Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (56 page)

Two: His recordings—solos, combo, quintet, and orchestral; Christmas, hits of various decades, ska, jazz. His world had been awed by the speed with which he arranged and recorded his albums. They didn't seem important next to what Hugh and his men were setting out to do. They were nice, the CD's. But recording them had taken no courage or nobility; no risk. They wouldn't change the course of history. Indeed, what he mostly remembered now was the look of pain in a young man's eyes—one of the drummers hired to play on the CD—as Shawn sidled next to his girlfriend and lured her away. Insects chirped a deep night symphony around him.

Three: Caroline, the red-head, a dozen others, Amy. But no wife to mourn him. Caroline, he knew, would find some rising star to replace him rather quickly. Amy had tired of him. He wondered if she'd even come back to the castle for him. Nearby, men rustled in their sleep. Allene rolled, suddenly, close to the embers. Shawn sat up, alone among the sleeping men. He reached under her shoulders, eased her safely from the fire, and lay down again, wondering what else he'd left behind. It took him several minutes.

Four: A few students he'd taught, occasionally. They'd find other teachers. They wouldn't miss him or stare at his picture, as he stared at his father's; no child to carry on his name and legacy and what had been important to him. He thought about these men here in the forest, willing to die for their children. He had not been willing to settle down for his.

Central Scotland

Niall crossed the wooded ridge of the rounded hill, to the northern side he knew. His thighs and calves ached with a slow, dull burn. Crisp afternoon air reached through his long sleeves. Birches rose around him, pines before and behind, shading the bright sun down to a soft yellow haze.

A high-pitched
screeeeee, scree, scree, screeeeeeee
split the quiet. He shaded his eyes with his hand and stared at the sharp-beaked face of an osprey, perched on a branch high above. Sunlight stabbed down among the leaves behind it. Were osprey, like wolves, extinct in Shawn's time? Regardless, they lived near lochs. And Hugh's camp was near a loch.

He stared up through the trees at the sharp peak on his left; studied its twin to the east. They were sparsely forested, not the heavily-wooded crags he'd known.

Doubts assailed him. Had he spent a day jogging toward a fairy hill, a pot of gold? There were many lochs, and the osprey's loch was not necessarily Hugh's. Maybe the peaks looked different because he was still in the wrong place, rather than the wrong time. Maybe the switch could only happen with himself and Shawn in the same location, and maybe Shawn had already left. Maybe Shawn had never come. Maybe he and Allene were already dead. There was no reason to come back, if Allene was dead.

The osprey cried out, and rose, skimming up over the trees and out of sight.

He followed its flight till he could see it no more, then closed his eyes, the weight of the questions heavy on his shoulders and sour in his empty stomach. He missed his coffee. His knees sagged under him, hitting the soft earth; hands touched the ground and head bowed, too tired to go on. The ache throbbed in his thighs. God, he pleaded, Can You give me any reassurance that Allene is safe? Give me strength. He thought of Amy, scared at the bottom of the trail. Had he abandoned her for nothing? Or, if he had crossed back to 1314, would Shawn find himself in his own time, bewildered and lost in the mountain wilds?

He dragged in a deep, calming breath.
It is enough, oh, Lord! It's too much! I never knew how small I was. I have to trust you. And I'm not sure I do. Give me faith. Help me!

He opened his eyes and fell back, sitting on the ground with his elbows over his knees.
Let's say you're in the right place.
He forced the thoughts through his weary mind.
You would hear a waterfall, and look for the rock like a horse's head and bigger than a man.
He sat still another moment. His head drooped on his chest.
God, I'm so tired and discouraged.

But it must be done. He heaved himself to his feet, eyes closed, listening. A breeze rustled the oak leaves on his right. Birds warbled. A branch creaked. He opened his eyes, searching his lush green surroundings. A squirrel darted up a tree. A deer peered from a thick cluster of alder. There was no waterfall.

It would have been farther down the mountain, he thought, and set off down the northern face. Only after stopping to listen for the fifth time was he rewarded with the soft burbling of moving water. He broke into a run, pushing through pine branches that slashed back behind him, and frightening a red fox that darted away in a flurry of short legs and bushy tail.

