The MacGregor (3 page)

Every time the itch set in, Sarah had wafted another tantalising snippet beneath his nose. And he'd forgotten the itch. As the whisky began to relax him he thought about bed. But he made no move. When the glass was empty he filled it once more. And, as he swallowed it down, he wondered if he drank to remember, or if he drank to forget.

Sean wasn't sure what time it was when he staggered up the steep, narrow stairs to his bedroom. He was too pissed to focus on the wall clock whose numbers were just black blurs. It was dark outside though. So it must have been well past midnight. Good. He was well and truly pickled. Sozzled. Brahms and Liszt.

He fell onto the bed fully clothed. Good thing he'd taken his boots off earlier. The ceiling began to spin. Or was that him? He closed his eyes as the contents of his stomach rolled in waves. But that was OK. Experience had told him that sleep would soon follow. Deep, black, dreamless sleep.

He relaxed a little. He was so tired. Slowly he felt his system surrender. Four hours was all he needed. A man could function well on four hours' sleep. A drowsiness crept through his limbs. A delicious heaviness that he welcomed like a beach welcomes waves. His breathing slowed. Relief. Such sweet release. And he let go. It was going to be a good night. But then the filmy curtain in his mind fluttered and he could hear the voices muttering behind it.

Panic-stricken he tried to sit up. But the curtains slowly opened and his inner eye opened wide.

Terror gripped him with lobster's claws. He tried to force his eyelids open. ‘No!' He could hear his own voice, but it was a long way away. The voices inside his head were louder. Stronger. More demanding. His body ached from the inside out and tears seeped out of his eyelashes. The curtains swished open and the stage was spotlit.

Act 1. Scene 1.

It was night. The moon was big and red in a clear sky sprinkled with stars. A great circle of stone stood upon a mountaintop. Inside the circle were a multitude of people. Men and women and children, fair of face and graceful of limb. They were dressed in skins and woven wool. Some were bare-chested and displayed blue drawings upon their skin. Circles, stripes, spirals, bats, wolves and pigs to name but a few.

A man stepped forward and Sean could sense his power. Two others joined him and together they lit a fire. It leapt into life, flames bright in the darkness. They began to chant in a language that was alien but at the same time strangely familiar. Sean strained his ears but could not make sense of the refrain, only that it was rhythmical. Like a song or a poem. And then they were quiet. A silence that held sway over the watching crowd.

One of the men stepped forward and spoke. Several men and women answered. But then a boy stepped into the circle. He was tall and fair, his bare chest only just starting to show the muscular definition of adulthood. A rustle of something akin to awe rippled through the watching people. And they all fell to their knees and bowed their heads to the earth. Except the youth in the centre. He stood still, trembling slightly, eyes dilated and expectant. And Sean felt a prickle of fear run through him as a shadow swept over the circle. It was a huge bat. It circled silently, once, twice. Finally it swooped down and landed on a great stone altar. Its huge wings folded and then, in an instant, it was gone. Standing in its place was a man. A beautiful man, with long rippling black hair, eyes of jet, broad of chest and long of leg. Sean was both entranced and afraid. He knew that something bad was going to happen (it always did) but he could not draw his gaze away. With sinuous grace the man walked towards the waiting boy. He stood and appraised the boy for a moment. The boy's eyes met his and they gazed at each other like long-lost lovers. When the dark man took the
boy in his arms Sean felt a burst of relief. They were just lovers! The dark man bent his head tenderly to the boy's neck and the boy's pale blue eyes opened wide. Sean glimpsed the glitter of long white fangs and he opened his mouth and cried out in protest.

‘NOOOO!' He awoke with a start. His eyes opened and he sat up, hands gripping the sheets, body a lather of sweat. He waited for a few moments for his breath to slow and for the tremors that ran through him to subside. Outside the window a nightjar sang and a vixen screamed on the mountain. The familiar sounds orientated him and he sank back onto his pillow. It was a dream, he told himself. Just a very bad dream.

