Chapel Orahamm's Blog, page 3

Subject 15: Ch 7

Subscribe to keep reading

Become a paid subscriber to get access to the rest of this post and other exclusive content.

Subscribe

Subject 15: Ch 6

Subscribe to keep reading

Become a paid subscriber to get access to the rest of this post and other exclusive content.

Subscribe

Subject 15: Ch 5

Subscribe to keep reading

Become a paid subscriber to get access to the rest of this post and other exclusive content.

Subscribe

Subject 15: Ch 4

Subscribe to keep reading

Become a paid subscriber to get access to the rest of this post and other exclusive content.

Subscribe

Fyskar: Ch 3

Fearchar led Eoin to the croft entrance as the first sprinkling of rain descended on the hillside. Swept and well kept, the sill stone gleamed beneath small autumn flowers, absorbing the leftover warmth of the sun. He noted a few simple medicinal herbs and cold-weather vegetables tucked under rambling grass heads and shrubs. A hook in the granite lintel held a hung stack of meat drying nets that Fearchar pulled off and handed to Eoin.

“She’s a green thumb.” Fearchar made off to the side of the croft in the direction of the byre. Eoin stood at the door, shifting from one foot to the other, unsure if he should let himself in or wait. His hired hand emerged from around back with a sling of peat. “Easier tae bring it in now, rather ‘an get a’ settled and be sent fur more later.” The hunter set the bundle down at the door and knocked.

Eoin turned from the man to the door and back. Why was he knocking? The door wasn’t capable of being locked.

A scattering of footsteps. A man came to the door, his face flush. He pulled on his greatcoat in a hurry. Fearchar picked up his bundle fo turf before the man could tumble over them. “Nice tae see ye, Cormic.”

“Efternuin, Fear.” The man ducked, burying his pudgy face further under his hood. Watery eyes above a squished nose flicked to Eoin before focusing on the seed heads in the garden, his face going red into his receding hairline. Working up a bit of courage, the man stepped between Fearchar and Eoin and skittered down the path, pulling his hood further down around his ears.

Eoin shivered at the dragging chill of winter threatening in the autumn breeze. The rain descended quicker, turning to massive orbs that dripped from kilt and cloak. Fearchar flicked rain out of his braids. “He’s not much of one for talking, but he’s a gift with a block of wood and a chisel. Made the missal stand up at the kirk.”

The doctor brushed at the green glass lenses of his mask to disuase water build up, trying to understand why the man rushing down the path had come from the handyman’s house. Fearchar whistled merrily, shoved the door open with his elbow, and took in the sling of peat with Eoin’s duffel. The doctor, ducking the torrential downpour that opened above him, followed the man inside.

A warm hearth and stone chimney in the ben end of the croft greeted them. Eoin stared at the area in confusion. It was filled with what he would expect of the butt end of the building. Near the door sat a large work table on top of cupboards. Pegs in the chink and rock held nets and baskets in the process of being mended. Fishing rods and thatcher’s needles clumped together with shovels and hoes in a corner. From the rafter drifted pots, cooking utensils, and drying vegetation. Baskets near the dwindling fire overflowed with embroidery and knitting. A rough door to the far side of the chimney promised more space, whether that be storage or where the residence of the house slept. There was no box bed or frame in the room the doctor stood in to indicate that this was the main living quarters rather than the receiving quarters.

Swept stone floor instead of packed clay raised Eoin’s suspicion. A single window sat prominently in the south wall, a casement of imported wood and a pane of warbled glass strew light across the cupboard table. A thick grey wool curtain hung by hooks above the window and a shutter sat beneath it, ready to be put up in case of cold weather. For a small croft and a handyman willing to take strange jobs, there were a number of architectural choices that told the doctor the people of the house had a good income.

His hired hand took the drying fish from Eoin and set them on a hook near the smoking fire to finish. “Seonaid! Brought yer sausage.” The handyman sidled to the door on the other side of the fireplace. Eoin followed him, not entirely sure where to set his box. “Got a guest.” His handyman strolled into the room. Eoin did a quick one-eighty and swallowed hard. Fearchar leaned down to kiss his naked wife.

The woman, sitting on the edge of a handsome box bed built into the chimney-wall side of the room, glanced at the cloaked figure and stifled an amused snort. “You didn’t tell him what I do for a living?” She had a distinguished accent Eoin had difficulty putting his finger on. There was a lilt to her vowels but a long drawl and a soft finish to her words. Memories of a different place, marble walls in a desert sun, scuttled behind his eyes.

Fearchar’s chuckle pitched low in the bedroom, a shared expression between lovers. “Was worth it.”

“Poor kitten, still wet behind the ears.” Seonaid put a finger to her chin, her lips coming together in a cherub smile. She didn’t make a move for her clothing.

“How’s yer mornin’?” Her husband left the room to stoke the fire.

“Good! Emerson and Cormic came over. You saw Cormic on his way out, I guess. Angus and Ethan are supposed to arrive later this afternoon.” She watched the man in the beak mask intently, a small foot swinging idly over a rag wool rug.

“Sounds tae be a busy day, Luv. E’eryone actin’ gentlemanly tae ye?” Fearchar stacked flats of peat into a bricked niche in the wall and tossed a turfs under the large cauldron gently simmering with fish broth.

“Haven’t had any trouble with anyone. Not since you tossed Harold out on his ear. Seems you chased away anyone else who’d think of crossing me. Three others have skipped out on their schedule. It’s either that or the cough coming on this winter’s put them all to bed. We’ll see. Em left a bag of smoked haddock as payment. I already stored it in the cupboard for later. Cormic paid in coin. You wanna pocket it for lunch tomorrow, or should I toss it in our box?”

“Throw it in the box. Hepsibah told me thae Sarah, ye know Sarah? Seamus’s wife?”

“Yeah?”

“Sarah brought in a cone a’ sugar frae her brother’s travels tae England last month. Donnae ken how they afford thae, but word is she’s shavin’ aff chunks fur coin. Brought sausage if ye want it.” Fearchar handed the duffel to Eoin, who glanced at him and then to the man’s wife.

Cropped, tawny hair framed her heart-shaped face. Doe-like brown eyes stared up at him from under fine brows. Short and filled with curves, her presence added a glimmering bubble of laughter to the rough hovel. The woman wasn’t what a person would initially mark as gorgeous. She was what could be considered cute, though. They were an odd couple by Eoin’s considering.

“That sounds wonderful, dear,” she called after her husband. “Well.” She drew Eoin’s attention with a flick of polished nails. He shifted uncomfortably, not sure where to look now that her focus was back on him, what to do with his bags, and unable to communicate with his full hands. “So, a doctor?” She traced stitching marks on the homespun quilt under her. He nodded, trying to divert his eyes. “Nice to meet you, doc. Name’s Seonaid.”

“He’s mute, Luv. Name’s Eoin!” Fearchar called back to her from the fireplace where he had a pan and the sausages sizzling at a secondary fire next to the big cauldron. Eoin’s stomach growled. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and turned from husband to wife.

“A mute doctor? That’s different.” Seonaid rose, tucking a strand behind her ear, heavy lashes working seduction. She paced closer to better understand his costume and his height.

He stood stock-still, flicking glances through his lenses to his hired hand at the fireplace. He could not fathom this attention much longer. He had made a bad decision in taking on Widow Magaidh’s proposition to house with this man. He swallowed, his attention drawn to the soft undulation of flesh at the edge of his mask. He turned his gaze to the rafters, waiting for the woman to grow tired of her game and leave him in peace.

“Hard to tell what you’re thinking with that mask on.” She tapped the metal tip of the beak, drawing his focus away from the chasteness of the soot-laden thatching. He backed up a step and found himself pressed against the doorway. She pursued him, trying to see in through the glass of his mask. Soft breasts pressed against his leather cloak. He dry-swallowed. She glanced down his shoulders and chest she pressed up against, red cupid-bow lips lifting in an amused smirk. “Could be an interesting client?” she mused.

A shaft of sparks drove through his spine. Eoin blinked. He hoped she couldn’t see his face under the mask but feared she would feel his body’s reactions through the leather. He shifted, trying to escape the press of her skin against his cloak.

“He’s the high heidyin Aunty wanted me tae help. He paid upfront fur the services.” Fearchar tossed her the sack of coins. She eased away from the doc, gently rubbing her hip against him as she walked to her husband. Eoin breathed in a deep gulp of air and stilled the electric shock stampeding through his extremities. It was her house, and she could wear or not wear whatever she wanted. He dearly wished though for salvation.

How she could walk around naked in the chill of the house was his guess. True, the fire created a palpable warmth, but he had not been able to warm up thoroughly enough to call himself comfortable since arriving in the isles. The short woman pulled the coin purse open and counted the gold inside. “Better than my month of work.”

