Ghosts of Culloden Moor 10 - Macbeth Read online

  MACBETH

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor (No. 10)

  By L.L. Muir

  AMAZON KDP EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY

  Lesli Muir Lytle

  www.llmuir.weebly.com

  Macbeth © 2015 L.Lytle

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series © 2015 L.Lytle

  All rights reserved

  DEDICATION

  For those that mourn…

  A NOTE ABOUT THE GHOSTS

  The Gathering should definitely be read first to understand what’s going on between the Muir Witch and these Highland warriors from 1746.

  The names of Culloden’s 79 are historically accurate in that we have used only the clan or surnames of those who actually died on that fateful day. The given names have been changed out of respect for those brave men and their descendants. If a ghost happens to share the entire name of a fallen warrior, it is purely accidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  The witch was back.

  Just as she had the night of Summer Solstice, Soncerae arrived on the moor draped in a long black robe. The waxing moon hung near the horizon watching for the lass’s return—like a child lying low, hoping for a glimpse of Santa Claus.

  She strode with purpose toward the memorial cairn, empty-handed this time, but as she passed the first of the clan markers the ring of green light burst into view as if her shoes had scuffed the hard path and the spark had caught. Like a Hoola Hoop from the 1970’s, a foot thick and a foot high, it rotated around her without touching, wobbling slightly in its orbit.

  Though Macbeth watched closely, he could see no trace of faces in the light as he’d seen that first night. He wondered if he might have imagined it. After all, odd things entered one’s mind on festival evenings.

  When she reached the cairn, she walked a wide circle around the spot where she’d built her strange white pyre not a sennight before, keeping her eyes on the center. And when she’d finished her circuit, she raised both hands elegantly into the air and the pyre resumed burning just as if she’d brought her odd pile of wood and built the thing again!

  A fine magician’s trick it was. And Macbeth suspected their wee witch might have done it solely to excite him and his fellows. For he’d been quite impressed himself, and he was not easily moved.

  Speaking of his fellows, there was no need to summon the remainder of Culloden’s 79 ghosts who moved apart from the rest of the spirits wandering the battlefield. All but a few stragglers gathered to her willingly now, eager to see who she would choose next to send on their quest. Now that Rabby had gone, there would be none among them who could refuse the challenge and not be thought a coward.

  If Rabby MacDonald had been courageous enough to do the witch’s bidding, Macbeth expected the rest of them to step forward smartly and take whatever lay in store for him.

  Macpherson, Number 33, showed no surprise when Soni bid him to come forward. Though the night was silent but for the snap and pop of her grand white fire settling in, Macbeth was unable to hear a word of what she said to the man. He moved closer, intent on eavesdropping, but the Highlander disappeared in the span between one beat of Macbeth’s heart and the next.

  No one was surprised when the MacGregors stirred up a ruckus yet again, but the wee witch held her ground and had them well in hand.

  A fine, clever lass she was, able to hold so many with her will alone. Macbeth only wished he’d known such a lass in his day…

  He took another step forward, looking for a clearer view of the excitement. Soni’s gaze snapped up to meet his. She’s misinterpreted his movement. But after a nod of her approval, how could he tell her he’d not meant to volunteer?

  “Macbeth, my friend. Your timing is perfect.”

  He forced a smile and ignored the murmurs of surprise spreading behind him. He was known well among the 79 for his sullen disposition and reluctance to participate in futile activities. But his fellows were not nearly as surprised as he was himself.

  Nine spirits and one dog had already left the field and not returned, so the wee witch’s machinations might not be so futile as he’d expected them to be. He simply hadn’t expected to be next.

  He moved quietly forward and separated himself from the throng of sixty-nine others who were more curious than cautious now. He gave the dear lassie a courtly bow, but couldn’t stop his mouth as he straightened.

  “The lad is well?”

  Soni smiled widely and spoke to the gathering at large. “Rabby is very fine indeed. As is the dog, Dauphin. I will break the rules just this once and tell ye what Rabby himself would wish ye to hear—that he was canny and courageous and was able to save…” She troubled her lip with her teeth for a few seconds, then continued. “He was able to save a man’s life. And he reaped the finest of rewards.”

  Macbeth found himself grinning and ceased. He was pleased for the lad, sure. But there was no sense making a fool of himself over it.

  “At yer command, lass,” he said.

  Soni nodded, dug into her pocket, and stepped close. With only the green ring between them, she held something out. “You’ll need these, Seoc.”

  Seoc. His given name. He’d nearly forgotten it thousands of times. It was a gift to hear it again.

  He lifted an open hand over the green hoop and a tendril snaked out like a serpent’s tongue while she dropped her gifts into his waiting hand. Unnerved, he snatched it back and couldn’t help retreating a step. But instead of the lads laughing at him, they muttered concern.

  Macbeth understood, of course. Soon, it would be their turns to step close to the fire, and they, too, might have need to reach over the capricious green light. His fellows were watching, learning, assessing something that might well turn out to be an enemy, even though, by all rights, they shared the same goal as the green ring—protect the well-being and safety of one precious, sixteen-year-old lassie.

  A lass who seemed to be the only person on God’s green earth who could see and hear them, who truly cared for them.

  He opened his hand and found a credit card and a five dollar bill in American currency. He tucked them into his sporran and buckled it.