He got up then, too exhausted to sleep. Too scared to sleep. He padded out onto the small landing. Sarah's room was opposite. He let himself in, suddenly feeling lonely. Inside the room was unchanged. Sarah's old timber bed, the two birch tables and the dried flowers that still smelled like her. He sat down on the edge of the bed and let his hands run over the old quilt. He didn't really like it. A forest of leafless trees, arrayed with small twiggy branches. Sean's eyes wandered over the quilt and something snagged in his mind. What was it? He looked again, but the tiny fragment sank into the alcoholic fog of his brain. He sighed and went downstairs. The whisky bottle called.

Megan had slept long and well. When she awoke it was dark. She yawned and stretched and tuned in. She could hear her grandfather in the sitting room. By the sound of things he was darning his socks. Megan shook her head. Why he insisted on darning old socks when she could easily nick a couple of pairs for him was quite beyond her. I mean, she thought, who darned their socks these days? She lay there comfortably, enjoying the luxury of contemplating the night ahead.

It was time to put into action the plan she'd been mulling over for weeks. Tonight would be
the
night. No more game-playing. She grinned to herself; well, maybe a change of game. This time she would go down to the farm. Take a look around and meet the horses properly. She pretended not to hear the voice that suggested she was fooling herself, that the horses were not the main drawcard. To escape from her own nagging conscience, Megan decided it was time to get up.

She dressed and went out to find Grandad. To her surprise he was asleep, socks and needle abandoned in his lap. She watched him for a moment, her smooth white brow temporarily furrowed. All the old worries rushed back to haunt her.

Was it her imagination or had he lost weight? Sadly she acknowledged that he had. The white hair was as luxuriant as ever, and the eyebrows as wild, but the bones of his cheeks seemed curiously close to the surface. Panic gripped her. Was he sick? And then she was forced to address the real source of her fears. Was Grandad going to die?

She sucked in her breath to stem the rush of emotion that squeezed her heart like a vice. Grandad couldn't leave her. She would be alone. What would she do without him? For a moment she tried to visualise a world without him. But it was like trying to imagine the world without a moon.

‘Megan, what's the matter child, you've a face like a cod's bum. Are you constipated?'

Megan bristled like a witch's cat. ‘No, I am not!' And she sat down at her grandfather's feet so he couldn't read her face. ‘Grandad…' She couldn't bear to put her thoughts into words. She felt a superstitious dread of speaking them out loud. As if she would make them true. But she sensed his alertness, and knew that she had to find something convincing instead. After all, if her grandfather was sick, he'd tell her when he was ready. ‘Grandad,' she said a little more confidently, ‘do you like horses?'

Her grandfather chuckled deep in his broad chest. ‘Raw, fried or boiled?'

She giggled, happy to find him in good humour. She slapped him playfully. ‘No, you know what I mean. Do you like them? You know, feel a…desire for them, other than as a meal?'

‘No,' he said, ‘can't say I do. Mind you, your mother did. She loved the horses. A fine horsewoman she was too, in her day.'

Megan was riveted. Her grandfather hardly ever talked about his daughter. It was a subject he found too painful to discuss. She didn't reply, afraid that he'd stop. But to her delight he reached for his pipe, tapped the old tobacco out, tamped a pinch of new into the bowl and lit it with a long taper. Blue smoke curled in the air and Megan breathed it in happily. The lighting of the pipe was a good sign. A precursor to a long conversation.

She wiggled around, and leant her back against his knees. He smelled like salt, and sea and whisky. He smelt like home.

‘Your mother was unusual in her passion. The Campbells and their kin had long mastered the horse. They could ride without saddle and could tame the wildest of beasts. But then, of course, they had the bridle.'

Megan was mesmerised, so absorbed that she forgot to be silent. ‘What bridle?'

Her grandfather took a couple of pulls on his pipe and grunted comfortably. ‘A rare and beautiful bridle that is said to have come from the other world, in the days of the Gods.'

Megan rolled her eyes. No one believed that stuff. Gods! He'd be suggesting she went to church next. She yelped as he rapped the top of her head with his pipe like he knew what she was thinking. Which he probably did.

