Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2) Page 4

  “Wow,” Maggie opined as Iain nodded proudly and returned the Harris magnet to the cash register with a satisfying smack, “that was really unhelpful.”

  Iain’s shoulders dropped noticeably. “Well, my apologies, Milady,” he said sarcastically.

  “No, no, the story’s fine.” Maggie waved her hands at him. “Very interesting. And very well told, I might add.”

  Iain bowed his head politely at the compliment.

  “But,” Maggie continued, “it doesn’t really explain the ‘fairy’ part.”

  “Och, right,” Iain finally understood. “That’d be the fantastic tourist version,” he explained.

  Maggie smiled. “By all means, then. Tell me the fantastic tourist version.”

  Another debonair smile lit the Scotsman’s face, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Woold ye like th’ toorist accent, as weel, then?”

  Maggie crossed her arms. “Please, no.”

  “Ar’ ye shoor then, me lassie? It’d be nae trooble at all.”

  “Aye, Ah’m quite shoor,” she mimicked. “And don’t call me ‘lassie.’”

  Iain laughed. “All right then. The Fairy Flag,” he announced in his usual Scots lilt. He looked up at the ceiling as if about the deliver his report on ‘What I Did this Summer.’ “Back in the day—”

  Maggie immediately interrupted. “Which day?” She wanted to get the details down.

  “Ah,” Iain flashed that ‘you’regoing-to-buy-a-kilt-from-me’ smile, “no one kens for sure. It was long, long agoo.” He stopped and smiled. “‘Ago.’ Sorry. It was long ago, in the legendary prehistory of the Clan MacLeod, when the Chieftain was a good and handsome man—and all the young ladies who had the good fortune to meet him quickly fell in love with him.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes. Or so he thought.

  “One day,” Iain continued, “the Chieftain was walking across a bridge when he encountered one of the Shining Folk—a bean-sidhe.”

  “You don’t speak Gaelic,” Maggie instinctively interjected.

  “Just enough for the tourists,” Iain flashed another smile. “Besides, bean-sidhe is practically English anyway: ‘banshee.’”

  “Thanks for the translation,” the Ph.D. candidate in Celtic languages said sarcastically. “Good accent, by the way.”

  “Thank you. I think I even know what it means. ‘Shining woman,’ right?”

  Maggie smiled. “No, actually.” She liked correcting a Scotsman’s Gaelic. “‘Bean’ does mean woman, but ‘sidhe’ doesn’t mean ‘shining.’ I think it’s an old word for ‘hill.’”

  “Hill woman?” Iain questioned.

  “Yeah,” Maggie double-checked the translation in her head. “Didn’t they used to think the Little People lived inside the hills?”

  “‘Shining Folk,’” Iain corrected, “not ‘Little People.’ And I think that may be right. It sounds familiar.”

  “It might also come from bean-sìth,” Maggie hypothesized aloud. “It sounds the same—‘she’—but it’s spelled: s, i-accent, t, h. It’s an older word for, well,” she sought a concise definition but found none. “It kinda means the fairy realm, kinda means magic, things like that.”

  “Alright, then: bean-sìth.” He tried the word on for size. “‘Fairy woman.’ ‘Woman of magic.’ Right. That’ll work with the story.”

  “Oh, well, good.” Maggie returned the smile. “Glad to have helped.”

  “Hm.” Iain considered whether interruptions—even informative ones—were really all that helpful. He decided not to voice his thoughts. “Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, the Chieftain was crossing a bridge when he came upon the fairy woman—for as we all know, the Shining Folk are often encountered over bodies of water.”

  “Of course,” Maggie agreed perfunctorily.

  “Well, when she laid eyes on the dashing young chieftain she too was overwhelmed by his beauty and goodness, and she fell immediately and deeply in love with him. And this time, the Chieftain also fell deeply in love with her.”

  Iain paused and pulled another magnet from the cash register to play with absently while he continued his tale.

  “But this bean-sìth wasn’t just any bean-sìth—she was the daughter of the King of the Shining Folk. The Princess of the Fairy Realm. She went to her father and asked permission to marry the MacLeod Chieftain. But the King forbade it.”

  Maggie found herself frowning at this development.