“There’s enough in there thae we’d ne’er huf tae work again.” Fearchar sat back to admire his wife. “To not have to stack old Aiodh’s fence again because he can’t decide if it should cut across his pasture or leave it open. Or get up into the rafters to fix the thatch jobs Barclay leaves in his wake.”

“I like my work, and I know you’d get bored of doing nothing all day.” Handing the bag back to her husband, she leaned over and kissed the tip of his nose. He moved quicker than she expected, sliding his hand behind her head and pulled her down a fraction to kiss her more deeply. Eoin found himself entranced with the entire view before returning to the reality that he was in the couple’s house watching them.

Fearchar released her reluctantly. He flashed her a sly smile. “Too true, Ah’d get right tired a’ sitting about the hoose.”

She leaned in once more and kissed him on the cheek. “I don’t know. Could find some fun?” She stole one of the sausages off the pan and made off to the bedroom, not before he could pinch her butt.

“Oye! Don’t gae stealing’ me sausage, lassie!”

“Your sausage? I thought there was a clause somewhere in those marriage vows, good sir.” She wagged the sausage in his direction, chortling, before closing the door.

Eoin set down his bag and box. What…what is going on here? He demanded, making sure his signs were slow and precise. His head was spinning, and he needed clarification.

Fearchar watched him, steadily trying to follow his hands. “Ye cursing me out?” Fearchar pointed his cooking spoon at the doctor.

Eoin sat down on the floor, unsure what to make of the situation. May I find peace from this questionable situation by Walking into the Forest soon, he prayed to himself.

“I’m a hoor, doc. I take customers here. Simple enough? I bought the house on me own and tied the knot with Fearchar when he kept pursuing me,” Seonaid’s footsteps on the slate floor echoed through the bedroom door.

“Chased her around an’ around ’til she up’n caught me.” Fearchar clapped the wooden spoon against the side of his pan to displace grease.

“Best catch of my life, followed up shortly by that salmon last summer.” Seonaid, her chemise and wool stockings in place, opened the door, and tugged her stays into shape.

“Thae wis a pure barry catch.” Fearchar turned to Eoin, drawing his arms wide to indicate the fish’s length. “Swear’s thae creature ‘s a monster. Smoked it an’ ate on it fur the next three months. Have nae been able tae eat salmon since then.” He leaned back to stare up at the rafters, a smirk brushing his lips.

The fire snapped, returning his attention to a quickly diminishing flame. Taking up a stick from the basket of kindling, Fearchar broke it across his knee and tossed it in the fire. “Say, Seonaid, ye’re learned.” She popped her head out of the door, her eyebrow raised in a question. “Mind givin’ this a look-see?” He pulled the scroll from inside his kilt and handed it to her.

“Aye, let me pull on my apron.” The curvy woman came out the door and tied the cream linen bow at her back. Washing her hands in a bowl of lukewarm water, she dried them with a thin towel before taking the scroll from her husband. Skirts brushing the swept slate, she slipped into a chair at the dining table and pulled a shaded candle over.

Eoin picked himself off the floor, joints cracking in the silence. He slid onto a milking stool, now commandeered as extra seating for the worn table. Seonaid took her time with the scroll. After Fearchar added another turf flat to the fire, Seonaid set the scroll down to glare at the masked man and over to her husband. “Thae’s quite a commitment you signed up for, Fear, love.” She handed the scroll back to him.

“So wha’s it say? Ah ‘aven’t sold me soul tae the de’il, have Ah?” He opened the scroll to stare at the scribbles.

“Just about.” She set her head in her hand to regard Eoin. Fearchar glanced up at her, his cheeks pale.

“Uh…” He wanted more information.

“So, Mr Niloofar, you want my husband to help you murder Daleroch by ingratiating you into the community, bein’ a medical practitioner in the area, helpin’ you become guid with them, and killing them all? Then he’s tae help you find a missing chest buried on Daleroch’s estate?” Thin fingers traced worn wood as she layed out the basics for her husband. Eoin shrugged and nodded, his beak mask casting an oblong rectangle of orange light across the brick of the fireplace wall.

“Crivens! Get tae feck oot!” Fearchar set the scroll down, horrified. Eoin shook his head. “Fur why the Daleroch? Ah mean, Ah don’nae care fur him or his laddies, but tha’s a wee clatty if ye ask me.” Fearchar launched himself from his chair to pace the length of the tiny room. Twice up and twice down the distance saw him return to his seat to poke at the scroll once more.

If you don’t want in on this, give me my money back. Eoin tapped the purse on the table.

“Haud up there, Waerd. Gol’s got a shine tae it.” Seonaid waved him down. Eoin’s hand fluttered. He watched the woman warily.

” Have taken a wee bit a fancy tae it.” Fearchar nodded to his wife with a wobbly smile. A knock at the door sent Eoin’s heart racing. 

“Oh!” Seonaid huffed at the interruption. She drew in a frustrated breath and shook out her skirts as she went to the door. Eoin grabbed hurriedly for the scroll and rolled it up, stuffing it back under his cloak.

Another man, shorter than the last one, peeked in around Seonaid’s short frame and nodded to Fearchar, embarrassed. His ruddy features were marred by red patches of flaking skin on his cheeks and cracked lips. The cold could really dig in. Fear waved at the man before turning back to Eoin. The doc flinched as the door to the bedroom clicked shut.

“She’s raised in London. Da’s French, mum’s Scottish. ‘ad schule ‘n e’erythin’. Supposed ta marry some uppity prick ‘n bear him lo’s a’ bairns. She ran ‘way the day ‘fore her weddin’. Could’na stand ‘im, could’na stand ‘is family, could’na stand the idea a bein’ some broodmare. Din’nae ‘elp that she figured out she was barren later. Broke her heart when she realized. The guy would’a divorced ‘er and publicly ‘umiliated ‘er.

“She ended up near Edinburgh. She could’a been a governess, or a laundress, or a seamstress. Reputable work by the parish’s figurin’s. She figured out whorin’ paid better money, though. Found ‘er when Ah came through Edinburgh on my way out ta’ battle and found her on my way back. Took quite a few months. Convinced ‘er ta come along with me back to Skye. She followed along, not without more than a couple suitors after us ta keep her back in Edinburgh.

Not sure what Ah was thinking. Ah ‘ad been paid fur my services, but it was barely ‘nough ta convince a minster ta tie us. Ah didnae ‘ave na ‘ouse ta my name. She bought it. This is all ‘ers.” He leaned back in his chair to smile up at the roughhewn rafters and thick thatch overhead.

“She found she rather likes her chosen…profession, guess’n ye’d call it. She likes ‘aving independent money that she can bring in on her own, and she values ‘erself enough fur it. Not right. She was taught ta’ read ‘n write, even learned some signs for her deaf grandpap. Quick as a whip and knows too much. Would be better than the council in the village. None a’ them’ll listen though fur what she is and does, not what she’s actually good at. Learned as she is, she’d shame a king. ‘opefully she can ‘elp ye a bit more ‘an I can.” Fearchar stretched out on the table, laying his head down. A sense of relief washed over Eoin listening to Fearchar’s protective nature come out in his opinions.

Fearchar glanced over at the forgotten duffel and box. “So’s doc, what’d ye pack in that tube a yer’s?” 

Eoin rose and stalked over to the box and duffel. He took them to the one large prep table in the kitchen area of the main room. Fearchar got up eagerly and followed him. The box held a portable apothecary with many tiny drawers containing various unidentifiable ingredients. The smell from them permeated the room, washing the house with a heady, spicy scent.

Eoin extracted a second change of his Englishmen’s clothing from the duffel, this set in a smooth cream. Following the suit: a folded pair of finely woven white silk clothing and a wide, red, striped wool belt. A rug of deep red had been used to protect several wrapped glass vials filled with oil. A small waxed canvas wrapped package followed suit.

At the bottom of the bag were preparation tools and glass bottles of varying styles. With quick work, Eoin had his apothecary set erected and ready for use. He glanced back at the bedroom door, amazed that Fearchar was ignoring the sounds from within. “Don’nae bother me none long as she’s happy. Day she says she’s done’s the day we find something else that makes us happy. Money tightens the belt, but happiness feeds the soul, and without the soul, ye’re no more ‘an a wisp. Kind a’ comes with the territory.” Fearchar shrugged. Eoin looked up at him and tilted his head. He still wasn’t sure about the man he had hired for a goon.

“Well, i’s look’n like ye ‘ave the tools fur the job ye ‘ired me fur. Wha’s next?” Fearchar picked up a vial of green leaves and seeds in oil to swirl it in the light of the fire. 

