an honored son, a seasoned warrior, warchief, hunter. I spoke English and Gaelic. I knew the mass and daily prayers in Latin. The star's paths in the winter and summer had guided my steps. My father had me sit beside him in council. Why would he name me demon? True, I'd never been overly religious, father regarded it as more the women's province. Men had other concerns and I had been part of his world, his son, trained as warchief and judge. Trained as his successor through hard choices and loneliness. He'd been negotiating for a bride with one of the septs of the clan. The women were planning a May handfasting. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The icy cold was back, not from the wounds but from my heart. This man I'd called 'father' all the days of my life was pronouncing banishment on me. "Leave this place. Glennfinnen is no home to the likes of you. No man of the Clans may shelter you. Be ye gone by the setting of the sun. I give ye the clothes ye stand in and a days food." He turned his back on me and I lay there, too stunned to move as he went off to get the priest to cleanse the village of the abomination…. Me. My mother, the woman I'd called "Mother", came out of the shadows. She was carrying one of my hunting bags. "I've put your winter furs and yer old plaid into it, Duncan. Yer father's a hard man, he must needs be. But he's no that clear on the household's goods, they are mine and I'll bestow them where I will. Stay hid for a space, my beautiful boy. He'll come to his senses soon enough when he gets over his fear. 'Tis the work of your guardian angel that you're live and well. Take time to clean yourself. I'll no have a wolf or somat else come for you because you smell of blood. I walked slowly to the little burn that ran by the village. I stripped off the bloody shirt and trews. I washed off the gore and scrubbed my clothes. I put them back on, they would be dry before dark and they were all I had. In the usual way of things, I'd have been given a portion to start my own home when I married, but Debra was dead and I wanted no one else. I'd been content to wait for my Clan Chief to choose my wife. All my life I'd done what was expected of me. My mother brought a well-worn tunic, some bread and dried apples. "You're a fine hunter, Duncan. I know you will not starve. Remember what I've taught you of the herbs and such for healing. I'll send you word when your father's regained his sense." "Mother, is what he said true?" She wouldn't look at me and that, more than any words she could have said answered me. "Then, it's true. I'm no your son?" "Ach, Duncan, it matters not who bore you. I suckled you and loved you. You have my word that you are no demon. You were brought to me the day you were born with your cord still bleeding and the caul over your dark hair. The babe I bore the same day was no breathing and nothing I could do gave him any life. If he'd lived, ye'd have been brothers and you looked so much alike none would ever have known. Ian buried the stillborn boy, named Ian, after himself. We never spoke of it and so we raised you as our own and I almost forgot you weren't born of my womb." I was numb. Nothing was as it should have been. The man I called father was not my father. This woman, standing in front of me, holding my hand was not my mother. I was so cold… "Duncan, I did no carry you in my womb but I carried you in my heart and I'll hold you there to the day I die. Gi' your father a little time. He's raised you to be chief after him. I canno believe he will cast you out." I straightened up. The numb feeling was going away, replaced by pain, worse than the wound that cut me away from everything I'd ever known. "He has already done that, pronounced banishment on me. I must leave… Mother… Mahri, I give you my word that never have I had dealings with the devil or done anything against my… fa…. My clan chief. I will be loyal to him to the end of my days. Pray for me."She nodded and I looked back at the house, knowing that if I saw the tears on her face I'd never be able to walk away from her. I slipped the carry bag over my shoulder and took my bow and quiver. I looked back over the village again. There were a few people hiding in the shadowed doorways, waiting to be sure I left as I'd been bidden and ready with rocks to throw if I wasn't swift enough. I walked up the hill behind the village. The sun would set soon and I needed to find shelter for the night. In the morning… In the morning I would have to make some choices, too. If I stayed in the Highlands, I was "outlawed". I'd heard tales of other men who'd been banished. If I wanted to have any kind of a life, I would have to leave the lands I'd grown up in. I was so afraid, so alone... The sun was going down and it was cold up in the hills. I found an abandoned shelter, one used by shepherds while the flocks were pastured on the summer grass. I gathered wood, put a small fire together and took stock of what I had. My bow was a good one with horn reinforcing the fine ash. I had four bowstrings, gut from deer and sheep. Two of them hadn't been used at all. I had six arrows left. The younger warriors would be going over the battlefield collecting the arrows, arrowheads… I would have to make more and for that, I needed to find a smith. My heart sank as I realized that the first people to hear of my banishment would spread the word far and wide. I would have to out run the evil news. Or, I could find a smith in the Lowlands who needed an apprentice. The thought galled me. I was a warrior, proud of my skills with sword and bow. "Except," I said to myself, "I am a warrior no more. I have no clan. I have no kin, none to shelter me or aid me. If I can find a smith to take me on I will do it and be grateful for the chance of a roof over my head." The turf had thawed enough that I could cut through it. I brought in enough to bank the small fire. Rocks were certainly plentiful and I brought in several big ones to hold the old plank door closed. The nights were cold in March. The moon was bright, almost full. The small hovel was warm enough but my soul was freezing. Being alone, what