St. Elmo's Fire:
INNOCENT SMILES  

It was a good time to fight, and the chief of the MacLeods of Glenfinnan sent runners out to each small croft and gathered in the warriors, as well as the young men who were to learn the craft of killing, and went to fight the Frasers in the north.

A raven, hunting for its dinner high above the cliffs and the forests that surrounded Glenfinnan on the shores of Loch Shiel, scented blood on the wind, and descended a few thermals to see what had recently died.  It had fed well the previous days on a battlefield some miles away; but that did not fill its belly this day.

Swooping down on the motionless man that lay on his face in the hillside mud, its graceful flight slowed as it sought to find if he was truly dead or not.  After a few lazy circles, it landed a foot away from its new meal, hopped closer and pecked.

It couldn't reach the eyes or the tongue or any of the parts it preferred, and its beak found the rough woolen cloth hard going; but there was soft flesh beneath the plaid, and it pecked again.  It hopped farther up the torso, to where there was dried blood on the temple and its beak descended, only to glance off the skull.

Abruptly, the man heaved up and the raven took to the air with a croak of dismay and anger that he should have wasted its time so.  It circled the rising flesh widdershins, wondering in its dim brain if the man might yet die and be eaten, but he staggered to his feet and began to climb again and the raven, disappointed, flew off up the mountain in search of the truly dead.

Connor MacLeod followed it with his eyes, the yoke on his back weighing him down.  An omen, he thought, half-crazed and out of his head, and he trailed the bird as far as he could see its flight.

He could see Beinn Bahn if the mist lifted; and across the water MacLeod's Tables snugged close to the horizon.  He wondered for a moment, before his mind closed down again, how he had come here, and why.  The Church said the stone circle was a remnant of those thought to have been made by the Irish druids when they'd come across the water to take Scotland, and thus cursed.  But his grandmother had woven other stories about the scattered, fallen stones when he'd been but a babe, less than six years old, before they'd set him to herding sheep and goats.  Stories of an elder race, of a people old before the druids came, who worshipped the earth and the three.  Of kings who died at the turning of the year, and came alive to bring the sun again.

Is that what I am?  A king? he thought, and laughed a harsh, staccato cackle that startled the birds who'd begun to settle near him.

The old woman was dead now, with his mother and his father; they'd died in the winter he'd turned eight, when the snow had come early and fierce and half the village went down with the fever.  He'd survived, though he'd had no other close-kin to himself, because with so many dead there was more than enough food laid up for the winter months, enough even to spare for a small man-child not owned by any adult.

Better that they died then, he whispered silently to himself.  They would have had to cast me out or been called demons themselves, and I don't know which would have been worse.  Who would have cared for them when they aged if I was not there?  And how could I have cared for them without the clan?

He couldn't even care for himself.  Not decently.

He rose from where he'd been sitting, wracked with a bitter cold that sent his body into shivers.  His hands were swollen black where the leather strips bound them to the yoke; most likely they were dead, and so would he be, soon.  How could a man with no hands survive?

But somewhere in him was iron, heating and being beaten and folded in on itself over and over again, like a baker making layered pastry, and he stumbled to one of the stones still standing and searched for a sharp ridge at the proper height.  The leather was tough and it took many strokes, the flaked edge cutting his hands and releasing black, dead blood before the tie gave way.

The pain sent him to his knees, his eyes bulging as he saw the blue lightning dart over his hand like a wasp drunk with honey-mead.  He panted hoarsely in the late afternoon sun, and wished he were dead.

But he wasn't, so he got to his feet and began to rub his left hand against the rough stone.  When it was free he cast off the yoke, and, leaning against the tall rock, watched his sinister hand heal as his dexter had.

The cold went through him again, like a wind blowing sleet and hail through a poorly-chinked wall.

His hands were healed now, whole again, though shaking with the cold and the dread certainty that he was unnatural.  He spied the yoke where it had fallen and, snarling, went to smash it against the stones.  No sooner was his hand on it than he stopped himself.

The yoke was a symbol of his banishment; the yoke had near killed him.  But in itself it was only a carved piece of wood, a tool made by a man's hand, and he might need it to survive.

Should I survive?  The clan did not mean me to.  If I am a demon, is it right for me to live?

Or did they mean for me to live?  Would being bound to a yoke, starving and the cold kill a demon?  Moreover, I have spoken Paternosters and Aves on my journey to this place... could a demon do so?  How?  The priests say holy water kills demons... why not holy words? 

