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It must be my imagination. My nerves are shot. Knowing what is coming has put me on edge. I pointedly ignore what happened with Duncan. Which has nothing to do with anything. Nope. Not a thing.
Suspicious, though, of everything, I keep one eye on the cow until I move around a ridge and lose sight of it.
To my right a bird caws. I whip my head in that direction in time to see a black shape dropping out of the sky. It comes to a landing on a rock outcropping. It’s a raven. Again. Great. I pause and stare, but Alesoun’s voice in my head pushes me forward. The raven watches as I come closer, occasionally hopping from foot to foot. When I’m an easy stone’s throw away from it, I stop and stare at the stupid black bird.
“What?” I ask. “What do you want? Why do you keep following me?”
It tilts its shiny black head to one side as if asking in return what I’m doing.
“I’m sick of you. Sick of all this. I want to go home.”
I spot a nice size rock close to my feet. I bend down and grab the rock. It fits nicely into my hand. I haul back and throw the rock at the raven. Unsurprisingly, I miss it. The rock bounces off the stone a foot to the raven’s left and ricochets into the rolling grass. The raven doesn’t even bother to fly off. Instead, it spreads its wings, caws, then closes its wings and resumes staring with glassy black eyes filled with reproach. Hitching the basket higher on my arm, I meet the raven’s dark glare with one of my own then march past, pointedly ignoring the damn bird.
Tomorrow, I’ll meet the stranger and find out how to get home. All I have to do is survive until then. Survive and not screw anything up. Like I have with Duncan.
Regret rises in my throat with an acidic burn. I like him. How is this fair? I can’t fall for him. I can’t explore these feelings he evokes because I don’t belong here. Stupid songs. Stupid poets. Stupid heart. What is this I feel for him if not love? The way it feels like I’ve known him so much longer than I have. The way he makes my heart speed up. Makes me feel bigger, better for being around him.
It can’t be desire only. I’m not even considering how he looks, which is great, thank you very much. Those bulging arms, the strong jaw, and those eyes! My god, he could probably charm the pants off any girl he wants with his eyes alone. I want him. He ‘turns me on’ or whatever but that’s far from all I want.
I want to know him. Know him for real. The way it feels I know him, as if I know everything about him. I want to know his wants, needs, and desires. Know what his dreams are and his nightmares too. I want him to know me too.
This isn’t simple young lust. It can’t be. I’ve never been in love but I’ve sure as hell dreamed about it all my life. It’s the one thing I’ve wanted that my life to date has made me think I’d never find. Someone who wants me for me.
Most guys want ‘social media’ perfection. The perfect wife, with the perfect body, all shown with perfect lighting, camera angles, and make up exactly done. They don’t want the real girl. The one who looks like shit in the morning. The one who doesn’t bother getting out of her sweats and tee on a lazy day. The one who didn’t do last night's dishes because she was busy binge watching the newest season of her favorite show on streaming.
They don’t want the reality; they want the fiction. Our entire society, the one I’m from anyway, is built around false pretenses. We sell our dreams to each other on social media.
None of that is true with Duncan. There’s no other me for him to see than the me that is here. No makeup, no cameras, no perfect lighting but he keeps coming back. Even after I’ve been such an utter bitch to him. And the worst part of it all is I still think I’m right. I can’t get involved with him.
This current upset they’re all dealing with; I know where it’s going to go. It’s going to mean war. Historically, these events lead up to the literal outlawing of the MacGregor name. I knew I’d forgotten something but how I forgot that detail of history is unbelievable. If my memory is right, they’ll attack the Colquhouns and win despite the odds being against them. And that is all it will take. They win and after that, King James outlaws the name.
The MacGregors will be hunted. Forced to change their names and hide. A lot of them will retreat further into the Highlands, where they will earn their nickname, Children of the Mist. The Campbells and the Colquhouns will put bounties on their heads and the crimes that will be committed against them are atrocities.
How do I stop that? Should I stop it?
It’s so much different than studying words in a history book when you are here. When you meet and get to know the people. They’re not words on paper; they’re living, breathing souls. People with hopes, dreams, and personalities.
I don’t even want Agnes, as mean as she has been to me, to suffer what I know is coming. I have no idea how many, if any, of the MacGregors in this village will be killed but the odds are great that it will be a lot, if not most, of them.
My thoughts run away as I gather berries as I find them. The basket is about a quarter full, nowhere near what Alesoun asked me to get, so I keep on walking and looking for more bushes. When my belly rumbles, I realize I didn’t pack any food. Shrugging, I snitch a few of the berries to take the edge off as I walk and pick.
At least I don’t see the stupid bird any longer, which is fine by me. I’m not really comfortable having a black, feathered stalker while I do my work. I’ve not been much help to Alesoun. The only thing I’ve shown any talent for is churning butter, but I want to get a full basket of berries. Alesoun has been very kind, putting me up and teaching me how to survive. The least I can do is get the berries right.
As I stride along, passing standing stones surrounded by purple heather, I come to a peat bog. The ground is soft and mucky, and it forces me to pick my way carefully through it. I focus on one foot in front of the other until there is the splashing of falling water on the air. The sound of the running water makes me realize how incredibly thirsty I am. I emerge from the boggy land and see something sparkling a dozen yards ahead that must be a stream. I head towards it.
The creek tumbles down the highlands, falling off a rock outcropping, causing the sound from the tiny waterfall. I climb a small hill to see the water running below me.
A woman dressed all in white, is kneeling next to the water. She’s doing something; I can’t make out what, but the water downstream from her runs as red as blood.
Chapter Twenty
Is she dyeing cloth? In the river? Do they even have red dye?
“Hello,” I say when I get within hailing distance.
The woman doesn’t look up or stop her work. Maybe she didn’t hear me. I walk closer, really wanting a drink, but not of dye filled water. My dry throat aches with the idea of its offered relief. The woman continues working the cloth, plunging it in and out of the stream. I don’t see her doing anything with any kind of dye, but the closer I get the deeper the red of the water.
I don’t want to startle the woman, so I angle myself to reach the water a few yards downstream from her. Perhaps she is hard of hearing and the last thing I want is to surprise her. That could be dangerous. When I reach the stream, I get a good view of her work. She is washing clothes in the water. She dunks them in and out of the stream then slaps the cloth down on a rock. After that, she lifts the cloth and twists. Bright red water streams out of the cloth, joining the stream and causing the color.