Eoin thought for a minute before rummaging in his boxes. He levelled off a spoon of finely powdered dry leaves and another of what appeared to be splintered bark. A large pot containing refined tallow emerged from the duffel. He followed the tallow pot with a small, empty jar. Studiously he mixed the ingredients with a white powder, and pressed it into thumbprint sized contianer. He held it up for Fearchar’s inspection. The hired hand smelled the thick substance. It had a bit of a tang, yet sweetness to the aroma. “So…wha’s it?” Fearchar returned the ceramic and compounded tallow to the doctor.

A click at the bedroom door signalled the man leaving Seonaid’s room. The client peeked out, his cheeks washing a mottled red. He stalled, spotting Fearchar and Eoin around a strange set of equipment.

Eoin tossed the small pot to the man, who fumbled it before popping the tight lid off it to look inside He looked at Eoin, unsure why he was now holding the whisp of ceramic.

“Doc says ta’ use that.” Fearchar pointed at it. Eoin motioned to where his cheeks would be over his mask.

“Uh…thanks?” The man dabbed his finger into the goo. He spread a thin layer of the medicated tallow on one of his cheeks and looked down at the pot in surprise. ” ‘s strong. Oye, d’ye ‘ave more a’ that? Me mate doon’a the dock needs this more ‘n Ah do,” he asked, walking over to Eoin. Within a minute, Eoin had compounded a second repeat batch of the tallow and offered it to the man. The man took a copper and silver from his pouch and glanced between Eoin and Fearchar, a bit confused.

“It’s on the ‘ouse.” Fearchar waved the coins away with an amiable smile.

“I couldnae. Stuff’s gotta be worth a bit a money if’n works this good.” The man pressed the coins into Eoin’s gloved hand. Eoin nodded, happy to help.

“Doc’s mute, dinna worry ’bout it,” Fearchar clapped the man on the shoulder, subtly shifting him toward the door.

“Ye’re actin’ as ‘is mouthpiece, Fear?” The man shoved the jar away into a pouch.

” ‘e ‘ired me ta’ ‘elp ‘im while ‘e got established. Seonaid and Ah’re ‘ostin’ ‘im ‘ere, ken?” The handyman’s grin widened, recognizing a deal when he saw one.

“Good ta’ know where ‘e’ll be. May ‘ave ta send captain up ‘ere fur ‘is goitre.” The man headed out the door, not before pulling out his new treasure to look at once more.

Sounds good, Eoin motioned after the man.

” ‘ll Look forward ta seein’ ‘im!” Fearchar called after the man as the door closed. Eoin looked up at Fearchar. “Quick ‘s a whip, ain’t ya doc?” Fearchar smiled down at the mask. Eoin nodded happily.

Seonaid opened the bedroom door and dusted off her skirts. “So, I take it ye’re taking the job, Fear?”

“Think Ah can manage some a’ it, though ye might ‘ave ta’ step in fur translatin’ e’ery once in a while, love.” He settled back into his seat. Pulling out a knife and a chunk of wood from a small lidded basket on the shelf near to the table, he peeled away ringlets of bark.

“Long as ye don’t get yourself into trouble and need me while I’m working, ‘don’t mind helping.” She straightened her stays and put on her little over jacket again. “You’ve taken the one good seat in the house.” She stuck the tip of her tongue out at her husband.

Setting away the knife, he scooted back and patted his knee. “Even comes with a bit of padding?”

“Last time you said that, we broke a chair.” She scooted a set of nested baskets out from inside one of the cupboards and settled on the robust reeds.

Husband says you can read signs? Eoin asked her, pulling the two away from getting into a teasing match.

Seonaid furrowed her brows to watch his hands before carefully signing back much more slowly, struggling to remember simple shapes. She spoke for the benefit of Fearchar, “I learned to as a little girl, but I don’t find many people here who need it.”

Everyone know you? He matched his signs to her speed of translation.

“I go out about as much as Fear here does. I have to shop for things too. I make nice with the ladies and the men. Most everyone knows what I do. I tend to keep the younger unmarried men out of trouble and relieve the older women who can’t quite accommodate their husbands anymore. If a woman thinks her husband’s been sleepin’ ’round, she usually comes to me first, and I tell her honestly what’s going on. Honesty seems to work best with the village. Bless the little old ladies down at the market; they’ve somehow kept the preacher from storming up here though and pouring fire and brimstone on me.” She sat down at the dining table, finishing off one of the cold sausages.

Eoin nodded. It still felt like a strange situation to be in. Would the people trust you and your husband if you said I was working up here as a doctor, or do you think I need to rent a shop down in the village?

“Can you say that again, a bit slower?” Seonaid brushed the hair out of her eyes. Plucking up a blue silk ribbon from a peg on the mantel, she quickly bound away the brown strays. “You have a queer dialect to your signs. I can understand most of what you say, but some of it is beyond my knowledge. Let’s see. Yes. You can probably set up here for a little while. Gain some customers. If it starts getting too crowded, you might open up a shop then. It’s a bit of a walk for the villagers to come all the way out here, but enough men do it in a day that I think the only ones that won’t come out are the little old arthritic ladies.”

He pulled the scroll he had lifted off of Fearchar and motioned to it. What about the clan?

“We’ll have tae see. Ye’ve already made a good impression on Grannd’s youngest son.” She poured water from a storage pot to fill her hearth kettle. He dropped the coins like they had burned him. “Really don’t like ’em, do you?” She raised an eyebrow at the glinting, spinning metal.

He shook his head vigorously. Vendetta.

“I don’t recognize that one.” She nodded at his hands. He looked down at them, opening and closing his fingertips, trying to formulate a different sign. With a scowl, he shrugged. He had paid them well enough. All he needed to do was take out Grannd and his sons. He needed Fearchar there, and it appeared Seonaid, to get him close enough to the man so he could do his work.

Fyskar: Ch 2

The inn door hinges creaked, drawing their attention to the shaft of light brightening the dim room. Fearchar sucked in his breath. “Get tae…plague…”

The beaked mask twitched toward him. Pinned under the glassy gaze, he shifted such that his chair squeaked. He had not been made privy to any conversation about the catastrophe coming. He would indeed have heavy work, and there would be bodies to be had if a plague doctor had come to the village. There was no denying what stood in the door frame.

The red-cloaked figure ducked at the head jamb to make his way in. The Skye man’s ire rose with the doctor’s blue English justacorps. Fearchar spun on the old woman. “Ye said nae a word a’ plague! Let ‘lone a Southron grave digger. Ah’ll be taken me gol’ coin ‘n leavin’ ‘fore the rats follow this uile-bheist in.”

“Eoin! Guid mornin’!” Widow Magaidh motioned the beaked man to their table, ignoring her tablemate. Fearchar followed the cloaked person’s movements warily. The masked figure flowed across the floor, confidence in his shoulders. He was lean, and though his frame did not take up much space, his presence filled the room. Whoever he was, he did not stoop like the old churchmen and wise women of the villages who claimed to cure the people’s ailments. Fearchar’s heart clambered to escape his throat.

The cloaked figure’s hands flitted across his mask.

“‘ ‘ullo to ye too.” Widow Magaidh mimicked the greeting. Mr Niloofar slipped into the furnishing between the old matron and the young man.

Fearchar scooted away from the doctor, pulling a swatch of stained cloth from within his great kilt to cover his nose. The cloak reaked of exotic herbs, dry heat, and unusual leather. “Ah’m nae doin’ it, Aunty. Nae working with nae consort a’ death.”

“T’is Fearchar a’ the MhicFhionghain clan. ‘e’s the grandson of my sister’s friend Rut, Eoin,” Widow Magaidh made the formal introductions. “Fearchar, this is my doctor, Eoin Impundulu Niloofar.” She turned from one to the other, her brows wrinkling in contemplation. Studying the beaked mask, she sighed in exasperation at what she saw. “I ken, Eoin. Fear’ll be able ta ‘elp ye with that little proposal of yer’s ye penned me about.” Gnarled fingers rubbed the wooden tabletop in thought, tracing the mask’s outline against the rough grain.

“Ye’r nae listenin’, Aunty. Ah says there’s nothin’ doin’. Most will come a’ this is me scuttlin’ for the mainland.” Fearchar rose from his seat.

“Sit, Fearchar. If ye really wanna be in a position ta leave this isle with more money in yer purse than ye’d see in a lifetime mending thatch and wattle, ye’ll sit ‘n listen.” A yellowed fingernail pointed at his seat.

With a sneer, Fearchar offered his hand to the doctor. Eoin gripped it firmly, shaking it in greeting. ” ‘aven’t word fur the ‘auld lady nabbin’ ye’re paid ‘elp?”

Widow Magaidh laid a steadying hand on Fearchar’s grip, encouraging the redhead to find his seat. “Eoin’s been mute fur years, Fearchar. Don’nae mean ‘e’s doaty.”

“Worse even! A silent death bringer.” Fearchar dropped Eoin’s hand and wiped his fingers on the stained cloth. A furtive motion beneath the table edge caught Fearchar’s attention. Eoin rudely signed at him under his cloak so that Widow Magaidh would not see.