He shook his head and studied the yoke anew, thinking of how he might survive, clanless.  He was fortunate that it was almost spring, for now he would have all the summer to prepare for the ravages of winter.

He could do it.  He was eighteen years old, but he'd been a man ever since he was twelve and had killed four wolves attacking the sheep.  He'd lain with Margaret, the village ale-wife, and spilled his seed into her; courted Kate and almost had her maidenhead.

He'd suckled at a woman's breast and called her mother; had dreams of a father's hand showing him how to shear the sheep, how to craft a stone wall, where to find a bee's hive and how to take honey from it safely.  He'd fought the sea with the fishing boats to stave off winter's hunger, and woven charms his grandmother had taught him, in secret, to satisfy the fair folk and make them bide away.  He'd fought other men with his hand and with steel.

He'd died with his sword in his hand.

I am a man, not a demon.  And be damned to those who say I'm not.

He patiently untied the undamaged strips of rawhide from the yoke, ignoring the blood that stained the leather.  They would make snares for him, and a sling.  After that he could worry about a spear, bow and arrows when he had more time.  He'd think about shelter soon, too, though if he hadn't died on the way up to the mountain top it was doubtful he'd die here.

He squinted up at the sky, gleaning signs of the weather.  He was still wracked by cold and coughing, rubbing his throat where two stones had hit him (thrown by Kate -- or was it Dugal?  He'd thought she loved him, and Dugal was a kinsman -- how could they have -- don't think of that now, he admonished himself).  The tightness and difficulty in breathing were much diminished, mostly healed like his hands and the other bruises were healed, but he was uneasy over how hoarse his voice sounded, and how closed-in the passage felt.  He swallowed with difficulty, cleared his throat and tried to speak a charm over the snares he was weaving, but his voice came out in a rasping croak that reminded him of the raven's.  He shook his head and bent to his task.  He'd never had a bard's gift anyway.

He worked while the afternoon sun paled and fell to the edge of the world.  Cold came and tried to numb him; fever followed it, keeping him moving.  But he slowed, and slowed, and slowed again, while he shook and shivered and wondered at his weakness.  Finally he got up to see if he could gather wood for a fire, but he was so weak from lack of food and the sickness that he stumbled and fell onto one of the flat stones, hitting his head.

His last thought was that this time the ravens would have his eyes.

He was clean and warm and clad in his kilt and the clan colors, his sword and shield bright with new paint.  Confidently, he strode into the mist; it parted, and before him lay a well-worn path of stones the color of the bones of the hills, running in and out of the familiar fog of his land.

And beyond the stones was the world.  For as far as he could see, a thousand different places, ten thousand different peoples, their clothes, their armor (even the color of their skins!) nothing that he'd ever seen before.  Some he dimly recognized from stories the old men told on winter nights of the days long and long ago.  The Northmen, who'd ravaged Europe down to Constantinople, the quick brown-skinned traders who'd ventured north for seal-skins and traded Roman glass and worked bronze for the richly-furred pelts.

Almost all, though, were from stories even the old men had never known, and he could only gape at them, his gait slow and slowing as he walked the gray path.  He walked and walked and walked, his head swimming, neck aching as he turned it one way, then another, trying to encompass it all.  The colors and the bizarre shapes of men and animals confused his eyes; his ears heard only gabbling sounds and not the speech of men.  And all the while no one saw him -- there were none who pointed to him, tugged at his plaid, brought wares for him to sample and buy.

He was a ghost, walking through the world of men.

Gradually he realized that some of the men and women he saw had swords and fought.  Sometimes they ate together first, some greeted each other and slept together... but eventually they drew swords and fought.  His heart grew cold when he saw their skill, so far beyond his own.  What manner of people were these, who trained their women to slay as men did?  Where even little children picked up blades and took the heads of others, summoning the lightning to seal their victory?

He stopped, swaying, and saw at last those of his own land, his own people.  It was a long time before he realized it was the battle with the Frasers and his own death he watched, the evil one who killed him swinging the blade for his head -- and then his kinsmen attacked and bore him away, and the breath left Connor and he sank down on the road.  There was a coldness in him that said if the evil one had taken his head he would not have woken from that wound.

The battle ebbed; the evil one turned, snarling -- 

And saw him on the footpath, watching.

Where are you, boy? he roared, striding towards him.

Connor stumbled to his feet, ice in his belly and groin.

