Page 2 of The Son of a Highland Witch
He tucked the fragment inside his shirt, threw the bag out the window, and scrambled out after his mother with far less difficulty than she. Behind them, smoke billowed as together they ran to the river.
He wanted to ask a thousand questions, but prudence won out. Whatever they fled, they must flee in silence. The noise of the fire behind them would cover their escape only if they did nothing near so foolish as to shout or make the slightest noise. Or so he hoped. He still had no idea what they fled.
Brigette ledhim along the bank, pulling him into the water. They were hiding their footprints, he realized, and gamely following though the mountain stream was ice to bare feet. Only when they had traveled as far as they could before the water became too deep to go further did they leave the river and climb a small knoll. They headed for a copse of trees, a scraggly trio that fought to grow against the wind in a gnarled mass. Fresh green leaves fringed the branches, which reached out to welcome them into their shelter.
Here Brigette fell, exhausted, and rolled over to stare back the way they’d come. Finn fell alongside her and watched the sunlight outlining the waving grasses. It was a beautiful day; no clouds dared ride the breeze, and the endless gurgle and splash from the river was a smooth counter to the trilling call of birds.
In the distance, he imagined he heard the crackle of flames.
No, not the flames, though he smelled now the hint of smoke on the wind. What he heard was the sound of creaking leather, footfalls, men calling to one another. He pushed himself up to peer through the branches at the shapes that appeared on the horizon.
Why were men on horseback approaching the only home he had ever known? In the bright light of day, they carried torches and wore their expressions grimly. There were maybe a dozen in all. Two hung back, holding crossbows aimed at the house. Did it disconcert them to see the house already burning?
Even from there, he could hear the curses.
“Which one of ye got here before us!” one shouted, his voice carrying on the wind. An argument broke out among the riders, their horses stamping and milling about.
Whatever conclusion they came to, it must have been determined it was better to be safe than sorry. Finn watched in horror as the torches were flung onto the roof of their house and tossed in through the open windows. In moments, the only home he’d ever known was fully ablaze. The fire his mother had started was nothing to this conflagration.
His mother drew him down further behind the trees, into the shelter behind the trunk and twisting roots. She pointed, a long finger picking out each of the men in turn.
“My lad, note the appearance of those two outriders. They carry crossbows in case we escape the flames.”
“Wouldnae they ken we have escaped ere now?” Finn was surprised his voice was strong and steady. He didn’t feel that way at all. The broken pitcher of goat’s milk seemed years away, as though it had happened to someone else.
“They think the first set was a distraction to convince them to leave. They would have seen the glimpse of our bodies within, writhing in the flames. But they must need to be sure.”
Finn heard what they did not say. They feared witchcraft. A clever trick that might resurrect the dead.
“They need to be sure,” his mother repeated the words, her eyes distant and sad. “As though we are a great thing to fear. Mayhaps this is so.”
He was crying. Finn hid his face in the crook of his arm, for he could not bear her to see. He was no hero. A hero would have been able to save their home from destruction. A hero would not have run away.
Brigette stroked his hair, leaning close to hold the weeping boy in her arms.
“Dinnae fash yerself. Ye’re but a little boy, after all. We didnae have any choice in the matter but to run. The time will come when we return, me lad. ’Til then, we will be right enough. We have each other, after all. Now come before they ken we are not there.”
With that, she rose, tugging the lad to his feet and bidding him to follow.
He broke off a stick from one of the trees as they left the copse. Not to imagine as a sword but to keep as a cudgel against danger.
He had failed his mother once already today in being able to protect them from whatever these strangers wanted. He would not fail her again.
A gasp. His mother was clutching a hand to her mouth.
“What is it, Mither?”
Would the horrors of this day never end?
“I must return, Finn. To the cottage. I forgot the pot o’ coins buried in the garden. Fear not. I will return. Run down to the copse by the river an’ wait for me there. I will be back anon. Promise me on your faither’s life that ye will no’ come lookin’ for me?”
Of course he promised.