Fearchar pushed himself away from the table. “Y’er clan’s nae MacDonald, aye? I’d nae get ‘tween ye ‘n William fur aw the money!”

Eoin reached under his cloak. The Skye man grabbed for the knife lying in his great kilt. The doctor, dropping a velvety pouch on the table, where it clanked enticingly, motioned the skittish redhead to it.

Fearchar hesitated, glancing between the bag and the plague doctor. Raising an eyebrow, he poked at the rabbit skin. He picked it up and peered inside. The room spun sideways as blood drained from his face. “Anythin’ ye want, Weard.” Fearchar, drawing the purse strings back together, conceded his service. Cowed and quieted, the man returned back to a more respectable position in his chair.

Eoin held out a scroll to the braided man. Fearchar took the proffered parchment and unrolled it carefully, curious as to what would cause a plague doctor to pay so much gold for a man missing the sounds of battle. “Purty script, Weard. Can’nae read worth a damn.” He handed the scroll back.

Eoin’s shoulders sagged. He turned to Widow Magaidh, his body language looking for reassurance.

Fearchar turned to her as well. “Aunty, ye take his letters to Cill Chriosd to be read, don’nae ye? I take it a min’ster’s out’ta the question with this?”

“Ah can read a bit, Fear. Find it’s much less work ‘ave’n Matew read me letters most days with me eyesight gone. ‘e should’na ken wha’s in tha’ scroll though.” Widow Magaidh sipped at her tankard.

Agreed. It should not be shown or talked of if at all possible. Eoin tugged at his gloves, settling the seams into his fingers.

“Aye?” Fearchar took a leap of faith in guessing at the man’s gestures. Eoin made the initial sign more emphatically, with an excited bob of his head this time. “I’m kennin’ that as aye then. Well, ‘ere’s say, long’es this don’nae ‘ave me nikkin’ ye the throne, Ah’ll sees what Ah can do fur ye.” Fearchar took Eoin’s signing hand and shook it.

The doctor purposefully looked down at the hand then back to signal the redhead to let go. It had been too many years since Eoin had heard the twists of words and phrases of his homeland, and, right honest, at that moment, it was giving him a headache, all the dropped syllables and elongated vowels. Nostalgic, but challenging.

Eoin poked the scroll in Fearchar’s hand, creating another simple sign with his free hand that the Skye man could guess at. Fearchar dropped the doctor’s hand. “Who’ll read it? No fear, Weard, Ah’ve a lovely lass who’ll ‘elp with that.”

Interrupting the two, Widow Magaidh tapped on Fearchar’s arm and made a more universal sign – one for coinage. The redhead frowned, an eyebrow rising over stormy eyes. “Ye willnae be lettin’ me away with this one, will ye, Aunty?”

Eoin sighed. No one could quite understand him. He had learned over the years, though, if he paid well enough, people were much more likely to make an effort at learning his wants. Girl? His hands moved once more. A child mixed into this equation had not been accounted for. Mayhaps it would be best to source another individual.

“Aye, ‘n a bonnie lass there ever was. Ah’ll introduce ye in a little while. Seems ye’ll need a place to rest for the evenin’ unless ye’ve got a bed here?”

Eoin shook his head. No, Widow Magaidh said she arranged for room and board for me. This reminded him of something, though. The masked man reached under his cloak once more for a medium-size pouch and pulled out a small box, not much larger than to hold a simple piece of jewellery. He handed the ornately carved box to the old woman. Fearchar inhaled the smooth scent of spice emanating from the wood, his eyes widening at the small show of wealth the Southron brought to the isle.

Widow Magaidh opened the little silver snap and lifted the lid to reveal many small papers folded into tight sachets. A gleam of silver under the packets flashed for a second before she replaced the top. She sighed in relief. “Thank ye, Eoin. Bless ye.” She hugged the figure tenderly, almost like she was afraid to break him. Letting go of him, she busied herself in gathering her effects to leave.

Fearchar eyed the man uncertainly as he pulled his bow, quiver, and hunting basket from under the table. “Yer cough, Aunty. It’s got better in a’ last year, aye?”

“Ye ken trust Eoin, Fear. He’s good people.”

“Time tae discover exactly what ye ‘ired me fur ‘en.” Fearchar clapped his hand on Eoin’s shoulder as he stood up. Eoin flinched at the sudden contact, shifting out from under the young swordsman’s hand. Joining suit with his fellow compatriots, he followed them out the door.

Widow Magaidh tapped Fearchar on the shoulder outside the door. He sighed heavily and fished into his newly

acquired purse to pull out a gold coin. “Ah should’a ken after the last five bets that ye don’nae lose easily when ye wager high, do ye, Aunty?” Fearchar slumped as he placed the gleaming metal in her withered hand.

“Ah am hopin’ ye don’nae, then Ah’ll die comfortable.” Her cackle echoed against the stone walls along the street.

“Y’er aff yer heid! Ye’ll probably outlive aw us.” He slumped over, mimicking a thrown back. She patted him on the shoulder, her laugh cracking as Fearchar lifted her in a bear hug and set her down. “Be safe getting up those rocks, Aunty. I’d get you back up home if you’d rather wait?”

“No worries, Fear, no worries. I’ve travelled these roads since before your parents were born. I’ll make it.” She waved to Fearchar and Eoin as the wind picked at her wool cloak and skirts. Heading toward the docks, she ambled along a street bordering the bay until she turned a corner in the rock outcropping, disappearing from their sight.

Fearchar stood in the street, absorbing a bit of the sun peeking out between clouds. Eoin got a good look at his hired hand for the first time. Dark taverns never were great places to gain an accurate impression of a person.

The Skye man was predisposed to a muscled slimness from constant active work. He was several inches shorter than Eoin but as broad in the shoulder, lending him a thicker rectangular build. An archer’s bracer protected his forearm against string slap. A sword in a worn, oiled leather scabbard clung to his left hip. Soft pelts, tanned to one side and fur turned to the man’s skin sufficed for cold weather shoes. His auburn red and hunter-green great kilt declared him part of one of the more powerful clans on the Isle. Fearchar’s brilliant freckles showed up more obviously on his pale peach skin in the dappled sunlight. Dancing eyes were a marvellous shade of the stormy North Sea. The metallic herringbone hair Eoin had noted in the tavern was stark ginger out in the open.

The crisp morning burned off the last of the low fog, leaving the muck-laiden street in contrasted patterns of cloud cover and sunlight breaking through. Fearchar wrapped his great kilt about his shoulders and turned to the man in the massive leather cloak. “Commeon. We’ll grab ‘rselves a bit to eat ta take back. My lass’ll be hungry. Di’ye ‘ave any luggage?”

Yes. Eoin circled the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and flicked his other three digits up and down.

“Right, nothin’ big? Or d’Ah need ta ‘ire a coach? Mark

usually runs the horses here, but I could see if Ben’ld hitch up fur a ‘alf.” Fearchar eyed the man warily.

No, not that much. Eoin shook a clasped hand, index finger up, flicking it away to his right. The market? The doctor pointed up the street to where the market had last been hosted.

“Seein’s ye seem ta ken where ye’re aff ta.” Fearchar motioned Eoin to proceed him.

The looming soot of open roasting pits lingered beneath low, wet clouds. Clattering livestock and the bargaining lilt of old ladies made it difficult to miss the market in the tiny village. Eoin swept up the street at a quick clip, forcing Fearchar to keep up with him. It had been so long since seeing home.

Trepidation vibrated beneath his breastbone. What if the market had shrunk? What if the vendors there were no longer familiar faces? It had been ten years. Old faces were liable to have vanished by now. These questions twisted around in his head relentlessly.

He stilled the tremble in his hand as he came up around the corner. The bristling acrid taste of smoked fish and mutton hung heavy in the crisp swirling divide between autumn and winter. Memories flooded his senses, and it was all he could do to still the constriction of his heart. Fearchar puffed at his side and peered up at him. “Ya ‘lright, Weard?”

Eoin nodded. It’s the first time I’ve seen the market in a long time, he signed without thinking.

“Ye’ should dance up’a Dunvegan come Hogmanay.” Fearchar shoved his hands between his great kilt and shirt to protect against the biting wind.

Eoin twisted his head, not entirely sure what the man was going on about. Then it clicked. My words look like I’m dancing?

“Commeon, Weard. Le’s get us some sausage. Then Ah’ll introduce ye ta the lass.” Fearchar strolled into the market. The mess of stalls that greeted Eoin was not as bright and full as the markets he was used to now, but it reflected his heritage in sombre reminder. Clouds rolled up in uneasy dark blobs and angry skirts of riled lightning smattered along the curve of the ocean horizon. Fearchar pulled at the neck of his coarse homespun shirt against a blast of wind and headed for a stall and an old woman Eoin recognized.