The bubbling grew, his spirit soared, and he pumped his legs faster, till there he saw it! Hidden like a jewel among the thick forest, the water rushed over a series of stepped rocks, whites and blues a joyous sight amidst the greens. A smile broke out across Niall's face. His heart filled to bursting. He fell to his knees on the bank, splashing his grubby tunic and hands and face and chest in the water, laughing out loud. He threw his head back and shouted, "Thank you!" to God, somewhere above the soaring treetops. If he followed it far enough, he'd find the rock shaped like the horse head. He splashed across the narrow stream, heedless of soaking his boots, thrilling to the cool water on his aching calves. He bounded out on the other side, and down the slope, heedless of tree limbs tearing at his face. And there, where the land dipped, if he turned....

It was there! A bare rocky wall in the forest. It still bore the rough shape of a horse's head, though greatly softened around the edges. He remembered Hugh standing under it, even Hugh's great height barely reaching the top of the rock, and pointing to the entrance of the labyrinth that led to his secret camp. Niall closed his eyes for just a moment in silent prayer, tremoring to reach Allene, before bursting around the rock.

It was forest, just forest like all the rest he'd seen for days on end. There was no trail, no maze.

* * *

It didn't seem much of a legacy, Shawn thought, gazing into the night campfire. He didn't even know anymore what was important to him. He turned, tugging his cloak over his head and seeking respite in sleep, but none came.

After some time, he sat up again, staring into the embers, and turned, with limited hope, to itemizing how he would be remembered by those who knew him.

Great in bed. Well, Amy hadn't thought so lately. He wrapped his arms around his knees. The fire warmed his face despite the cool night. When had she begun to pull away and look reluctant? Was it a year ago?

Well, he was a great one for a party, anyway. He chuckled, remembering Edinburgh, the chandelier swinging crazily and the waitress. Man, he and Rob had had the time of their lives! Conrad had warned him about the orchestra's reputation; demanded he tone things down. Some people, he realized, might not miss his parties. Or him.

Arrogant.
The word popped unbidden into his mind. He gritted his jaw. He'd ridiculed those who didn't join his parties, or play as well as he did, or laugh as loud, or drink as much. He'd had things to say about Aaron's seraphic longing and waiting for Celine, in a public bathroom on their tour in the south. They were clever, witty things, sly references to Shawn's own approach with Celine, and everyone laughed. Aaron emerged from a stall into their sudden silence, face dark and jaw tight, washed his hands and left without a word. Shawn and the men around him had burst into laughter as soon as the door shut.

Was it his imagination, or did the fire grow several degrees warmer, till he could hardly stand the heat flushing his neck and face?

But surely Amy didn't think that of him. She'd loved him, always, coming back to him time after time. He poked a stick in the embers. A spark shot straight into the air with a small sizzle, and died. He re-played their last night in the tower, and found no balm to his battered self-image. Amy had done so much for him, had had such faith in him. He deserved none of it. So many times, he'd chided and teased her into things she didn't really want to do. Never would she believe that he'd spent over a week alone with a woman without.... In the dark, staring at the stars, his face burned hotter still.

He'd never felt so small.

He had changed, but Amy would never know. Conrad, Rob, the world—they'd remember him as less than he'd become. If he must die, he wanted to be remembered as the new man he had become, not the old one he'd been. He wanted Amy to know he was sorry. If only there was a way to leave a message, some indestructible message that would cross seven hundred years. He wanted her to know her faith in him had not been in vain.

* * *

The lack of Hugh's labyrinth shouldn't surprise him, Niall knew. He hadn't been sure at all which time he was in. Still, it was another disappointment. He looked up through the branches overhead. Always dimmer in the forest, it would nonetheless be daylight for many hours yet, approaching midsummer's day. He closed his eyes, summoning up the lay of the trail, the markers. Some of them—boulders, streams—would still be there. He had to at least try. He pushed aside thick ferns and entered Hugh's realm.

Inverness, Present

"I don't know," Amy said again. Her body tensed in the window seat of Shawn's suite. Frustration rang in every note of her voice.

