Chapter Two

Tarbat Ness Point, Scotland

Midsummer 1599

"S ame blood but a pure soul sacrificed for the lie told."

"I know, Mama." Ethne tried to coax another spoonful of gruel into her poor, addled mother's mouth. She had no idea what the old woman's words meant, and it didn't matter. All that mattered was that the dear soul needed to eat. Mama was wasting away to nothing. "A bit more, aye? Ye've grown so weak with not eating. I shall have to take in yer shift yet again."

Her mother turned away from the food, then stole a look back at Ethne and lifted a knobby finger. "I be Morrigan-the-least. Daughter of Morrigan-the-lesser. Granddaughter to the vile Morrigan-the-wicked. Hear me, child."

"I know, Mama," Ethne patiently agreed, determined to keep her mother calm. With a heavy sigh, she set the wooden bowl aside. Whenever Mama chanted her ancestry, all hope of getting her to eat was lost.

Her mother offered a weak smile. Her weary eyes crinkled at the corners. "But I didna curse ye with the witch's name." She lovingly rested her calloused hand on Ethne's cheek. "Not for ye. My precious Ethne. Much too good for our vile bloodline."

"Ye saved me, Mama." Ethne carefully eased her mother back down onto the threadbare pillows of the narrow bed. "Ye are the good one. Taking me in when my own blood abandoned me." Ethne didn't know the truth of her ancestry. Superstition and fear had caused her kin to leave her on the fairy mound because of her different-colored eyes, one blue, one green. Them and the devil's mark on her throat, a jagged red splotch that her dear foster mother had said resembled the North Star—a truer point never to be found. "Now rest, aye? Rhona will be here soon so I can tend to my errands."

"Ye mean to leave the offering at the ruins?" Ethne's mother offered a hopeful smile. "I am glad for it. Each day ye go. Never shirking the need to right a terrible wrong." She caught hold of Ethne's hand and gave it a weak squeeze. "Promise ye will go until yer wee legs can carry ye there no more? Ye will never forget, aye?"

"I will never forget, Mama. Today, I'll take a bit of the fried bread left from supper. And the last of the spring herbs." Ethne pulled the covers higher around the thin woman's shoulders, then gauged the amount of life left in the dwindling fire in the hearth. Perhaps another stick of wood. The tiny dwelling seemed overly warm, but with not an ounce of fat on her bones, her poor mother shivered and complained of being cold on the balmiest of days.

The length of the shadows creeping across the floor concerned Ethne. Rhona had promised she would finish with the man from the village with plenty of time to spare. Bless Rhona's generous soul. If not for her bit of coin for the use of their only other room, Ethne doubted the three of them would survive. Those from Tarbat Ness shirked them because of the wicked one's curse from almost two hundred years ago. Well, the men didn't shirk Rhona because she was the village harlot. But all of them hated Ethne and her mother. And Ethne supposed it was rightly so after so many had fallen to the curse and met their tragic end after hearing the haunted mist's pipes.

Their hatred and threats to stone her forced Ethne to make the long walk to the next settlement to fetch the things they needed with what Rhona earned. It was a hard journey alone. Especially in winter. But with a patch hiding one of her eyes, Ethne made it without complaining. When the angels took Mama away, she would leave Tarbat Ness, but not before. Only because Mama had begged her to stay. Begged her to make the wrong right. Her mother's belief in her made her smile. Make the wrong right? How in heaven's name could she bring peace to a haunted mist and free Tarbat Ness from the curse?

"Forgive me, Ethne. I know I'm late, love." Rhona held tight to the tattered curtain covering the doorway, all the while tugging her kirtle back in place. She paused and glanced back, staring at something in the other room. The hinges of the rear door to the cottage creaked, then it rattled shut with a solid thud. Only then did Rhona relax and turn back to Ethne. "His son and brother came too." She smiled and opened her fist, revealing three shining pieces of silver. "Now ye can buy that wool to make Mama a heavier shawl before winter."

"Bless ye, Rhona. Ye are as good as gold." Ethne added the coins to the drawstring bag she kept hidden behind a loose stone in the hearth. She hated that her dear friend had to submit to men who would never treat her the way she deserved, but without Rhona's sacrifice, they would all die a slow death of want. She hurried over to the only table in the meagerly furnished room.