Beatrice. Known for the best smoked fish in the village, her stall held something new – pork sausage. Pig had not been overwhelmingly popular on the Isle ten years ago. It was too hard to keep, but she either had a competent source or found a method for raising them with her stocks.

Eoin let Fearchar take over for ordering. Sometimes it was too much of a fight for the plague doctor to be understood. He instead positioned himself to the side, finding the deeper shadows of the uneven walls, stilling himself to watch the bustle and throb of the market twist around him. A foot behind, a foot to the side. Years of ingrained habits dictated his actions as he waited on his hired hand.

“Fear! ‘ow’s the wife?” The woman smiled, showing a range of missing teeth. Her face had sunken in since Eoin last visited her stall. Sallow skin and liver-spot marked hands drew his diagnostic eye. She still had her ragged brown dress. Mended many times, it hung from her in folds. The seams had been left let out rather than taken in. He noted the haze setting in around the edges of her pupils.

It hurt, seeing someone wasting away and knowing she was at a point he could do nothing for her. He knew in that one glance that she would not see the spring following Hogmanay. She would be lucky to make the festival.

“Lass’s doin’ a’right. Keeps busy ‘s always.” Fearchar’s perfectly straight teeth gleamed in juxtaposition to Beatrice.

Eoin nodded in reassurance to himself, realizing his hired hand had not meant a child but a woman. Time from his own language had taken a toll on his understanding. Fearchar produced a small basket not more than a hands width long and three fingers deep from the depths of his great kilt and handed it to the market woman. She flipped it open to reveal a handsomely folded, oiled series of muslin cloths. Laying these out and smoothing the fabric, she and Fearchar continued with their small talk.

“Bet’n she is. Well, if ye’re in front’ta me stall, it must be yer day ta bring home dinner. Ye’ll be wantin’ yer isbeanan, Ah’d ken?” She packaged up a set of four large links before her fading eyes noticed Eoin. “Oh my!” Her dirt-stained hands flew to her mouth. Eoin took a half-step forward, fearing the old woman would suffer a heart attack at the stall in front of him.

“Beatrice, this is Eoin. ‘e’s ‘ere as Widow Magaidh’s dotair. There’s been nah notice a’ plague posted. Eoin, Beatrice. ‘e’ll be takin’ residence with the misses ‘n Ah fur the time. She’s some a’ the best èisg n’ isbeanan ’round,” he reassured his employer and the old woman. She slipped an

extra sausage link into one of the oiled sheets.

Eoin eased back on his heels and let go of the pouch at his side. He cursed at his reflex, knowing he would only scare the woman more. Passersby stared at him, whispering to each other.

“Eoin?” Beatrice rolled the name around in her mouth. “Been time since hearing the name Eoin. Knew of one once, oh my, how long’s it been? A decade? Maybe two? Was a common enough name, like Seamus and Tamhas. Ye’d ken there’d be more. Has it become common for ye Southron to steal our names like ye’ve stolen our land?”

Eoin drew in a deep breath of herb-scented air and dug into his purse. Holding up a glint of metal between his fingers, he waited for the woman to move on from her rovings.

“Coin? Might as well sell somethin’ to ye. Money’s no different comin’ from ye’r hand or Fear’s. D’ye ‘ave anythin’ ye want?” She tidied a bunch of leafy greens in a basket, trying to recuperate from the shock of seeing a plague doctor in town, let alone an English one.

Eoin pointed out the finnan haddie and put up his fingers, asking for two.

“Good choice, make for good cullen skink.” She wrapped up his package of smoked fish and handed it to him. Eoin dropped a halfpenny into her soil-stained hand. ” ‘ow’d ye…?” Her brow wrinkled at the exact change.

” ‘ere’s money fur mine, Beatrice.” Fearchar handed her a penny.

” ‘aven’t met ye ‘fore, ‘ave I?” She appraised Eoin, pocketing Fearchar’s penny absently. “Can’t say I would have. Think Ah’d remember a foreign leather if it ever passed by me stall. No. No plague has crossed our isle since the calamity near on twenty years ago. Has it been that long? Almost the whole of Bàgh Faoileag was wiped out.”

A long time ago, Eion signed, willing away an exhausted headache in dealing with the woman.

” ‘e’s mute Beatrice. Ah am ‘elping out ’round ‘ere while ‘e ‘elps Magaidh. She thinks ‘ighly a’ ‘is medicines.” Fearchar slid his basket into the pouching of his great kilt at his stomach.

“May ‘ave ta send me lad o’er ta’ ye, if she thinks like that.” Beatrice contemplated the edge of the market street. Eoin bowed humbly at the comment. Ingratiating himself into the village would help him greatly. It would also be convenient to lose the English suit it appeared.

A shadow passed along the side of his mask. Carefully, he turned his head to follow the darkness, not wanting to draw more attention. He flinched at the sight that greeted him. Deep blue and green splashed across his vision. Silvery white lines zipped through the tartan, and all he could smell was fire and blood. Ducking back further against the corner of the wall Beatrice’s stall hugged, he reached for the metal beneath his steinkirk, reassuring himself.

Fearchar finished collecting a second set of packages from Beatrice before noticing Eoin’s fixation. “Laird Grannd Daleroch ‘n one a’ his son’s – Conner Daleroch, Younger.” Fearchar watched the two men shamble through the market.

Junior? Eoin kept his hands low and blocked from the possible view of the Laird and his son.

“They’ve land up out’ta the village. We’ll pass it on the way ta’ me place. Some in the village says they nicked it from someone, but no one’ll blether ’bout it. Grannd ‘as a massive fishing fleet ‘n more pasture than most e’eryone else combined, e’en me clan on the other side a’ the Isle. ‘e’s the largest sheep flocks on this end a’ the isle. Me da’ld beat his herd numbers any day, though. Daleroch’s got power, and no one tells him no. That’s the trouble with his whole rabbit warren o’ a clan. Right crabbit scunner.” Fearchar spat. “Le’s go. Ah’d no’ wanna deal with him or his pig’a a son. Snotty, spoiled tattyboggle. ‘e married this summer, ‘n she died not bu’ a fortnight ago.” The man with the braided red hair scuffled through the market.

Died? Eoin caught at his hood before it could go flying in the wind rushing down the street.

“Dead?” Fearchar fumbled through the same motion Eoin used.

Yes. Eoin glanced back to Beatrice. The grey skies built up above her, threatening to wash out her stock.

“Dead. Yeah. She bled ta’ death a month ‘after finding out she was carrin’. Midwife we got weren’t called in time.” Fearchar slouched, his shoulders ridged, as he scuffled away from Beatrice’s stand.

Did you know her? Eoin kept his eye on the men sauntering through the market. The older tended to touch everything that caught his eye. The younger pocketed something while the Laird distracted the stalls-man.

Fearchar stopped to stare back at Eoin, sighing. “Say’s again.” The hunter shoved his bow and quiver to the side and waved his hand in a half-hearted mimic of Eoin’s complexity.

The doctor returned his focus to his hired hand and had to take a moment to remember the conversation they were holding. Did you know her? Eoin exaggerated the signs, allowing Fearchar to see each one individually.

“Ye.” He picked up, pointed back at Eoin. The man in the mask nodded, then made the sentence again. “Lady.” Fearchar tried. Eoin bobbed his head in a give or take way. The word woman could be used interchangeably for older she and her also.

“Mind.” Fearchar pointed to his head in the same gesture Eoin had made. His employer tried the sentence again. The word ‘know’ was hard to have people guess at. Pronouns were simple to comprehend. Intangible concepts were more difficult to elaborate upon without enough basic structure in the rest of the language.

“Did Ah mind her…Nah?” Fearchar shook his head after doctor’s signed no. Eoin reached out gingerly for Fearchar’s hands and waited for the man to willingly give him them. Fearchar flattened his lips before letting the doctor manipulate his hands. With patience and work, Eoin guided Fearchar’s hands to make the shapes once clearly before letting go.

“Did Ah…”

Eoin made the sign again.

“Did Ah ken her?” Fearchar guessed.

Eoin nodded vigorously, including the circled forefinger and thumb flicking away with the middle, ring, and pinky finger spread. He loved it when people made an effort.

“Tha, bha mi eòlach oirre. Southron fop cannae understand gaelic. Tha mi sgìth de seo mu thràth. Yes, I knew her. We grew up t’gether in a village on the other side a’ the hills. She’d an older brother that watched out fur me when we’d go get ourselves into trouble. Pity he died a’ winter cough a few years ago. Don’t think he’d a’ let her come o’er ‘ere ta tie with that bassa otherwise.” Fearchar buried his hands back under his great kilt. The chill wind of the sea picked up his braids, beads and bone clacking together.

