AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“That sounds cruel,” I say.
Duncan frowns. “Cruel? It would be cruel ta kick her out on her own. Hard to live on your own in the Highlands. First winter would be her last.”
He speaks matter of fact without any apparent awareness of the cruelty in his words. They keep her around because she’s useful, but not useful enough to be part of the group? This closed community isn’t welcoming even of one of their own; how am I going to fit in here?
I don’t have to, that’s how. I’m only here long enough to find my way back to my friends. Get back to my university group and get out, that’s it. Leave these folks to play their game. Or maybe it’s not a game. Maybe they’re like the Amish or Mennonites. That’s an idea that could make sense. A group of people who have eschewed the trappings of modern society and chose to live as folks did in simpler times. It’s a bit extreme, but that’s my opinion. What right do I have to judge someone else’s beliefs?
Still, I feel bad for this Alesoun whom I haven’t even met. Forced to live on the fringes of society, no friends, no community to be a part of, but right here where she can watch it all from her door. I’m not going to change his mind before we reach the house though.
The area right in front of her house is flat, hard pounded dirt. Duncan knocks on the door. There’s a shuffling sound from inside then the door swings open.
An older woman with fiery red hair, gaunt cheeks, and piercing green eyes fills the door. She purses her full lips and frowns, enhancing the deep lines of a hard lived life that’s written on her face.
“Aye?” she asks.
“Blessings, Alesoun,” Duncan says. “We’ve been a bit banged around, if ya can see to us?”
“Come in,” she says, moving back inside and letting us in.
I follow Duncan into the house. Inside it is smoky, dim, and smells like shit. A fire burns in the middle of the single room. I look around in awe at the real-life example of what I’ve only seen in pictures in textbooks: an honest to goodness Highland dwelling. This is a living version of what the archaeology dig was hoping to excavate.
A rough table sits against the wall to the left. Drying plants line the table and hang from the walls in that area. Two chairs sit by the table, both very low to the ground. Across from the door is a cabinet. It has two open hearts cut into the doors and looks to be well built, smooth, and stained with age or chemicals, I’m not sure. On the right is a Highland bed.
I’ve seen a replica of one but that one didn’t have the age and wear that this one shows. The beds are short boxes with doors that close, both to hold in heat and to offer some privacy while sleeping or doing other bedroom activities. Wood is a rare commodity in the Highlands, so the homes are designed for entire families to live in.
“Sit,” Alesoun says to Duncan.
He sits in one of the low seats by the table. Alesoun looks him over with a critical eye, poking and prodding his face and around his nose before going to her cabinet. When she opens it, inside are neat rows of little clay pots arranged inside. She runs her finger along them then selects one out and returns to Duncan.
She takes the lid off the small pot and dips her fingers in. When she pulls them out, they’re covered in a thick gel looking substance that smells of menthol. She rubs it over Duncan’s cuts.
“Ach, woman,” he yelps.
“Be still,” Alesoun says, gripping his shoulder with her free hand. She finishes rubbing the salve on his wounds then looks him over. “You’ll be fine in a day or two. How about the other lads?”
“They’re fine,” Duncan says, rising to his feet. He motions towards me with one hand. “But this is Quinn. Those Colquhoun bastards had her in a rough way when we came upon them. She’ll need to be looked over. She hit her head in the tussle and can’t recall stuff.”
I force a smile when Alesoun glances at me. She gives me a deep frown as her piercing eyes look me up and down. She tsks and shakes her head, placing her hands on her hips.
“Well, then,” she says, “come now. Take a seat. Let’s ’ave a look at ya.”
I walk over to trade places with Duncan and as we pass, our hands brush. It’s only a touch, an all too brief moment, but warmth races from that point of contact up my arm and jolts my heart into a gallop. Our eyes meet and it’s as if time becomes silly putty, stretching slowly as we exchange places.
“I’ve nae got all day,” Alesoun barks, and the rubber band of time snaps.
“Sorry,” I mumble, taking the seat, keeping my eyes off of him.
She presses her hands to my face, runs them down my arms, then grasps my hands. Her hands are thick with callouses and the joints are swollen with arthritis.
“You do nae look to be injured,” she says at last.
“I don’t think I was,” I say. “Some bruises.”
“Did ya hit your head?” she asks, pressing her fingers around my forehead.
“I’m, uhm, I think so,” I say. “I was punched pretty hard.”
“The bruise on your cheeks says as much,” she says.