"You don't know or you don't want to tell us," the older policeman, Sergeant Chisholm, asked yet again. "He told you he needed to go to the Trossachs so you just arranged the train ride, no questions asked, and left him?"

Amy bit her lip; she twisted her ring, glancing to Conrad, pacing the room, and Bill sitting, fuming, at the table.

"Why did he say he needed to go?" the officer pressed.

"I told you, he was looking for something. He didn't say what." She resisted the urge to touch the crucifix, hidden under her sweatshirt, and hoped God would forgive her the lie. "But it was so important to him. I don't understand. I haven't broken any laws, have I?' She looked to Conrad, raking his hand through his white hair.

Bill shook his head, the disgust evident on his face. "He was told not to leave town. You didn't know that."

Conrad stopped his pacing and turned to the police. "Is this necessary? She hasn't done anything. We know he's in the Trossachs. He said he's going to the re-enactment at Stirling. Find him there."

Sergeant Chisholm exploded, bursting out of his chair. "But it makes no sense!" He threw his notepad on the mahogany table.

The younger officer placed a hand on the Sergeant's shoulder. But his eyes lingered on Amy. She glanced at him, at his short black curls and ruddy cheeks, and dropped her eyes. "Clive, she can tell us no more. Let's go."

Central Scotland

Deep in Hugh's realm, as the sun faded, Niall found the abandoned castle ruins, jutting up rough and red among fresh green saplings. Ferns grew from cracks in the ancient stone. He walked through the arched entrance into an earthen-floored hallway; from there, into a courtyard open to the forest on the other side. Two large Celtic crosses, covered in white lichen, marked the long-ago burial of a lord and his lady. He ran his hand over the cool, rough stones, and turned back.

A tower jutted up, still bearing window arches. At its base were the cave-like remains of a small room. He wrapped the plaid around himself and crawled into what little warmth the lower tower offered.

He didn't want to think about the coat of arms and the name over the entrance: Campbell. The dates on the tombstones, perhaps thankfully, were obliterated.

* * * * *

Chapter Nineteen

The Trossachs, Scotland

With men snoring around him, embers glowing, and shame gnawing like a rat inside, Shawn fell, finally, into restless dreams.

It was his twelfth birthday. He stood outside the lesson room at Schmitt's, where his big-bellied teacher, his gray beard flowing down his chest, listened to a high school student play. Through the glass door, Shawn watched the boy's slide flash, golden, in and out, notes burbling and skipping like a gypsy's exuberant dance.

"I want to play that," Shawn announced, when the door finally opened. The older boy smiled tolerantly, as he snapped his case shut. The big belly of his teacher shook with mirth. "In a few years, Shawn. He's a very good player. He's in high school. You're not ready for
Blue Bells
yet."

"Let me try."

"Come on in and pull out your
Standard of Excellence
."

Shawn gripped the money his mother had given him for his lesson. He narrowed his eyes, his decision already made. He turned on his heel, found a clerk to get him a copy of
Blue Bells of Scotland
, and walked home, swinging the heavy leather case in one hand while he held the new music open in front of him, already memorizing the first notes.

He quit lessons. He looked up positions on the internet. He sought advice on the trombone forum. He learned, a note at a time, a measure at a time, slowly, ever so slowly, playing first as half notes, then as quarters, as eighths, and finally as the lightning quick triplets and sixteenth notes Arthur Pryor had written. On his thirteenth birthday, he played it under his former teacher's window at midnight. At the second measure, a woman hollered to stop the caterwauling. At the fifth measure, a man threw a shoe. By the first variation, the entire neighborhood gaped silently out their windows. At the last note, there was a stunned silence; then they broke into applause, his former teacher with the greatest enthusiasm of all. He bowed, grinning at them all.

Shawn woke with a jolt, sitting up straight. He did have some redeeming qualities: Persistence. Patience. Determination. Dedication to what was important.

Leaving a message for Amy was important.

He studied the shadowy clearing, over the hulking shapes of the sleeping men. Ponies snuffled under the trees. The great rock, the Heart, shone in the moonlight. Food and weapons waited for the pre-dawn departure. He climbed quietly from his cloak, refusing to consider what Hugh would do, if he caught him.