It took all Eoin’s will to keep his skin from crawling. He forced himself to stop looking back at the men and keep up with Fearchar. They stopped once more on the outskirts of the market for one last thing Eoin wanted. Bannock was something he had not had since leaving the isle. He wanted his first meal there to be every good memory he had of the place.

“Le’s go ‘trieve those bags.” Fearchar pulled his great kilt closer around his neck as the wind picked up. Eoin nodded, wanting to be done with the place full of memories.

They tramped through the icy mud of the market street back passed the tavern to the dock. The morning was burning off into the early afternoon when the two men arrived at the boat.

The captain waved. “Mr Nilofar, good timing!” He jumped to the dock and clumped up to the men. “Ah see ye brought help! Guid help at thae! How’re ye doin’, Fearchar?”

“Weel, Romney. How’s fishing?” He shook the man’s hand.

“Would be better if Daleroch wasn’t overfishing our bay,” the man groused. He walked off to the end of the hill of cargo.

“Don’t remind me. Jist saw ‘im down in the market with ‘is lad. Gonna take the long way ‘round.” Fearchar pursed his lips as he crossed his arms.

“Haw, Fear!” The captain’s son waved from the deck above. The young man pulled a rough woven bag out of the cold box in the decking and approached Fearchar, his face going crimson. “Well, here’s a sack of cockles for the missus for last time.” The captain’s son dropped the sack from the railing.

“Guid man. She’ll be richt giddy.” Fearchar caught the sack, its contents clicking together. Checking the content and nodding to himself, he heaved the bag over his shoulder.

“Ah huf leave in two weeks, Ah’d – Ah’d like tae visit thae Sunday.” The captain’s son smoothed at his wrinkled shirt, eyes failing to meet Fearchar’s earnest gaze.

“Ah’ll have tae ask her about it, but she can get ye a message, or Ah can if she’s the time.” Fearchar shifted away from the edge of the peir, tangling the bag of cockles with his bow. The captain’s son nodded with a small smile before vanishing into the nether of the boat. Blowing out a frustrated breath, the handyman fought with the two items to get the sinew and chords uncrossed. Soon enough, his braids made their way into the nest. Eoin stepped in cautiously, holding up placating gloved hands as Fearchar glared at him. Eventually, the man stopped struggling and let Eoin pick him apart.

Freed, Fearchar readjusted his hold on the bag. “Thanks.”

Eoin ducked a nod. He had a challenge on his hands, figuring out how to work with the man Widow Magaidh had found for him. Fearchar was well known in the village. This could be a problem for the doctor’s plans.

The captain returned to them with a large box slung across his shoulder and a dark oiled duffel. He set them down in front of Eoin, and the doctor pulled a coin out of his pocket.

“When ye need me, send a pigeon.” The captain handed him a scrap of paper. Eoin pocketed the scrap and shook the man’s hand. The captain left the pair on the dock to continue his work of unloading more cargo from his seemingly bottomless ship.

Fearchar poked the box and backed away when it rattled. It was unusual: tall, the length of a man’s torso and shoulders. Bequeathed with silver engraved hardware and black stained leather straps it’s polished finish reflected angry clouds overhead. Eoin picked it up, pulled the straps to adjust them, and shifted it to his back.

Fearchar shifted a step from the doctor and the box, scratching his beard with a cocked eyebrow. “Braw box, Waerd.”

Eoin shrugged and reached for the duffel.

“Ah, come now. Ye’re payin’ me tae be some hired hand. Might as well do a wee bit a’ liftin’.” Fearchar motioned for the bag. Eoin, willing to have the help, invited him to it. The handyman’s eyes bulged at the weight. “Guid lor’, wha’ ye keep in here, a cookin’ pot?” Fearchar slung the bag onto his back. Eoin twisted his head and twitched his beaked nose toward the beach end of the dock.

“Shall we?” Fearchar pointed to the street bordering the bay. The delta lay not far from it. Their footsteps on the dock echoed hollowly in Eoin’s chest. The chipped rock and mud of the shore clung to his boots with the added weight of the box.

They followed the path past a dry waterfall. It would flood in the next month; Eoin checked his geographic memory. He’d need to remember that if he wanted to make it back to the village safely.

Fearchar led Eoin on, ascended into the hills beyond the village. The terrain, rocky sparse, did not yield the ruts of carriages. Instead, the paths slipped and dipped away from the cliffs, threatening to dump less nimble-footed travellers into the fridged sea below.

They wandered the road for the better part of an hour and a half, passing tiny hovels here and there. The pathway swung west, inland, by midafternoon. Climbing through the scrub, Eoin watched the birds dodge and weave through the low-lying clouds as a thunderstorm dumped rain out on the horizon. Upon seeing the lightning approaching closer, Fearchar pushed them to ascend the path quicker.

They approached a massive two-story rock house perched atop a hill, similar in style to the wattle and daub Tudor houses in London. Near the road leading to it was a burned-out roundhouse, fallen in from decay. “Daleroch’splace. Looks out on a private bay thae he uses tae dock.” Fearchar shifted the pack on his back and spat.

Eoin studied the building, noting the overgrowth of weeds near the house, and the spare chicken coop off the back, collapsing in the shadow of a separated wing. The man might have money and power, but he did nothing to tend his possessions.

The sun lay halfway to setting, and the chill of late autumn settled the storm along the ridgeline of the hills before Fearchar pointed out his own little domicile. A pottage garden in the throes of accepting the impending winter occupied the frontage. It was a nondescript rock croft with a byre off to the back like many of the others Eoin had passed along the way. The familiarity of its placement caused his stomach to churn. A rough chimney and tight, clean thatch designated it as a new residence. It had been built upon a burned-out foundation. Smoke from the new chimney climbed into the dim sky, leaving the walk up the drive smelling like memories Eoin would rather have left buried.

Review: Dungeon Kurashi No Moto Yuusha

Subscribe to keep reading

Become a paid subscriber to get access to the rest of this post and other exclusive content.

Subscribe

Fyskar: Ch 1

The winds blow across Old Man Storr.

The mists settle about the lochs.

Clouds trail across the high reaches.

In the highlands, I am at home again.

— in the year of our Lord 1692

At the end of his date, the dark bloom of ink sent the man in the deep red leather cloak scrambling for the blotting paper. His nib needed cutting.

“Mr Niloofar!” The captain’s cry jarred the man’s attention from his journal. Mr Niloofar flinched, his gloved hand brushing the dark blue liquid across the vellum. Beneath the plague mask, he glowered at the offending materials and reached for the bottle of setting powder.

The hatch creaked, sending a shaft of light to scatter dust motes in the hold of the ship. The masked man shielded his face against the blinding crescent. The captain, in a simple brown kilt and homespun shirt, clumped down the narrow stairs while Mr Niloofar shifted his calligraphy set around, still in a panic for the paper. The ink was seeping, wicking down the side.

“Ye awake, Mr Niloofar?” The captain approached the cloaked figure. Furtively, the man in the hold shifted the plague mask low on his face and held out a stilling gloved hand to the captain. Unable to see the movement, the captain continued his approach in the cramped space. Close enough to Mr Niloofar’s makeshift desk of crates, he stopped with a frown to study the mess his guest was making. “If ye come out now, the fog’s risin’. Ye’ll see Bàgh Faoileag comin’ up along the ridgeline.”

The masked man waved the captain to his job. Dragging his effects together, Mr Niloofar put away inks and pens into a leather satchel. The setting powder had ended up in the bottom of the bag. He pulled it out and dusted the papers. While he waited for the documents to dry, he shoved his satchel into an oiled duffel bag leaning against the box he had commandeered for his ruminations.

The man shifted a short rectangular box no larger than his torso from under his makeshift cot of canvas and rigging. The pages set, he tied them into his leather folio and eased it into a slot in the box. He tugged the duffel to check the weight. Nothing had been moved in it, save for the satchel. The padlock on the chest next to it gleamed under lamplight.

Pulling at the hood of his floor-length cape, he flicked a glance to the stairwell. Setting his jaw, fingers trembling, he tapped the top of the box, contemplating. He was not ready to see home. The slap of the ocean against the hull walls did nothing to ease the knot in his chest. He shook his fingers, banishing the tell. Trying to draw in a breath against his constricting throat, he reached into his cloak hood to adjust the steinkirk threatening to throttle him. Metal at the tips of his fingers drove his fear to the back of his brain. Closing his eyes, he slipped along the rolling twist of gold hidden beneath the silk tie holding his collar together. A Brent Goose’s honk shot an arrow of nostalgia through his heart.

Pushing past his cerebrations, he took to the end of the hold. The ladder steps were shallow, and he jammed his knee on a tread as he emerged. Tripping forward into the dawn, he swallowed the view in front of him.