"And there's still plenty of time for me to go." Ethne glanced back at her sleeping mother. "I can make it to the ruins and give him his supper well before nightfall." Anticipation at seeing him again lifted her heart, making it flutter.

"Why do ye love that cripple ye discovered living among the ruins?" Rhona gave her a teasing nudge. "Ye nearly fretted yourself sick over him this past winter."

"I did no such thing." Ethne placed as much of the fried bread and herbs that she thought they could spare into her errands basket, wishing there was more. His face was so gaunt. He needed a joint of meat, a keg of ale, and a kettle brimming with boiled vegetables and gravy. But that was not to be, and he always seemed so grateful for what she brought. It made her heart ache to have so little for him.

Along with the food, she packed an old blanket she had mended. It wasn't much, but it might shield him from the wind that never stopped roaring through the ruins of Castle MacDanua. After a moment's hesitation, she tucked another flat of bread inside the folded cloth. She had eaten once today. That was enough. He needed her share more than she did.

"Ye must eat too," Rhona quietly scolded, reading her thoughts as easily as a book.

"He needs it more," Ethne said, tucking everything snug into the basket. "I feel bad for him. He is like us, I think. But worse because he has no one."

"An outcast too, then." Rhona perched on a stool beside the table, propped her elbow on it, and rested her chin in her hand. "If ye want, he could stay in the other room this winter." She nodded faster, as though warming to the idea. "Leastways, he'd be out of the wind that way."

"Ye need the other room," Ethne gently reminded her, wishing it wasn't so.

"Oh, he'd have to come to this side whenever the men came," Rhona said. "Long as he did that, we'd all get along just fine." She perked like a cat after a wee mousie. "Ye said he finally quit hiding whenever ye went there, aye?"

Heartwarming satisfaction at finally winning him over made Ethne smile. "Aye. We even talk now. Some days not much, but we always visit a bit. Seems like more each time." The same warm contentment she felt whenever she was with him filled her. Maybe she did love him because he eased the ache of her loneliness. He was the kindest man she had ever met.

"Then ask him to come and stay," Rhona urged.

Ethne glanced over at her mother again and shook her head. "I fear it would upset Mama worse than ever. She is saying the words more of late."

"Same blood but a pure soul sacrificed for the lie told," Rhona softly repeated while settling a worried look on Ethne's mother. "Poor Mama. What does it mean? Do ye ken?"

Ethne shook her head. "Only Mama knows. She said her mother told it to her right before they hanged her from the same tree where they hanged Morrigan-the-wicked."

"'Tis a wonder they didna hang Mama," Rhona whispered.

Ethne fisted her hands atop the table, stricken with the urge to run over and hug Mama against all the evils in the world. Bitterness soured in her soul as she eyed the horrible, puckered scar covering the left side of Mama's face. "They said she was too simple to be as evil as the others. But they feared the Morrigan bloodline enough to burn their hatred into her face so none would ever forget her ancestry."

"Cruel bastards thinking themselves so holy." Rhona stood and jabbed a finger at the next room. "The same ones who sneak to my door and pay for what their wives willna do. 'Tis a wonder they didna burn ye as well."

Ethne touched the mark on her throat. "They said the devil had already branded me as one of his own with this and my eyes." She huffed a bitter laugh. "So now they simply threaten to stone me to keep me away from the village."

"Ye should throw the rocks back at them."

"Aye, and then we would all be burned alive here inside our wee cottage." Ethne tucked the handle of the basket into the crook of her arm. "Better to keep our lives and a roof over our heads, ye ken?" She pointed at the bowl of gruel on the floor beside the bed. "If she wakes before I return, try to get her to eat more. She'd had naught but a small sip when her mind wandered."

Rhona nodded, then cast a concerned glance out the window. "Mind the hour, aye? I dinna want ye out there when the mist comes."

"I'll be fine. The days are longer, with it being midsummer."

"Mind the hour," Rhona repeated in a sterner tone, then gathered her into a fierce hug. "We canna lose ye, Ethne. Mama and I could never bear it."