it would feel like, had never occurred to me before. I'd never really been alone before. No matter where I walked, in the village or the hills around us, there'd been friendly voices, the other hunters… My father had been proud of my skills as a hunter. I seldom came back empty-handed and never wasted arrows Where did I come from? My skin was olive, darker than most in the clan. I was dark haired. My name means 'Dark Warrior' in Gaelic… My parents, foster parents, had fair skins and red hair. I looked like my grandsire, or so I was told. Old Tom said different though. I'd been warchief for five year, led raids, and sat at my father's right hand to plan everything from the spring planting to what to take to the harvest fair. I'd been his second at law. He was a stern man, but I'd thought he loved me, was proud of me. It was hard to get to sleep. There was straw, fairly clean, to make into a bed. There were gaps in the thatching of the roof. I found myself noting how long it would take a party from the village to get the repairs done so we could use the shelter… Then I remembered I had nothing more to do with the needs of our shepherds. The pain of that was worse than I could have imagined. No clan, no people… I was so lonely. Finally I arraigned straw so's to see the moon through the holes, until it passed behind the trees. The sound of my father's voice was still in my ears as my eyes closed and I slept. I kept waking, hearing my father shouting at me, screaming that I was a demon. I gave up toward dawn and set snares for the rabbits I knew lived in the wood. I went over to the spring and washed as best I could. I heard the rustling in the woods that meant something and tripped the snare. The rabbit was a fine fat one and I ate it with the last of the bread my mother'd given me. My quiver held more than a dozen of the old flint arrowheads. One of the granthers had taught Robert and I how to chip them and we both were good at it. In a pinch I could use them for hunting. I needed to find feathers for fletching and good straight limbs for more arrows. I saved the sinews from the rabbit, putting them in a pouch made of the hide, with oak leaves and water. Rocks heated in the fire and dropped into the pouch heated it and drew the tannin out. It wasn't the best, but it would do until I found a better place to stay. I made a pack of my furs and everything else I owned. Now I had to decide where to go. I had a rudimentary idea of the geography of the area around Glennfinnen. I'd been to Fort Gordon with my father several times and I knew it was a few days walk to the lowlands. The Highlands were lost to me forever. I would have to head south. I hoped that whatever guardian angel my mother had given charge of me would guide me. I needed to learn skills to earn my keep. The journey was hard. Late storms swarmed over the hills and froze the valleys below. My hunting skills kept me fed and I traded most of a deer carcass for bread at a small inn on the south road. The hostler told me there was a smith two towns over who might take a likely man to train. "Mind, you're a bit too old to be learning a trade." I agreed with him, but went on anyway. There was no sign of a smithy in the next town. A pretty tavern wench in the town after that told me old Harry wasn't very friendly. He was a fine smith but a grumpy old man without a kind word for anyone. The road curved around the base of a hill. There in a small grove of old oak trees was a makeshift building. The roof was mostly deerhides and the walls were partly rock and timber. The forge was cold. The ashes had blown about and the bellows looked dry and cracked. I walked around to the back of the rundown house. No one there either. I called out but there was no answer. I was trying to decide whether to go on to the next town on the road when a big, ugly dog came around the far side of the shed. He wagged his tail and barked sharply at me. I called to him and he came some closer. Then he danced away from me. I knew dogs. This one wanted me to follow. The path was steep and rocky and I set my pack down by the forge so's not to over balance myself. I followed him around, past a small stream and on up the side of the hill. There was a steep drop off where the hill sheared off into a ravine. A tree had fallen half way across the path and there was an arm showing under the new green leaves. The leaves were wilted. The tree'd probably gone down two or three days past. There was a sick feeling in my gut. What if this was the smith I'd hoped to find? What could I do if he was dead? Then the hand moved. He was alive. Now I needed to get him out from underneath it. Then we could see if I had found a future. I managed to get the tree off of him. Other than a bruises, he was in fairly good shape. He needed food and water, but I could help him with that. The dog walked beside us as I got him down to the forge. I helped him to the shelter of the forge to sit. I started a fire for him and took out a couple of fat partridges I'd caught earlier. He didn't say much until after we'd cooked and eaten the birds and the last of the bread. "You'll be wanting a reward, I suppose…" He said. The frown on his face would have soured new milk. "For pulling the damned tree off you? Nothing, the dog's the one owed thanks. He bid me follow an' I did." He examined me as though I'd been a chunk of ore to be assessed. "You’re a fey one ain't you?" "I don't understand…" He nodded to himself looking into the fire. "You've touched the mystery, or been touched by it. You were looking for me weren't you?" "Aye. Lucy, at the "Laughing Cat" said you might take on an apprentice." He snorted, "Lucy? Lucy took one look at you and decided she wanted you nearby for the Beltain fires. I know that one." He paused, his voice softer. "Hum. Well, I owe you that much. You'll work hard. The mysteries of the cold iron are not learned in a day." "I'm not afraid of hard work and I'm willing to learn." "Well, then, looks like I've an apprentice at that. I'm Martin." "Duncan MacLeod, o' the Clan MacLeod." His eyes narrowed, "A bit far from your holdings, ain't ye?" "I'm willing to