Salt hung thick in the cold, damp air. Waves slapped and harassed the tar-smeared hull of the birlinn. The oars bruised and harried the ocean, seeking a purchase to move a scant length forward. The breeze cut through the leather cloak, probing and slashing. The drifting scent of fish and the bark of seals made his eyes water. It had been too long since he had seen these shores. Land floated into view in the murky; a fog-laden sunrise cast the hills in blood and fire. Buildings popped up through eddies of brume along the edge of the bay, marking the village -centre of Bàgh Faoileag.

He ignored the captain and his son clattering about the deck. Mr Niloofar lost himself in the sights and sounds of home. Ten years he had not felt his feet on his own land. His heart twisted, and heat spread under his eyes at the view. He found solace in the mask that hid the tears flowing down his cheeks from the captain and his men.

The plague doctor settled himself into the crook of the foredeck, watching over the bowsprit as mist rushed across the top of the walls in bursts and tendrils. The last half a mile to the dock was an excruciating practice in patience. 

Faces he would never see again swam across his memory with every tree and shrub emerging in the gloom amongst the coastline’s ancient volcanic rocks. They bobbed in and out with the tide, up into the shallows to scuttle away amongst the algae and cockles. Memories, bemoaned by fate and fire, trickled down boulder faces and dashed away in spots of teasing laughter. He curled his fists around the wood at his fingertips, fighting to bury the longing he had to see skirts and kilts in a sky-blue shade shimmying along the shore.

With a clack and thunk, the boat eased up to a slew of posts and water-logged decking, stretching ghostly fingers through the murk. Dock-hands yelled back and forth with the men on board to tie the birlinn off. The masked man turned from his position at the bow, headed for the lowest point in the vessel’s middle, and jumped to the slick boards. His cloak billowed up around him, allowing a burst of cold air to strip away his warmth from his sky-blue Southron suit. The man sighted on the end of the dock, the road leading up to the realm of familiar. The dock hands jumped back from the commotion. One crossed himself, his face draining of colour when he saw what hid the cloaked man’s face. It never was a good sign when a beak doctor swept into a village.

“Mr Niloofar, sir!” The captain bellowed from his ship. The man, impatient to be about his morning, turned to the portly seaman, sparks of sunlight glinting off his mask, casting green dots across the planks. “We’ll get yer luggage aff an’ waitin’. Go get yerself fed an’ come back wit’ a hand. Straight up frae here ‘n take a right’ll put tae the howf.” The captain pointed the doctor in the direction of the main thoroughfare.

He waved his thanks and turned back to continue his ascent into Bàgh Faoileag. Squaring his shoulders, he grimaced, willing nerves to hold together. The weight of the leather cloak did little to still the thrum of blood in his fingers. He considered he should have shortened the hem when he commissioned the garment. It would inevitably drag in the mud and snow.

A large gold and turquoise circular brooch pinned the mass of leather to his right shoulder. The hood drooped over his eyes, shading him from the blinding morning sun that popped between the horizon and the overhang of looming clouds threatening to burst.

The buffed camel leather of his gloves, matched to his mask, gleamed in the frost-bitten air. The thin felt lining kept his skin warm against the isle’s insistent chill. Brass fittings around the green glass of his beak mask provided a macabre pair of eyes to his appearance. The stitching was meticulous, not worked at great speed, but with love and dedication for the craft. The mask possessed a pair of dark canvas faux nares in an illusion of an avian face. At the end of the beak, the silver cap had been manipulated to create a division between the mandibles and the deadly-looking tip. Overall, the impression was that of an exotic scavenging bird enclosed in a shawl of its own feastings.

Ice-prickled air swept under his cloak as he traipsed up the rocky slope that would take him deeper into the village. The red leather billowed about him, startling roosting birds into flight. The breath of the sky swirled and groped, trying futilely to find a purchase into his vestments. Though his spadderdashes and boots hugged his calves and crawled their way up, trying to caress his knees, they could not quite reach, allowing a pair of pure white silk stockings to peak out between their edge and the hem of his breeches. A little old-fashioned, tucking them under the hem, but it felt more comfortable to him that way. Less likely for the ribbons to come undone. Not that much could be seen of them save for the sky blue almost white justacorps that skimmed the matching breeches’ hem edge.

His gloves, which held back the ballooned sleeves of his justacorps, were fitted to the fingers. Decorative stitching ran from the tips to the centre top, where it merged into a bird with its wings outstretched. The cuffs were a wide funnel, clasped tight with a button at the wrist. Edges of the leather were bound with carefully patterned embroidery. The left glove drooped with a large, red, knotted bobble and tassel at the cuff. The tightness and the swinging mass were reassuring in their familiarity as he approached what had once been home.

Mr Niloofar knew where he was going, as long as the Taigh-seinnse Druma is Flasg had not burned since he had last seen it. Rock, Tudor-style buildings rose on both sides of the street. Raw sewage crept in a melting runnel down the middle of the path. He hugged close to the east side of the worn structures, enjoying what warmth he could glean from the foggy sunrise.

Not much had changed. He recognized the older villagers and could guess at the lineage of the younger beginning their morning chores. They skittered out of his way, though, when they noticed his looming presence. All they saw was a haunting figure signifying death that had been at best second-hand news from years ago.

A smoking peat fire sputtered in the tavern’s fireplace. Reflector oil lamps hung strewn about the rafters, illuminating the shadows the morning sun had not yet banished from the dim room. The acid smell of burning rush and beef suet mingled with the peat, leaving the building coated in an earthy scent A clatter of dishes resonated from the kitchen hidden behind a thick wood door. To match the cacophony, a hoarse cough rattled against the plaster walls in the main room.

“Widow Magaidh, ye’re lookin’ peely-wally. Ye should get thon hack looked efter!” The inn maid called from the kitchen door as she pressed the impendence with robust hips. She swung to the main hall, her hands full of plates and a massive jug of thin, warm ale. Setting the dishes behind the slab of tree trunk hewn to serve as the bar counter, the maid turned to regard her guests with a worried frown.

An old woman in a homespun dress and apron sat near the single large window in the tavern, staring out at the road and the rising sun. She waved the inn woman off. “Waste yer time worryin’ on someone other than me, Hepsibah. Ma doctor’s comin’ tae look efter me soon!” Widow Magaidh chortled back.

“He better come wi’ a golden cure, fur how lang ye’ve

gone on with thon rattle!” The innkeeper cackled back, taking up a series of glasses to polish with her apron.

“Knowin’ him, he micht make thae happen,” Widow Magaidh whispered conspiratorially to the kilted man at her table.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he regarded her under thick brows, his storm grey eyes flashing. Bright red hair, pleated into many small coils and decorated with glass and bone beads, was tied away from his face to create a massive cascade of copper down his back. A short beard hugged his chin, though a moustache lacked at his upper lip. “Ah dinnea ken, Aunty. Dinnea a draught frae a tincture.” He muddled his bannock over the top of a late season apple fritter, leaving crumbs in a small pyramid on his thin clay plate.

Widow Magaidh waved away his nervousness as she would a fly in summer. “Yer heid’s full o’ mince, Fearchar. He asked fur someone tae do heavy work fur him. See’s no reason ye’d have trouble with thae.”

The fire at the hearth freshly smoked that morning, leaving the room damp and cloudy. Fearchar washed down what little breakfast he had consumed with the ale, now cooled from Hepsibah’s earlier ministrations. He wrapped his great kilt tightly around himself, wishing he was back home in bed with his wife. “Ye ne’er mentioned na doctor a’fore now an’ ye take his medicines. He guid, Aunty?”

Hepsibah emerged from behind the counter with a serving tray. “Ye done murd’rin’ yer breakfast, Fearchar?” She took Widow Magaidh’s plate. He nodded his head morosely. The portly little woman took his dish, displeased with his handiwork. “Tell that lassie a’ yer’s nae waste her time away in thae wee hoose in them hills. She should cummeon an’ visit more of’en. Then maybe ye’d have manner tae eat yer breakfast like a proper man.”

“Hepsibah!” He leaned over the table in feigned dejection.

She whacked him lightly on the shoulder and spun away from the table to take the plates to the sinks. “It wert stale anyway.”

“Na, Ah thought it was jist out’ta the o’en!” He joined in with her teasing.

“Awa’ an bile yer heid!” She disappeared into the back of the inn, the door closing behind her with a soft click. Dishes clanked in the quiet left in her merry wake.

“Now, Aunty Magaidh, who’s this dotair ye’ve got comin’ in?” He turned back to the ancient matron sitting quietly in the opposing chair.

“Jist ’cause ‘e’s someone Ah knows an’ ye don’nae,

don’nae make him a chancer, Fear. He’s become a good doctor since last Ah saw him.” Her reassuring smile did little to allay his fears. She gained a far-off look in her eye as her gaze settled on the window, and the raised corners of her creased lips fell into a deep frown, wrinkle lines sinking in to reveal her fragile age. He waited, knowing when she wandered through her memories, it could be many minutes before she returned to the conversation. She returned after a time, lifting her face back into a hollow smile. ” ‘e needs some’n ta ‘elp ‘im while ‘e’s ‘ere. Jist for a bit.” The rims of her crinkled eyes reddened. Moisture built along the edges.