  “Shining Folk were forbidden from marrying humans,” Iain explained. “Humans grow old and die, but Shining Folk are immortal. And the King didn’t want to see his beloved daughter’s heart break.”

  A wrinkle creased Maggie’s brow even as she nodded at this logic.

  “But the King could see that his daughter’s heart would be broken in any event if he prevented the marriage, and so he relented and allowed her to marry the mortal. But the marriage could last only a year and a day. After that, his daughter would have to return to the fairy realm.”

  The crease deepened.

  “So, the Chieftain and his fairy bride were married in a joyous festival and nine short months later the Clan could again celebrate—this time the birth of a son to the happy couple. But time couldn’t be stopped, and soon enough the year and a day had passed, and the King of the Shining Folk appeared to take his daughter home. Only now the daughter’s heartbreak had been doubled, for she had to say goodbye not only to her beloved husband, but to her infant son as well.”

  Dang, Maggie thought.

  “Before she left, however, the Princess made her husband promise two things. First, that her son should never be left unattended, for she couldn’t bear the thought of him being alone. And second, that her son should never be allowed to cry, for she would be able to hear his wailing even in the fairy realm and she knew she wouldn’t be able to bear the sound of his cries. The Chieftain promised his bride these two things, they kissed one last time, and then…they parted.”

  I don’t think I like this story, Maggie decided with a pout.

  “Well,” Iain sighed heavily, “the Chieftain was heartbroken. And his unhappiness was felt throughout the Clan. Nothing could rouse him from his depression and he withdrew inside the walls of his castle. Eventually, though, his son’s first birthday approached, and the people of the Clan decided to throw a great festival in celebration—and in the hopes that it might pull the Chieftain from his melancholy.

  “The festival was a success. Everyone danced and sang and rejoiced, and eventually even the Chieftain himself came out of the castle to thank his clansmen. So grateful was he for their love and support that he too began to dance and sing and celebrate the anniversary of his son’s birth. Meanwhile, his yearling son was still inside the castle, sleeping peacefully and attended by a nurse. But the nurse could hear the joyous celebration and even though the Chieftain had given her strict orders to remain with the child, she nevertheless crept out onto the castle roof to watch the festival. And the young boy was alone.”

  Uh-oh, Maggie’s eyes widened at this development.

  “Sure enough,” Iain continued, “the little boy woke up and began to cry. But with all the celebration, no one could hear his cries—no one save his mother in the fairy realm. Well, as soon as she heard the wails, she instantly returned to her son’s side. She picked him up and wrapped him in a silk blanket, cooing in his ear and quieting his cries. Then, just as the nurse finally returned to her post, the Princess set her son in his crib, kissed his head, and disappeared in a flash of light.

  “Years later, when the boy had grown, he told his father of what had happened, and how when his mother had cooed in his ear, she had told him to keep the silk blanket for protection, for it was enchanted. It would protect the Clan MacLeod—the clan of her child—but only that clan and only three times. Anyone not of the Clan who should touch the enchanted silk would disappear into a cloud of smoke. Thrice the Clan could use the magical fabric to summon the Shining Folk to their aid—but only thrice, after which the silk would disappear
forever.

  “It’s said,” Iain couldn’t help but exaggerate his brogue as he approached the finale, “that the silk blanket was turned into a flag and has been used twice to summon the Shining Folk to the aid of the Clan. Once to stop the invading forces of the Clan MacDonald from eradicating the Clan, and again to reverse a cattle plague which threatened the entire Clan with starvation. And now the Clan MacLeod has only one use left—one more time they can wave the Fairy Flag thrice in the air and summon the Shining Folk to their aid, before the prophecy is fulfilled and the Fairy Flag disappears back to the Fairy Realm.”

  Maggie stood silently as Iain concluded his presentation, squeezing the magnet in his hand triumphantly.

  “How was that?” he asked finally.

  “That,” Maggie nodded, “was perfect.”

  Iain smiled broadly. “E’en wi’oot the’ accent?”

  “Especially wi’oot the accent,” Maggie replied deadpan. Then she snatched the magnet from Iain’s hand and looked down at the radiant sun and its motto, ‘Luceo Non Uro.’ After a long moment, she returned the magnet to the cash register and took a step toward the door. “Thank you, Iain. You’ve been a great help.”