A light flared off the stone path; the evil one screamed in hatred as the mist lifted briefly, a bright line of sunlight blinding him.  Holy Ground!

Then the mist that had followed the road came down again, and there was nothing there.

I will find you, he heard faintly. You cannot hide forever!  I will take your head and your power, useless fool!

But the bellow faded and was gone, and Connor gathered himself and went on, following the rocky trail.

It was still light, surprisingly, and the land was flat, like the tales he'd heard of the lands of the Sassenach, the southern lands that were rich and grew oats and wheat and barley taller than a man's waist.  Or it might be France, that fabled land that had been Scotland's ally for years against the hated English.  Connor saw the fields here turned already for the planting, the soil black and crumbling to the hand.  Cows as big as Highland bulls drew plows in the fields or followed children dressed in clothes a wealthy man of Connor's clan might envy to the pastures.

Connor swallowed, the sin of covetousness in his eyes and rising in his belly.

The road went on, through lands with many cattle and few guards, and Connor noted each landmark he could, the thought at the back of his mind that he and a few kinsmen might come this way, if he ever knew where it was.  Cattle-reiving was no sin, or all of Scotland would be under the Pope's ban and excommunicate.

He came to a monastery or an abbey, some holy place from the look of the monks who worked silently about it.  Connor sought to move on, and found he could not; the stones gripped his feet tightly, and he opened his mouth to curse them. 

"I wouldn't," a mild voice told him, and the shock of hearing something he understood almost stopped Connor's heart.

He turned his head and saw who'd addressed him -- a tall, thin man with a blade of a nose and tonsured hair, black at the back.  He looked harmless enough, his arms full of healing herbs, a basket at his feet with parchment, quills, small clay-stoppered pots of ink and who knew what else.  Inexplicably, Connor made himself look more closely, and saw the harvesting knife, small and wickedly sharp, half-hidden by the foliage.

His eyes flickered up to the other's green-brown gaze, and as he looked at him the monk wavered in the mist's light, until there were two of him, one standing in the garden and the other coming towards him.

Who are you? the monk asked, puzzled. What are you?  You're much too young to walk this road... ah.  You need a teacher.  You need one badly, youngling.

Connor looked at the herbs, at the parchment with dark brown lines and circles.  He'd wanted once to learn to read, but had no desire to join the church, and who would pay for teaching such useless knowledge to a man destined for war?

He opened his mouth and felt the words come without sound.  Will you teach me?

The eyes flew full open, the young monk taken aback.  Then he visibly composed himself.  No, I think not...  Come with me and we will find a teacher for you.

The mist came down again, but now there were two of them on the road.  Connor smiled at his companion, looking to make sure the knife was put away.

He blinked and carefully cast his gaze down again, uncertain that he'd seen aright.

The monk wasn't walking on the stones.  He was walking a good inch or two above the cobbles.

Connor swallowed again and forced his eyes to stare straight ahead.

Some time passed, not much, and they came to a burnt-dry land, nothing he'd seen even in his dreams as a child, when he thought he'd make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, or become a seaman in one of the great trading ships that came for the wool-clip.

It was burned by the sun, so hot Connor flinched from the brightness of the light.  The road glided through the lazy heat until they were at the city walls, whitewashed to a blinding white; inside the streets were grubby and alive with scents and people, more than the Scot had ever seen in his short life. 

His guide brought him through the narrow lanes until they arrived at a house with an open courtyard, passed through the clinging red-flowered vines to enter a room alive with sorcery.  Strange clear vessels bubbled over small fires, acrid odors puckered the eyes and made it hard to breath, mortars and pestles, like the ones the midwife used to grind her herbs to paste, were everywhere.  And in the middle of the room was an old man with black hair streaked with grey, tied back in a foreign fashion.  He wore a leather apron, rags wrapped in more leather protecting his hands as he poured dry powder from one heated cauldron to another.

Ramirez?

Wait, just wait, can't you?  This is important, the old man said, and Connor saw he was not so old, for he lifted the heavy metal and clay pots with ease.  It was the grey hair that had fooled him.  That, and how the man carried himself, like a powerful elder of the clan.

So is what I have brought to you.

So?  Everything that concerns you is important, and nothing is important that concerns others, Ramirez said dryly.  He glanced up, and Connor saw his dark brown eyes were alive with good humor.

The old man's mouth fell open. 

But he's a boy!

Eighteen years old and his first death not two weeks ago, the monk said, a smile twisting his mouth but not reaching his eyes.

