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Authors: Bewitching the Highlander
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voice.
The three gasped and spun about to face the speaker.
An old man stood beside a wind-tortured tree, his gnarled hands fisted on the top of his oaken cane.
“Who are ye?” asked the oldest of the trio. His shaky voice was filled with bravado, but he did not seem to mind that his companions were huddled close to his side.
“I am of na concern, lads, but he that rests yonder…” He shook his head and limped forward, a bent old man with hard years behind him. “Him I’d leave be if I cared to live out me life in peace.”
The threesome glanced toward the sepulcher and back. “But he’s dead.”
The old man eased himself onto a crooked stump. “Sure of that, are ye?”
The tallest lad scrunched his face. “He’s been in there since afore I was born.”
Humor shone on the gaffer’s lined visage. “So long as that?”
The boy scowled. “Who are ye, ol’ man?”
The ancient visitor eased back a mite, saving his back. “Them that know me call me Toft.”
“Toft?” the three whispered in unison and huddled still closer together.
“So ye’ve heard of me.” The old man nodded, happy. “’Tis good to know. ’Tis good indeed.”
“Ye are the Wanderer,” whispered the littlest lad.
“The last remaining of the Black Celt’s unearthly line.”
“Mayhap na the last.”
The youngest boy had curled a tight fist into his brother’s oversized tunic. “Ye’re here,” he whispered, gaze never roaming from the old man’s face. “But where else be ye?”
“Hush,” warned the eldest, but dared not turn toward the small one. “’Tis naught but rumor.”
Toft shuffled his hands on the smooth curve of his cane. “What rumor is that, lad?”
Eyes shifted back and forth. The scrawny boy was scowling. “’Tis said ye have…a gift.”
“A gift, aye? Well, truth be told, we all have gifts, lads. When ye be me own venerable age, ye may well see that it be a gift simply to awake in the morn.” A frog croaked. The smallest boy jumped and squeezed close to his brother’s side. “Or to hear the call of a—”
“’Tis said ye can be two places at once,” rasped the grubby, dark-haired lad.
“Ahh.” The old man nodded slowly, as if he were very nearly asleep. “That be a fine gift indeed, but—” He rose to his feet. The boys crowded back. “’Tis naught compared to the gifts of the lad what lies beneath that stone.”
The small boy’s knuckles twisted hard in his brother’s shirt. “Be he truly the Black Celt’s son?”
“His son?” The gaffer shook his head. “A rumor, lad, naught more.”
“Just as I said,” hissed the dark boy, and poked the blond lad with a bony elbow. “The Celt was na wed.”
“Wed?” The old man’s eyes sparkled in the uncertain light. “Nay. He was na. Na back when the world was new.” He sighed, heavy and deep. “But there was a maid.” He seemed to be looking back, remembering a time long before his own. “A bonny, enchanting woman na man could resist.”
“The Golden Lady,” whispered the small one. “She was a witch.”
“A witch?” Toft nodded slowly. “Aye, I suspect that is what we would call her in this age. A witch, an enchantress. The most beautiful of women. And deadly. None could resist her. Not the Celt nor the Irish Hound who befriended him. But when the Celt learned of her betrayal, he rejected her. Her fury knew na bounds, for never had she been turned aside.”
“She cast a spell,” whispered the tiny lad.
“Aye, she did that,” agreed Toft. “She turned the warriors to granite until the day they could right the wrongs. ’Tis much the same with yon hero,” he said, and nodded toward the sepulcher. “He sleeps until he must rise to set things right regarding his kin.”
Silence echoed in the misty vale, then: “How will it happen?”
“Magic!” said Toft, and his voice was suddenly
loud in the darkness. The boys cowered away in a clump.
All mouths were open, all eyes wide.
“There be a curse
The three gasped and spun about to face the speaker.
An old man stood beside a wind-tortured tree, his gnarled hands fisted on the top of his oaken cane.
“Who are ye?” asked the oldest of the trio. His shaky voice was filled with bravado, but he did not seem to mind that his companions were huddled close to his side.
“I am of na concern, lads, but he that rests yonder…” He shook his head and limped forward, a bent old man with hard years behind him. “Him I’d leave be if I cared to live out me life in peace.”
The threesome glanced toward the sepulcher and back. “But he’s dead.”
The old man eased himself onto a crooked stump. “Sure of that, are ye?”
The tallest lad scrunched his face. “He’s been in there since afore I was born.”
Humor shone on the gaffer’s lined visage. “So long as that?”
The boy scowled. “Who are ye, ol’ man?”
The ancient visitor eased back a mite, saving his back. “Them that know me call me Toft.”
“Toft?” the three whispered in unison and huddled still closer together.
“So ye’ve heard of me.” The old man nodded, happy. “’Tis good to know. ’Tis good indeed.”
“Ye are the Wanderer,” whispered the littlest lad.
“The last remaining of the Black Celt’s unearthly line.”
“Mayhap na the last.”
The youngest boy had curled a tight fist into his brother’s oversized tunic. “Ye’re here,” he whispered, gaze never roaming from the old man’s face. “But where else be ye?”
“Hush,” warned the eldest, but dared not turn toward the small one. “’Tis naught but rumor.”
Toft shuffled his hands on the smooth curve of his cane. “What rumor is that, lad?”
Eyes shifted back and forth. The scrawny boy was scowling. “’Tis said ye have…a gift.”
“A gift, aye? Well, truth be told, we all have gifts, lads. When ye be me own venerable age, ye may well see that it be a gift simply to awake in the morn.” A frog croaked. The smallest boy jumped and squeezed close to his brother’s side. “Or to hear the call of a—”
“’Tis said ye can be two places at once,” rasped the grubby, dark-haired lad.
“Ahh.” The old man nodded slowly, as if he were very nearly asleep. “That be a fine gift indeed, but—” He rose to his feet. The boys crowded back. “’Tis naught compared to the gifts of the lad what lies beneath that stone.”
The small boy’s knuckles twisted hard in his brother’s shirt. “Be he truly the Black Celt’s son?”
“His son?” The gaffer shook his head. “A rumor, lad, naught more.”
“Just as I said,” hissed the dark boy, and poked the blond lad with a bony elbow. “The Celt was na wed.”
“Wed?” The old man’s eyes sparkled in the uncertain light. “Nay. He was na. Na back when the world was new.” He sighed, heavy and deep. “But there was a maid.” He seemed to be looking back, remembering a time long before his own. “A bonny, enchanting woman na man could resist.”
“The Golden Lady,” whispered the small one. “She was a witch.”
“A witch?” Toft nodded slowly. “Aye, I suspect that is what we would call her in this age. A witch, an enchantress. The most beautiful of women. And deadly. None could resist her. Not the Celt nor the Irish Hound who befriended him. But when the Celt learned of her betrayal, he rejected her. Her fury knew na bounds, for never had she been turned aside.”
“She cast a spell,” whispered the tiny lad.
“Aye, she did that,” agreed Toft. “She turned the warriors to granite until the day they could right the wrongs. ’Tis much the same with yon hero,” he said, and nodded toward the sepulcher. “He sleeps until he must rise to set things right regarding his kin.”
Silence echoed in the misty vale, then: “How will it happen?”
“Magic!” said Toft, and his voice was suddenly
loud in the darkness. The boys cowered away in a clump.
All mouths were open, all eyes wide.
“There be a curse
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