  “Are you leaving then?” Iain was surprised by her sudden departure.

  “Yeah. Sorry, but I’ve gotta go now. The conference starts up again soon.”

  She smiled, but her eyes held that far-off look—another look Iain knew only too well.

  “Well goodbye for now,” Iain offered. Then added, “You’ll be sure to notify me before you run off on some fool’s errand, right?”

  “Hm?” It took a moment, but her eyes returned to focus on his and a sardonic smile cramped her mouth. “Oh, of course,” she laughed. “I’ll probably need a ride.” Then she turned again and Iain Grant watched with his own smile as the pretty young American exited into the bright Aberdeen morn.

  6. An Old Gaelic

  “Tapadh leibh. Thank you.” Prof. Robert Hamilton concluded his address to the twenty or so students, faculty and interested others who had come to his half hour of fame at the University of Aberdeen’s Summer Institute of Irish and Scottish Studies. It had gone rather well, he thought. “I’ll be happy to linger and answer any other questions you might have.”

  “C’mon, Ellen.” Maggie stood up and grabbed the arm of her sandy-haired Scottish friend. “I want to talk to Professor Hamilton.”

  “Aye. I expected as much,” Ellen smiled, displaying her large, white teeth. She dislodged her arm from Maggie’s grip and pointed to the glossy brochure she held in her other hand. “But don’t dally too long. I don’t want to be late to the presentation on Scottish devolution.”

  “Right,” Maggie quickly agreed as she stepped into the line which had formed to speak with the professor from the University of Edinburgh; Maggie was third in line. “This’ll just take a minute. I want to go to that other one too. Sounds very interesting.”

  “Are you interested in home rule for Scotland, then?” Ellen asked, a bit surprised. Maggie’s interests had always appeared more linguistic than political.

  “Well, not exactly,” Maggie frowned. “I mean, I’m not not interested in it. But I was thinking they might talk about some other stuff too. Like whether they’ll ever make Gaelic an official language. I think it’s ridiculous that Welsh is an official U.K. language, but Gaelic isn’t.”

  “Plenty of people speak Welsh, you know,” was her friend’s reply.

  “I’m not saying Welsh shouldn’t be an official language,” Maggie tried not to sound exasperated. There was just the one person ahead of her now. “But Gaelic ought to be too. It’s offensive.”

  Ellen had to laugh. “And you’re not even a Scot.”

  Maggie laughed too. “Maybe I’ll get naturalized.”

  Before Ellen could reply again, Maggie stepped forward and grabbed the academic’s hand. “Professor Hamilton!” She shook the old man’s hand warmly, and a bit too enthusiastically. He was in his early 70s, with a neatly trimmed white beard descending from a wispy wreath of white hair around his otherwise bald and age-spotted cranium. Rather large, thickly framed glasses hid his intelligent eyes, and his slightly stooped figure was draped in a tweed jacket, brown sweater and brown pants. “My name’s Maggie Devereaux. I’m so glad finally to meet you. Honored.”

  “‘Honored,’” the old Scot repeated with a laugh. “I’d no idea my reputation extended across the Pond.” He’d recognized her accent. “Are you American, then?”

  “Yes,” Maggie practically admitted, “but I’m studying here at Aberdeen. For real. Like a real student. Not study abroad.”

  Take a breath, Devereaux, she told herself.

  “I’m pursuing,” she gathered her wits, “my doctorate in Celtic Studies. Gaelic.” She pronounced this last word ‘Gah-lick,’ like the Gaelic word for itself, Gàidhlig.

  Hamilton’s bushy white eyebrows raised in genuine amusement. “An American who speaks Gaelic! How wonderful! Well then, what can I do for you?”

  Ellen looked impatiently at her watch, but Maggie ignored her.

  “Well, I’ve kinda started to focus my research on Old Gaelic and—”

  “You have?” Ellen interrupted. “I thought you’d abandoned that direction.”

  “No, Ellen,” Maggie’s voice was almost as icy as her stare, “I haven’t.” She turned again to Prof. Hamilton. “Anyway, I wanted to ask you a question about your article from last year. The one about that long lost dialect of Old Gaelic?”

  Hamilton’s face was a blank.