But -- how can he -- 

How do I know?  The Kurgan hunted him and killed him, the monk said, and the old man set down his burden and sat.  In a moment, he, too, came out of himself, leaving a shell of flesh behind him, and joined them in the middle of the room.

How did you leave your body behind? the man called Ramirez asked Connor.  How did you know to find the oldest?

Connor looked at him, all his uncertainty out there to be seen by them -- and all the iron of his soul, all that he was and could be there, too.  He did not understand the question; how, then, could he answer?

Ramirez took a deep breath. You need a teacher, brother.  And you need one now.  He looked at the monk. Can you -- 

The monk shook his head.  Not unless he comes to me -- and what are the odds he could make it to my refuge without the Kurgan finding him?  No.  Someone must go to him.

Ramirez sighed.  He grasped Connor's hand gently and studied his palm; then he placed his own hand next to the highlander's, reached out to bring the monk's hand in and traced out lines there as well.

He is new-come to immortality, but you're right; he will be the smith who shapes the fate of us all -- if he lives.

And he will be my death, Ramirez added gravely.

Yes, the monk said. I will grieve for you.

But not risk your own life, Ramirez said, mouth twisted.

The monk shrugged.  No, I will not risk my own life.  The Kurgan hunts him and will find him.

He will kill the Kurgan, the old man said, and Connor's heart leaped.  Kill the evil one?  Him?  How?

I believe you -- but when? the monk retorted. The lines say it is most likely the Kurgan will first kill the boy's teacher.  To kill you will be bad enough, though you are skilled enough that you may keep the bastard from your inner self.  But if he kills me?  You know what power he gains if he kills me.

The old man nodded in resigned acceptance. You are right.  The boy must be taught, and soon.  I will go to his barbaric land and suffer.  But there may not be enough time.  When I die, when the Kurgan comes and takes my head, you must help.  The monster will get my power, I cannot keep that from him, but the boy must have my self, that I may keep on teaching him.  Agreed?

The monk hesitated.  It is a risk.  If the Kurgan feels what we do --

The old man snorted.  The Kurgan won't even know what he's missing.  Do you think that bastard tastes what he swallows?  You will help me on this, or I will not go.  And that -- Ramirez nodded at the monk's palm, still open by Connor's and his own -- means that you will not have your soul-mate at time's ending.

The monk started, half-curling his hand to hide whatever Ramirez had seen in it.  Then he slowly opened it again and stared at the lines revealed in the flaring torches.  His mouth open, he took a sharp breath.

No.  I cannot -- it cannot be.  I am too old, too dark.  What I have been, no man may forgive.

The old man threw back his head and laughed. Who is your elder, to judge the man you were?  Not a one of us!  No, that will be one of the lessons he'll learn.  And then he'll take you, and at least you'll have some fleshly pleasure from it.  Look at mine.

The monk switched his stare to Ramirez' palm.  His eyes widened and his head came up to catch Connor's puzzled stare.  He dropped his gaze to the palm of the boy's hand and a long finger went out to trace the creases in the flesh.

I did not see this.  I am sorry.

Ramirez shook his head.  I have loved many, and they have all died.  It is good, in a way, to know I will not outlive him.  And to know I will be with him all his life.  But who would have thought I'd be taken by a barbarian with a taste for offal?

The monk's lips twitched.  Or that I would?

Ramirez looked again at the lines. So he is -- and what a tangled line.  You'll have the devil of a time with him.  Ramirez grinned.  And what you'll do to him does not bear thinking of.

The two men laughed together, tears coming to their eyes.

Connor stared at them, the others incomprehensible to him.  Who are you?  Why do you say what you say -- how can this be?  Connor finally got out, the numbness that had held him beginning to dissolve.  How can I be your death, old man?  I will not kill you, the Scot said, leaning forward to gaze into the dark brown eyes.

The world spun about him, and he blinked, strange images flashing before his eyes.  A huge river flooding in an immensity like the sea's tide, men and women thanking strange beast-headed gods for the waters; stark white wrappings around a brown body's loins; women and children and men carding and spinning and weaving fine web-thread unraveled from dead insects' bodies; games with pebbles and thrown sticks... And dead bodies buried in huge palaces larger than a village, or given to sinuous monsters that waited in the deep waters to eat them.

Knowledge and power and compassion, pride and vanity and life...

Nay, I promise -- I shall never harm you, he vowed, and looked down to where Ramirez still held his hand.