‘Don't be such a smart arse, Megan MacGregor. The old stories are not to be dismissed so easily. You are the descendant of the Gods of the Olde world and kings and queens of this world! If it weren't for the quirks of history, and being on the losing side, you'd be a wealthy young woman.'

Megan managed to contain her impatience. She wasn't interested in all the mumbo-jumbo, she wanted to know about her mother. ‘So,' she said sweetly, ‘tell me about the bridle. The one from the Olde world.'

Her grandfather sniffed and she guessed he wasn't fooled by her false sincerity, but to her relief he picked up the thread of his story.

‘The bridle is magic. It can conjure up a kelpie and the owner of the bridle can tame and ride this magical beast. Some say there are horses that carry the kelpies' blood in their veins. It is said that people still master the kelpie, even today.'

Megan was fast losing patience. ‘So, my mother had this bridle?'

‘Yes. But it is long lost. Stolen.'

A hard lump formed in Megan's throat. ‘The Campbells stole it.' It was not a question.

‘Yes. It was why they killed her.'

Megan was stunned into silence. For a torrid moment her emotions threatened to consume her. But finally she came to the conclusion that she should not have been surprised. She reluctantly put the Campbells on hold. They'd keep. For now. ‘Grandad, do you have to have the bridle to be good with the horses?'

He sucked on his pipe but it had gone out. He spent several infuriatingly slow moments relighting it. Finally he blew smoke rings into the air and addressed her question.

‘I don't know. You're a strange one, Megan, even for our kind.'

And her mind was made up. She couldn't contain her curiosity any longer. There was only one way to find out.

It was just past two in the morning when Sean sat down at the dining room table. Spread out before him was Sarah's will. While he could read, Sean wasn't really good with words and although his eyes followed the sentences the sense remained obscure. Still, it didn't matter so much because the lawyer had explained it all to him.

Basically, whilst he owned Druids' Rest, there were a number of restrictions placed upon him. The first was that he must never sell the place, but must will it to someone on his death. The second clause was that he must continue to allow the travelling people to camp on his land. The first he wasn't too worried about. After all, he couldn't imagine wanting to sell. The second, he was secretly quite excited about. Not that it had been an issue thus far. In six months there had been no sign of any travellers.

He picked up his glass and moved to the front room to the window that looked over the driveway and down to the road. How wonderful it would be to have them camped on his land. He could go down to the paddock and pass the time of day. Drop in a casual comment about his mother. And who knew what might happen?

He took a sip of whisky and sighed. It was foolish to waste his life dreaming, he knew. But he hungered for family. His father had disowned him years ago, disappointed by his poor performance at school and then his constant wandering. ‘A waste of space,' had become his father's worn refrain. And Sean had given up trying.

But he couldn't help but think things would have been different if his mother had lived. He could remember her quite clearly. People told him that it was impossible. He'd been only two when she died. He was just repeating the stories he'd heard as a youngster, people told him. And Sean had stopped talking about her. His father had always resisted attempts to reminisce. And Sean felt that, deep down, his father had never forgiven her for being a ‘tinker'.

He opened the window; it was cool but the air was fresh, untainted by traffic and human waste. If he shut his eyes and breathed deeply he was sure he could just catch the scent of the heather out on the heath. He loved the heather. His mother had talked about it, and once had taken him into the mountains and picked a small bouquet which she had hung in the kitchen window.

That wasn't something he'd been told, he was sure.

A mouse squeaked and he opened his eyes again. A black shadow slipped across the lawn. Salem. Sarah's black cat. Sean was pleased to see him. He'd begun to think he had pined away for Sarah, the only person Salem had tolerated. He watched the cat stalk his prey and marvelled at his patience. For a moment the cat paused and looked around, his eyes flaring red in the darkness. And then he slid away into the long spring grass.

With one last lingering swallow, the glass was empty. Maybe he should try for a few hours' sleep. But he didn't want to. The dreams were coming more and more often. Not all were as frightening, but still they scared him. Sometimes they seemed to spill into his waking hours. And an insidious thought had seeded in his head. What if the dreams weren't dreams at all? What if they were hallucinations? What if he were going mad?