He was none too pleased with the situation. Honestly, what was his grandmother’s friend expecting from him? His grandmother, upon her deathbed, requested he help Widow Magaidh as a last favour. After moving from the far end of Skye three years ago, befriending the woman, and finding a niche of handy work in Bàgh Faoileag dry stacking and thatching, he still did not quite understand where Widow Magaidh travelled when her mind wandered. “Aunty, Ah am nae scholar nor wet nurse – “

“Oh, haud yer wheesht. Ye’re perfect fur what ‘e asked fur.” She patted his arm.

He stole himself against her reassurances. “Less’n ‘e needs fresh bodies, Ah’m nae his man, Aunty Magaidh. Ah never learned ta good book nor to hold a nib. Ah kin nae keep numbers. Ah’m nae apothecary. The best Ah kin is the difference ‘tween uil-ìoc and caorann. Learned it the hard way.” He fingered his empty cup, unable to meet her gaze.

She shrugged again, waving his self-pity away. “Ye fought valiantly on the mainland, Fearchar. Ah heard about yer adventures. Sure’s ye’ll be useful. An’ here’s this.” She reached into her pocket. Holding out her gnarled hand for Fearchar’s inspection, he inhaled sharply. Looking from her hand to her face, he studied her to see if she was serious. “Gold coin sayin’ ye’ll help him.” Her misty eyes danced above her toothless grin.

Not like he had a gold coin to his name, but he would be a fool to turn her down now. Unless her doctor was also a general, he saw no good reason to partner with the man. “Ye’re on.” He shook her hand over the bet, knowing what a surprise it would be to bring home a gold coin for his lovely little woman.

Review: A Discovery of Witches

Summary

In this tale of passion and obsession, Diana Bishop, a young scholar and a descendant of witches, discovers a long-lost and enchanted alchemical manuscript, Ashmole 782, deep in Oxford’s Bodleian Library. Its reappearance summons a fantastical underworld, which she navigates with her leading man, vampire geneticist Matthew Clairmont. – Amazon

Review

Should I even be doing a review on this book? It’s not new to me. I’ve read it every October for the last five or six years. I genuinely love the series – though the ending with the love interest still baffles me a little, but the overall setting and character design keep me coming back year after year even with that issue.

Yes, I’m writing up my reviews about a month ahead of schedule. I wanted to genuinely enjoy the spooky season without the pressure of having to get a review out in a couple of days. One of those things where I should have thought about this back in August when I wanted to do a bunch of spooky books in October. But, September has felt so pleasant that I didn’t want to read those things ahead of time to get the posts out when it would make ‘advertising’ sense.

Alright, so, what is it about this book that gets me every season? I’m genuinely curious. I love the dark academia vibes of the library in the opening of the book. I like the thought out magic system that has ‘understood’ rules and the discovery that some of those rules can be broken.

Yes, the ‘main character doesn’t know how powerful they are because their parents sealed their power as a kid’ trope is something that might be overplayed in YA and manga, but you know what, I like reading those tropes, so if it’s something that gives you the feel goods, this book does that. I think that’s the thing with this is that it has appealed to my age bracket for a while. I’m post academics. But I’m still young enough to not find the main character and LI’s interactions ‘young love’-ish.

Both characters have their flaws. There are moments where they misunderstand each other, but the series doesn’t depend on them being a constant big misunderstanding. When that is the only motivation for a story, I tend to DNF because people just need to learn to talk to each other.

I love the family members in this too. I love both the MC and LI’s units. They are distinct and their homes are built to be cozy in their own ways. That can be hard to write, and even harder to make both family units to be individual, well rounded, and yet loving. Often one in-lawesque person or another is always turned into some kind of villain. The fact that the MC and LI have tragedy, but stability from their homes is something I come back to every time.

The editing is smooth and the vocabulary level stays relatively constant throughout. There are instances where I run across a word or two that seems really GRE, and that has more to do with the word only being used once in the whole of the series. I can’t think of the one that got me this go around with my reading, but it’s just something that I notice.

Do I hate that in the series, Em is killed off in the way that a lot of lgbtq+ folks tend to be killed off in main stream media? Yes. I do. I don’t think it was necessary. The shock factor of it feels flimsy in the second book and the time taken with it in the third book does not do justice for why that particular trope was allowed to make it’s way through the editor’s paws. I digress.

The series has flaws in execution. At least in terms of major cadanence and logic. The concept of a council that has to work together to make sure that the different creatures don’t mingle is…mingling? It’s left in the air a bit as to if it just means productive intercourse. At which point, you have to wonder if they council just targets high profile peeps. My logic in asking that question is: “Have you ever seen teenagers in high school? You’d be amazed where they do things. There’s a reason most public schools have a couple of pregnant girls graduating every year.” If people are going to do the horizontal tango or vertical…some folks are a bit more physically fit than others…they’re going to do it. And a matter of minutes is easy to get away from prying eyes. It’s the marriage/equality/flaunting that you’re dating someone not like yourself bit that seems to be more of the issue, I guess? If you really have to think on it, the premise starts to fall apart because of the coordination of the council. But, if you’re reading the book not for critical thinking and it’s symbolic reflection of politics and racism/sexism/homophobia, then the council can work for the story.

I find it an issue that I willingly overlook every October because I genuinely still enjoy reading the series. I suspect that there are already a lot of people who have read it with varying degrees of enjoyment. So, I doubt I’m telling ya’ll anything new with this review. But, I felt like talking about one of my favorites. So, here you go.

Review: Skeleton Soldier Couldn’t Protect the Dungeon

Poor Mister Skeleton, you’re having a bad afterlife.

It’s a Groundhog day-esque feature of one soldier who’s experienced the death of his friends and masters just enough times to nope out of doing it one more god-awful time. The effect is he gets himself to trip through resurrection…again…and again. I don’t think that was his plan at all, but after his first resurrection ends with his succubus master dying and him desperate to not die, and doing so anyways, he’s resurrected by a necromancer twenty years into the past and decided that he’s not going to let people die on his watch again. From that point, he starts re-experiencing resurrection every time he screws up enough to die. Again.

Thankfully, the manhua doesn’t have us re-experience that too many times to enforce the point that the poor bloke is going through a hell-loop of destiny. It forces him to become stronger and more intelligent as he desperately tries to survive a terrible choose-your-own-adventure-story style life. This type of trope is fantastic for developing OP characters that I adore reading.

I’ve read this one a couple of times now. Three times, I think. Once when it was at 150 chapters, then started over when it hit 265. Now I’m starting it over again because – jeez, when did it go into the mid-300s? I guess if it’s popular and people keep reading it, there’s no good reason to stop making it, as long as the story keeps flowing smoothly.

Honestly, when I got into the manhua the first time, I genuinely liked where it was going and was ready in that 150 chapter area for it to wrap up tidily. Then shenanigans happened and the story got a little lopsided and hard to follow. I figured after the second time I read it, that I’d set it aside, come back to it in a year or two (hoping for a completed manhua) and reread it from the beginning once more to see if the story made cohesive sense at that point.

Genuinely, it does help make a lot of things clear, just starting from the first chapter. The skeleton is sent 20 years into the past from the point that a lot of conflicts happen in the mid-200s section of the arc that was leaving me baffled last time I read everything. Sometimes when it takes a long time to release an entire story, facts get forgotten by the reader.

The art style to this is punchy and decent with solid linework that makes the art feel grounded and like it wants to be a graphic novel. The faces also aren’t terrible. The color work has a bit of an ink or watercolor on thick cold-press feel to it adds nice contrast to the story. It keeps the content on the edge of gritty rather than going with bright, smooth coloration, which might have made the tone a bit more cheerful.

When I said the storyline gets a bit wonky, it’s primarily a sense of scale, and the volume of characters you gradually pick up through the read. At a point, it feels convoluted and you are left questioning if the direction this arc or that arc took was integral to the story. The art style, the action sequences, and the puzzles are what hold the story up through those sagging middles and makes it just a bit more forgiving for turning into such a long-winded piece.

Regardless of it’s length, I genuinely would love to watch an anime of this – at least a 24 episoder done by the same studio that handled Solo Leveling (which I still want the entire manhua turned into an anime for that one, but that’s for a different review). The 3d graphic rendering in that was sublime, and I can imagine it doing wonders with this manhua as well.

Do I suggest it? Yes. When you either have copious time on your hand, or are willing to take several weeks or months parceling it out. I think even if you don’t read much of it, do take a moment to appreciate how many panels the artist had to draw out bones. I can appreciate the amount of talent it takes to just draw a flesh body, the dedication to bone work while accounting for scale and posing is impressive.