"Ye willna lose me. Keep the fire going for Mama, aye?" Ethne eased her way free, then hurried out the door. A glance at the horizon gave her pause. The sun was much lower than she'd first thought. But she had to go. Her dear friend needed his supper just as Mama had needed hers. The poor man whose name he kept to himself would blow away if a stout wind hit. And fierce winds raked across what remained of Castle MacDanua all the time. She had decided that was why her reclusive friend held so tightly to his staff with both hands. He was half bent and with one eye covered with a rag wrapped around his head, it was hard to know his age. His dark, shaggy hair held hints of silver, but very little. But it didn't matter his age. His one good eye held kindness and maybe even a glimmer of caring.

She smiled and pressed her hand to her chest. She hungered for that kindness and caring. It was a rare treat compared to the hatred and fear she always received from others.

After a quick glance up and down the narrow road, she broke into a run. At least she had the way all to herself by waiting until this late in the day. Nary a soul braved the outdoors when dusk neared and brought the threat of the haunted mist with it. The villagers stayed inside with their windows shuttered and their doors barred until dawn.

Ethne scurried down the path unafraid. Years ago, she had caught the first few strains of the mist's lonely song. The eerie pipes had entranced her. The troubled melody broke her heart and made her ache to hear the rest. She had wept for the ghost of the poor chieftain of Castle MacDanua and hated the horrid Morrigan-the-wicked even more.

Then Mama had yanked her away from the window, sealed it tight with the board on the ledge, and sang ancient words that Ethne didn't understand. She had circled Ethne, chanting them over and over until well after sunrise. Frightening Mama in such a way had made her feel so terrible that she never risked listening to the pipes again.

"Friend?" she called out as she climbed over a low spot in the crumbling wall that once guarded the impressive stronghold that had watched over Tarbat Ness. The east tower still stood at the cliff's edge. Surviving with it was the keep, although part of its roof was long gone. Time had shorn off the other towers, collapsing them into nothing more than mounds of stone. "Friend?" she called louder. She strained to hear above the incessant wind and the sea's crashing waves. "Are ye here?"

"It is late, Ethne. Ye shouldna be here."

His deep voice made her heart beat faster. It always did. It was as though her soul recognized his and leapt for joy. She turned and spotted him in the shadowy doorway of what might have once been the family kirk. She hurried over to him, lifting her basket for him to see. "Ye had to have yer supper. I couldna bear the thought of ye going hungry."

"I would be fine, lass," he reassured her gently but firmly. "Now hie yerself back to yer home. The haar comes soon." He didn't look at her, just glared downward with his jaw set and his knuckles white from his grip on his staff. Had she angered him by being late?

"I've plenty of time." She took the blanket from the basket, shook it out, and draped it around his bent shoulders. "I mended this for ye. It's not much, but I thought it might help keep the wind from cutting ye so."

His sad smile made her want to pull him close and console him as if he were a frightened child. She held herself back, fearing she might upset him even more. He still didn't lift his gaze and allow her to look into his deep blue eye, which always held the kindness she needed.

Leaning against the wall, he took one hand off his staff and tugged the weave closer around his neck. "I thank ye, lass. 'Tis a verra fine gift I wish I could repay." Then he tilted his head and looked at her, surprising her with a tender touch to her cheek. "Hie yerself home, dear Ethne. I beg ye."

"Come with me." The words tumbled out of their own accord. Surely, Mama would be all right with such an act of kindness. "Come with me," she repeated, covering his hand with hers and holding it tighter to her cheek.

His smile faded, and he sadly shook his head. "Go. Ye would never make it in time with me at yer side."

She cast another quick look at the horizon. He was right. She would have to run to make it home before the sun dipped out of sight. A glance at the sea revealed the mist creeping toward the shore. "I could stay here and plug my ears with my fingers."

"No." The word rumbled from him like the snarl of a cornered animal. He backed deeper into the shadows, shaking his head. "Ye will go to yer home. Now. Ye ken?"

It hurt to see him so upset, so unsettled. Ethne hurried to empty her basket, placing the bundles of bread and herbs in the cracked holy water font beside the door. "Daren't ye fret. I'll make it home safe, and tomorrow I shall come early enough so we might have a longer visit, aye? And I'll bring ye some of the berries I found."

Shuffling even deeper into the shadows, he shooed her away with a wave of his staff. "Aye. Now go. Run for yer life, Ethne. The mist is almost here."