work… does it matter where I'm from?" "No price on yer head?" I breathed a little easier, "None." "So be it." He spat in his hand and I in mine and we shook to seal the bargain. For the first two weeks I was there I did nothing but clean and build. The moon was waning and he said we would not start the new fire until the Dark Moon passed. I cleared years of bones and rags sorting any metal from the rest to stack in hide buckets beside the freshly scrubbed rock base of the anvil. Then the Dark Moon came. He took flint and steel and struck sparks in the tinder and we built the forge fire and blessed it in Bridget's name. "She's no the name of the Christian saint, my boy. She's far older than that. The old ones were here for our folk long before these new-fangled ideas came in. She guides the hand and the eye to make things of fierce beauty. We are Her priests when we stand by the forge. We give Bridget her due, no matter what the black priests or the brown friars say." I watched him, no longer the bruised, caustic man I'd been working with. He'd scrubbed himself and insisted that I do the same. Fine white wool, whiter than anything I'd ever seen was wrapped around loins and held by a leather belt with fine brass trim. He brought out a small barrel of fine ale and poured a silver cupful for himself and then refilled it for me to drink. There was something beside barley in the ale and I found myself drifting into dream. He poured out some of the ale on the anvil, the forge itself and across the thresholds of both the forge building and the house. Then he bade me watch the flames and see what was to come. The dreams came and went shadows with faces I didn't know. I
saw my father and wept at the loss In the morning I was well, though he was not, and I made oatcakes for both of us and an herb tea my mother'd taught me for sore heads. He taught me the names of the parts of the anvil, the forge itself and the different types of metal. We built a careful fire and he taught me how to make charcoal. He taught me how to keep knotted strings telling what metals mixed well, for horseshoes and kettles, for swords and spearheads. I learned to tell by the feel of the iron what had been added to it and how it had been treated. Time passed, the seasons turned. We rebuilt the house adding a small lean-to for me. He sent me to nearby farms to bargain for clean straw and food. I took nails and fine made needles and learned how to listen to the different sound of the people's speech. He cautioned me to change my speech to match. It kept me silent much of the time for fear I'd give myself away as a Highlander. The forge was hard work and the old man was a perfectionist. I learned every task as quickly as I could. At first, only concerned that I needed to have more arrows for hunting. Gradually, though, it became a skill that I treasured. My shoulders broadened the hammer and anvil giving their gift in return for my hard work. On Sundays he sent me off to listen to the voices of the woods. He said I must learn them too. At first I protested that I was well trained in woodscraft, but he would not listen and I found that he was right. There were different animals and birds here. I stayed with him for two years. Then, in the dark winter, he took sick and died. I buried him in the oak grove and tried to stay, but I was lonely again, I guess I'd almost seen him as another father. Now, again I was without home or clan. One of the chiefs nearby had called for warriors. I was willing to be a mercenary for a while. His fight was a just one and I was taken on to train his men. I'd led men before and they responded well. We won and the Laird sent me on to another fief in need of the skills he'd valued in me. It was almost a year later when a merchant new come from the highlands saw my plaid and asked if I was from Glennfinnen. I said I'd been born there, but had been away for some time. He nodded, "You'd be Duncan MacLeod, then." "Aye, what does that matter to you?" "I was in your village a few days ago. There was a great battle, they said it was Kanwulfe, the Viking and his men come to raid. Their chieftain held them off, but they need help. If you wanted to regain your place…" I was scornful, "Kanwulfe is a legend, a tale to scare children with." "No, I've seen places where he's burned villages and killed everyone. 'Tis an evil man he is, or a demon." I decided there and then I'd go back. If my father needed help, I would offer it and maybe there was a chance that I could earn a place, if not as his son… My horse was a good one, a gift from one of the lairds whose men I'd trained. A straight route would get me back in my homeland quickly and I rode off. Nothing had changed in the hills near my home. The shepherd's refuge I'd hidden in through those first awful days was still there. The village was battered but nothing had been burned. I stopped old Tom. "Where's my father?" He backed away, making signs against demons. I went on to the house. I was too late. Ian MacLeod was dead and my mother sat beside him, keeping watch. She welcomed me and told me to claim his sword. I took it and went after Kanwulfe. I killed the Viking but, of course, I didn't know about Immortality then. I rode back to the village and lay the axe in my father's grave. My mother wanted me to stay but I'd seen the horrified looks of the other folk. They wouldn't accept me as chief; they didn't want the likes of me anywhere near "honest folk", and she knew it. I left the sword with her, told her I loved her and left. The death of my father ended any hopes I might have had for returning to the life I'd known. Coming back here was hard. All the pain of that leaving… but
Kanwulfe is truly dead, now and perhaps, somewhere, somehow, my father
knows and can rest in peace. ~Fine~ Comments, virtual chocolate and good scotch are always welcome. |
as
though it was happening again. I saw my Debra fall again and
my heart was torn. I saw people I did not know in odd clothing
and lightning and storms surrounding me. I saw strange, hot lands
and bright seas… The images darkened and I slept.
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