  “The dialect used primarily in religious ceremonies?” Maggie prompted.

  Still no reaction; the same puzzled frown.

  “There’s no actual record of it? You just hypothesized its existence from a few references in surviving works from the same period?”

  “Ah, yes.” Finally the light bulb went on. “Yes, the so-called ‘Hamilton dialect.’”

  Hamilton-Devereaux dialect, Maggie smiled to herself. “Right. That one.”

  “Sorry,” Hamilton removed his glasses and rubbed them on his jacket. “I’m afraid that was not one of my better papers.”

  Maggie was stunned by this characterization.

  “I think I’d been a bit too hopeful on that one,” Hamilton continued. “Too eager to see something that wasn’t really there, I suppose.”

  “Oh, no!” Maggie protested rather too loudly. Hamilton quickly replaced his glasses and stared at the young American. “No, not at all,” she continued more quietly. “In fact, I— I think you were exactly right. I— I want to— That is— I’m hoping to find proof of the dialect. Proof of its existence.”

  Ellen stared at her friend in disbelief.

  “Well, then,” Prof. Hamilton chuckled. “I wish you luck. The paper wasn’t very well received, I’m afraid. It actually provoked a rather caustic reaction from one of the faculty here at Aberdeen. MacInnes, was it?”

  “Macintyre,” Maggie Caroline NicInnes Devereaux quickly corrected, lest her own ancestry be impugned.

  “Right. Macintyre.” Hamilton frowned at the name. “Rather overly hostile, I thought.”

  “Yeah, well, he had his own issues.” Maggie decided not to relive the unpleasantries just then. “In any event, I think you were right. In fact, I know it. But— But do you have any more information about it?” Her voice almost betrayed her desperation.

  Hamilton rubbed his bearded chin and frowned at his feet. After several moments—wherein Ellen let out only two rude sighs—Hamilton slowly shook his head. “No, Miss Devereaux. I’m afraid not. Everything I had I put in that paper.”

  Maggie frowned defeatedly. “Okay. Well, I guess—”

  “But—” Hamilton interjected with an academic’s grin. “If you’re really interested in Old Gaelic religious texts, I may have a suggestion.”

  “Yes?” Maggie’s eyes widened. C’mon, Hamilton. Give me something good.

  “Old Gaelic,” Hamilton observed slowly, “is the same as Old Irish. It’
s merely a difference in nomenclature.”

  “Right.” Maggie blinked at this most elementary truism of Gaelic studies.

  “And there’s an exhibition,” Hamilton continued, “of Old Irish religious texts going on right now at Trinity.”

  Maggie blinked again. “Trinity,” she repeated.

  “Trinity College,” Hamilton elaborated.

  Maggie nodded slowly.

  “It’s in Ireland,” Ellen broke in.

  “I know that,” Maggie shot back. “I was just thinking.” She paused. “So there’s an exhibition?”

  “Yes,” Hamilton answered. “As I said, of Old Irish religious texts. It’s actually a rather extraordinary exhibit. Illuminated manuscripts, by their nature, are usually in Latin. They were produced by monks and as I’m sure you know, the Church rather looked down on the use of the vernacular until, well, 1968 or so. But these manuscripts are in Old Irish. Mostly translations of the Bible, although I believe one of them is known as the ‘Spellbook of Ballincoomer.’”

  Maggie’s eyes lit up at this title.

  “So, that exhibit might be worth your time,” Hamilton continued. “But you’ll want to hurry. I do believe it ends soon. Perhaps next week.”

  Maggie completely failed to respond. She appeared to have forgotten anyone else in the room. Ellen stepped forward instead and shook Hamilton’s hand, “Thank you, Professor Hamilton. It was good of you to talk to us.”

  Hamilton smiled warmly. “You’re welcome, miss. And good luck to you and your friend.” Then he turned to speak with the man in line behind them.

  “Are you ready finally?” Ellen asked Maggie as she pulled her away by the elbow.

  Maggie’s brow was creased in distant concentration, but she managed to shake her head and regain her wits. “Er, yeah,” she stammered. “I’m finally ready.”

  And as Ellen fairly stormed out of the lecture room, Maggie trailed behind, a hopeful smile playing at her lips.