The Curse: Touch of Eternity (The Curse series) (24 page)

“Whatever you wish, my heart,” he said. “Let us now go to my chamber!” He opened the door and pulled the giggling Nathaira behind him.

Slowly, Sean crawled out from under the table and wrapped a napkin around his bleeding hand. There was no way he could report his latest discovery to Blair. His brother would
never believe that his fiancée was so treacherous. He ran from the hall, determined to warn Payton.

But with Payton gone and no way to call him, Sean had to come up with a new plan. He would have to ensure Sam’s safety himself. He couldn’t rely on Blair for that job. His brother was too much under Nathaira’s influence. He wasn’t sure Cathal would invite Blair to go to America with him anyway. Sean decided he’d ask Blair to track down Payton, and he himself would follow Cathal. Striding quickly out of Payton’s room, Sean went to look for Blair.

He found his older brother sitting in the hall, immersed in reading a car magazine. So typical of Blair, Sean thought. The clan is falling apart, the curse is changing, his fiancée is in some other guy’s bed—and what is Blair focused on? Finding a new car to polish and admire.

Sean sat down next to his brother and stonily waited. Blair put down the magazine, looking annoyed.

“Hello, Sean. What do you want?”

“I need your help.”

“You want me to help you after getting me into so much trouble at the clan gathering?”

“Now hold on. I didn’t get you into trouble!”

“Yes, you did. Cathal isn’t talking to me because you stood up against him.”

“It’s a fact that we owe our loyalty to you, and not to him. And when in the last two hundred seventy years have we demanded that you stand up against your friend? Never before! But this time, he is wrong. You have to trust us.”

“Whatever you say. So what do you want?”

“I need you to find Payton. I think he is on his way to Fair Isle.”

“Why will you not go yourself?”

Sean had been expecting that question, so he’d already thought up an answer.

“For two reasons. First, it’ll get you out of the line of fire here, and Cathal will calm down more quickly once he realizes he actually needs you. Next, I think you should clear things up with Payton. He is your brother, after all, and he needs you. You only know half the story—the clan’s half—and I think Payton has the right to tell you his view of things, too. Then you, as our leader, can make the right decisions.”

Blair rubbed his chin in thought.

“All right, then,” he said. “But I’m telling you right now that if I don’t find him on Fair Isle, then he can bugger off. Why are you in such a hurry to find him anyway? He has to be back in a week at the latest, because that’s the deadline Cathal gave him.”

Sean sighed in frustration. He was convinced that Payton would never come back to the castle if he didn’t find what he was looking for. And Sean knew that Cathal was already preparing his trip to the United States; he wasn’t waiting for Payton’s information.

“You have to give Payton a letter from me. It’s really important that he get it. Please, Blair, you just have to trust me!”

Blair cast a final glance at his brother and stood up, planting his hands on his hips.

“Fair enough. I have to admit that I have probably gotten a little bit lazy in the past two hundred years or so. A little adventure is not going to hurt me.”

Sean was relieved. He had expected that he would have to use stronger ammunition with Blair and was surprised that he had won him over so quickly.

“Payton left his phone here, obviously on purpose, but don’t you dare do the same. Take your cell phone with you, and get in touch with me when you’ve found him.” He started to go, and then turned back. “Oh, and if possible, could you not tell Nathaira anything?”

“Pah, she’s just as pissed off as Cathal. I haven’t seen her since the clan gathering. I don’t think it’ll harm her to wonder where I am. She’s a little too used to always having me at her beck and call. I’ll leave immediately.”

Feeling slightly calmer, Sean walked his big brother to his room. Then he booked his flight to the States and packed his things. His suitcase was ready. He just had to wait.

He peered into an old chest that he hadn’t opened for many years. On top, tidily folded, lay his kilt; a brooch with the McLean coat of arms, cut from the finest horn; and a dark-plaid-and-fur bag. Farther down, he found what he was looking for. His
sgian dhu
. Almost tenderly, he stroked the small knife. The blade was just as sharp as it had been on the day his father, Fingal, presented it to him. He had been ten years old at the time, and the day was still as vivid in his memory.

It was the day of the big hunt. All of the McLean clansmen arrived at the castle at dawn, and even before the mist that covered the valleys had vanished, they rode off. It was Sean’s first time along, and he didn’t leave his father’s side.

The dogs ran off in pursuit, and the horses followed, their hooves churning up hunks of moss. The birds nesting in the nearby rocks were frightened, flying off, shrieking across the morning sky. The damp and chill of the air crept under Sean’s clothes. But the goose bumps he felt on his body weren’t from the cold so much as from the excitement, the feeling of expectation. Fingal’s hair had still been brown back then, with only a few white streaks at his temples. He was middle-aged, but he still seemed young and strong that day. Sean admired the way his father steered his horse—so easily it seemed effortless—using just the pressure from his thighs.

Sean, on the other hand, was finding it enormously difficult to keep the horse he was riding under control. Encouraged by the other animals’ energy, his steed also wanted to gallop off. Strained, Sean tried always to keep his father in sight.

In front of them, a broad piece of land stretched out. On the other side was the dense forest. At that time, there had still been many thick forests in that part of Scotland. Rich forests, full of wild animals.