He felt... safe, like he hadn't felt since he was a child, when he'd still had close-kin.  Safe... and warm and cherished.

I will protect you, he took oath, and bent his head to kiss the calloused hand as he would a priest's.

Yes, you will, boy, the warm rumble told him, the eyes shadowed with foreknowledge, but kind and loving for all that.  But no man lives forever; no man can stay the hand of Death, and when my time comes, it comes.  Remember that.

And now you must go, and I must prepare to find you and teach you what I can.  Show me where you dwell, he commanded, and Connor blinked, remembering the pattern of the stars above the stones, the trade-road that ran down south and east towards the great castle of Edinburgh, the two ports close by to Glenfinnan where the wool-clip was shipped to the Flemish master tapestry makers and France's markets.

Ramirez nodded.  I will come as soon as I may.  Take him home and see him there safely, he said to the monk, who'd been silent this while, still contemplating whatever it was he'd seen where the three hands came together.

They were gone then from the dark room and the blinding-white city walls were behind them.

Where were we? Connor asked, looking about him for the old man, but not worried.  He had said he would come to Connor, and Connor knew he did not lie.

Spain, the monk replied absently.

Truly?  Connor said, marveling as he looked about him at burnt-sienna fields and groves of grey-green olive trees.  The old men had spun tales of the Spanish and their great treasure ships.

Truly, the monk said, his face grave though his eyes were kind.  Come now, show me the way to your own land.

Connor looked about him, suddenly realizing he did not know where he was or where home could be.  A hand touched his chest and he started.

Home is always here, the monk said, the graceful fingers pressing gently on his breastbone.

He took a deep breath, remembering the pure beauty of the loch and its dangers; the greenness of the hills and the treacherous mists that could kill with no warning; the granite stone that made it hard to farm and easy to build... what was Glenfinnan?  What was the core of his land?

When he opened his eyes he was there, in the circle of stones, his body still prone on one of the fallen blocks.

The monk looked at his body and then around him, the stars and the moon giving light to see.  You lay on the great altar in the light of the full moon on the spring equinox, the dark man said, shaking his head.  With the symbol of the Lady in your hands, and your blood on the stones about you, you died and gave her her sacrifice.

He bowed to Connor.  Blessed be.

Don't blaspheme -- and don't be a fool, the highlander said, wondering how to get back inside himself. It was a bloody accident.

The monk smiled sadly.  Haven't you realized yet there are no accidents?  No, be blind while you can be, youngling.  Soon enough you'll see more than you can forget.

He took Connor over to the flat stone. Lie on top of yourself and try to feel the stone under you.

Connor nodded and lay down, closing his eyes.

The last thing he remembered was wishing he had a sheepskin or two.  The rock was bloody hard.

In the morning he finished his sling, set his snares and tickled himself a fine mess of fish, baking them on the altar stone where he'd kindled a fire.  He didn't think the Lady would begrudge him his breakfast, but he was careful to leave one of the fish for her, and a few flowers he'd pulled from the new growth outside the circle.

He looked north again, to see Beinn Bahn wreathed in mist.  The islands were hidden from him, though he knew they were there.  He turned his back on them.  The clan had banished him; he could not go north to MacLeod land.  He might take ship and work his passage to France, but he was young and stubborn, and no man would ever be able to say he'd forced Connor MacLeod to leave his own land for another.  Instead he set his feet for the south, to Jedburgh.  It was a market town with a hiring fair, and it might be he could find a master to apprentice himself to.  He was old for it, but it was worth a try.

He stepped outside the circle, the yoke now over his shoulder.  It might be worth a copper or two; in any case, it was his now, paid for with his blood.  Casting an eye up at the moon, low in the sky and setting as the sun rose, he paused.

What an odd dream that had been.  Fading even now, he could barely hear the voices of the two men he'd met, and their faces were already only dark shadows.  But he thought he remembered one of them had said he'd be a smith, and he knew better than to disregard a dream.  James MacDonald was the smith at Jedburgh; mayhap they'd been trying to tell him MacDonald needed a helper.

The sun full on him now, glinting off the brown-gold hair, Connor MacLeod patted the stone next to him with absent-minded affection, and walked down off the mountain.

The ground beneath his feet was firm and centered him, and as he breathed the crisp, cold mountain air he felt the land about him, the granite hardness a part of him, ever and always.

Inside him, the iron warmed, folding into itself, and waited for the next stroke of the hammer.