Only many years later, after the terrible defeat at Culloden, had the Duke of Cumberland ordered that all the forests in Scotland be cut down. He earned the nickname “Butcher Cumberland,” for hunting down the survivors of the Jacobite Rising—and butchering them. He demanded that the forests be cleared so that the rebels couldn’t feed themselves with wild animals or keep their fires burning with the wood. Without the forests, a great famine spread, which took many more lives than the war had claimed.

But at that time, on the day of the hunt, the forest still existed. As Sean and his father entered into the woods, the shadows danced upon them eerily, and their horses seemed to meld into their surroundings, the browns and blacks matching the colors of the tree trunks. They could only ride at walking speed.

Sean felt as if he and his father were alone in the world. The other hunters had all disappeared, and only seldom did the sound of a barking dog come from far off. Fingal stopped his horse, stood up in his stirrups and peered to the west. Sean tried to see what had caught his father’s attention, but as hard as he tried, he could see only trees standing tall in front of them.

Fingal pointed to a stand of young oaks. A single ray of light fell through the dense treetops, streaming straight down to the ground. The damp moss glittered under a thousand dewdrops, and the first insects to greet the morning danced in the golden ray. The forest floor was lit up a vivid green and partway up the tree trunks. And there, the warmth of that one ray of sunlight was enough to chase away the mist, while elsewhere the ground was still hidden by a silver veil.

And then, a small movement. Now Sean could make out the shape. It was the stag that his father had already spotted. The majestic animal slowly came out from behind the tree and reached its muzzle into the air. It seemed to smell their scent.

Fingal didn’t delay. He stretched his bow back in one powerful motion. His arm was steady, his muscles taut, his knuckles white. Sean took everything in. He could play it all back detail by detail, as if it had been recorded in slow
motion. He thought his father was just as graceful and glorious as the stag.

Then the animal looked in their direction. Purring quietly, the arrow cut through the air and found its target: the stag’s trembling chest. The creature did not seem surprised. Its front legs buckled, and it slowly tumbled to the ground, without taking its eyes off Fingal and Sean. Quickly, they dismounted and closed in on their prey. The noble animal lay in front of them, its chest rising and sinking with each fading breath.

Together they knelt, and Fingal motioned to his son to cut the animal’s throat, to relieve it quickly from pain. Sean could see his face mirrored in the stag’s dark, shiny eyes, and his own eyes widened when his father gave him the
sgian dhu
. Although the silver blade was very sharp, Sean used all his might to press it against the animal’s pulsating neck. With a quick, powerful cut, warm blood streamed over his hand and splashed onto his kilt.

Fingal noticed Sean was trembling, and put his hand on his son’s small shoulder in praise. They stayed like that for a while next to the beautiful animal, neither of them speaking a word. Only when two other hunters turned up was the intimate moment over. Sean had taken an animal’s life with his own hands for the first time.

The rest of the day was a blur, but by the time the day was over, they had not only the stag but also many rabbits and two deer to take back to the castle. Sean washed the blood from his hands at the well and cleansed his new knife. He admired the
sgian dhu
’s horn handle, lavishly decorated with carvings of a hunting scene. Proudly, Sean stroked the
blade, still able to sense the feeling of the dying stag under his hands.

For many years after that, Sean had carried the knife daily, wearing it in a sheath on his boot. He had grown up feeling its weight, balance, and its blade, until it felt like a part of him. But then, times had changed; the knife had become less important. It was put away, together with a few other mementos of that lost era.

Sean held the knife again, his hand immediately melded with the handle. It was as if the years the knife had been stored away simply didn’t exist. He wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to take the knife with him now. What was awaiting him, he wondered, that he felt a deep desire not to face the future without the deadly blade?

Sean didn’t have an answer to this question, but in all his time on earth, he had learned to trust his instincts. He shrugged and slid the
sgian dhu
into the leather belt on his boot.

M
y parents were away. They had left on their trip the day before. Ashley and I had grudgingly agreed to get along with each other for the rest of the week, but I was hoping it wouldn’t even be that long. Uncle Eddie had called to say that he’d be finished with his tour in the next few days and would come to pick Ashley up as soon as he was done. She wanted to enjoy her last few days in Silver Lake at the beach, so she headed there as soon as my parents left the house.

I, on the other hand, was thrilled to be left alone. I wanted some peace. I still couldn’t get Payton out of my mind. On the contrary. Day by day, it was getting harder for me to concentrate. I was even having trouble with the easiest of tasks, such as breathing, eating, or sleeping. I missed him so much. It felt as if a gaping hole were burning in my chest, constantly calling for emotional fuel and using up all of my energy.

So I looked for a distraction, and I persuaded myself that reading Grandma’s diary would take my mind off things.

Deep down, I knew I was still obsessed with Payton and Scotland. I needed to find answers to some of the questions that were constantly running through my mind. I hoped
the book would tell me something, anything, about the Camerons.

When I opened it, I was surprised to find that it wasn’t a diary at all. I didn’t quite know what it was, but going by the age of the paper in this book, it couldn’t possibly have been written by my grandma.

Carefully, I turned to the first page and held my breath:

France, 1748

Dear Muireall,

I, Marta McGabhan, am writing this because I do not have the time to pass all that I know on to you. I’ve been taking care of you since you were born, and hoped to pass this along all the time, but I fear that even at eight years of age, you cannot possibly understand what I have to leave to you.