  “And when I’ve accomplished my brave deed,” he said quietly, “I’ll have no need to face Charles Stuart. Exacting a pound of his flesh or bleeding him won’t bring back the lives he threw away. I want peace is all. I want away from the place, from the senselessness. I want to have done with all of it. And high time, too.”

  Soni rolled her eyes and sighed. “Aye, Seoc Macbeth. I ken what ye most desire. And ye’ll have it if ye do what is asked of ye.” She leaned a bit closer and whispered. He barely heard it himself, but he understood the jest. “All hail, Macbeth that shalt be mortal hereafter…”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Seoc opened his mouth to argue with her, for the hundredth time, over the difference in Shakespeare’s play and the truth about his ancestor that was, historically, one of Scotland’s finest monarchs. But the lass disappeared before his eyes along with her bright fire and green Hoola Hoop. Blackness surrounded him as if he’d been placed in a deep dark pit. But af
ter only a breath or two, colors returned, bright and sharp, and bathed him in light all about.

  When his eyes were able to discern details again, he was standing in a queue inside a well-lit establishment. The two men before him were easily a head shorter than he and stood before a long counter waiting for service. He turned to see what threats might come from behind and found a woman ogling his kilt with wide eyes. It took a long moment to realize that no one had noticed how he’d arrived, though they were surprised by the way he was dressed. Thankfully, his kilt and sleeves were clean of the blood and mud of the moor.

  The lass behind him couldn’t seem to drag her attention from his knees.

  Behind him. In line. Waiting her turn.

  Embarrassed to be found in such a position, he stepped aside and bid her to go before him. Reluctantly, she stepped forward, but her gaze darted back to his kilt every few seconds.

  The man who had been immediately in front of Seoc turned. After a long moment, he, too, realized his rudeness and asked the woman to go head of him. Seoc gave him an approving nod and the man smiled and turned red all the way to his bare pate before offering the tiniest nod in return.

  The man at the head of the line was sadly oblivious to the fact that a woman stood behind him, and even though Seoc cleared his throat twice, the man never turned, but eventually moved down to the end of the counter. The woman blushed and finally faced forward, since it was now her turn to order.

  “What would you like tonight?” The lass behind the counter smiled cheerfully, then her brow puckered when she found herself ignored. The other woman was clearly still distracted, so the younger lass repeated her question.

  The woman pointed her thumb over her shoulder at Seoc. The younger lass tilted her head so she could get a look at him, then the pair of them laughed together. The woman then pointed at the board hung high on the wall and murmured something.

  “Spell your name, please,” the younger one requested, then penned the letters on a cup in her hand.

  He was in a coffee house! He should have known it from the fragrance hanging like an invisible but heavy cloud blocking out most of the subtle tastes in the air.

  A dainty bell dinged behind him. Two young women walked through the large glass door and stepped behind him before they, too, took a moment to appreciate his plaid. Again, he stood aside and insisted they go before him. After all, he was in no hurry. No danger seemed imminent unless someone was on the verge of burning themselves with the steaming stuff in their cups, and he could hardly be expected to anticipate which of the dozen or so patrons were about to do such a thing.

  He was pleased when the balding man, now at the head of the line noticed the lasses and stepped aside for them as well, but his smile was more of a grimace then.

  Seoc gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder. “Take heart, mon.”

  The lass behind the counter noticed what had transpired and laughed outright. “If you guys keep at it,” she said, “you’ll never get your coffee.”

  She finished her business with the two young women and waved the chivalrous fellow forward with a frantic wave. “Hurry, before someone else comes in!” Then she laughed again. As before, she asked the man to spell his name, told him the cost, then instructed him where to insert his card.

  The fellow dug into his pants pocket, pulled out some one dollar bills, then stuffed them into a large container marked tips before moving to a small table to wait.

  Seoc stepped closer to her counter.

  “What would you like tonight?”

  He took one last look at the door to make sure no women were entering, then faced her. He was pleased she’d taken the time to meet his gaze. However, his tongue seemed to lose its purpose for a moment while he appreciated how her cheeks curved when she smiled. Hundreds of years ago, a smile like that might have seemed quite encouraging—had she not bestowed that very smile on every customer she’d served before him.

  The sobering thought helped his tongue to work again. “What would you suggest?”

  She was taken aback by the question. “I don’t know. What do you usually drink?”

  Usually? A tricky question, that. The last things he’d used to cool his throat and quench his thirst he’d scooped into his hand from little better than a trickling burn. Before that, a wineskin.

  “Tea…with milk. Though I’d like to taste this American coffee you have.” He’d added the bit about milk so she wouldn’t think him poor if he’d had no milk for his tea, even though he didn’t fancy it that way in the first place.

  She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes for a few seconds, straightened, and grinned again. “I’ll take a stab at it,” she said, “and if you don’t like it, I’ll make you something else.”

  He didn’t care for the term she used. After all, he’d been finished off by a bayonet to the chest the last time he’d been living, and the word stab brought the moment, and the sensation back to mind. He resisted the urge to rub at the site of his wound and gave the lass consideration for not knowing. In reply to her offer, he nodded.

  “That will be five twenty-five.” She tapped on the small black box. “Just slide your card in there. Unless you have cash.”

  He unbuckled his sporran while he felt dozens of eyes upon him and pulled out the two items Soni had gifted him with only moments before. The fiver was obviously not enough—which he couldn’t take the time to comprehend—so he slid his card in the little slot as he’d been instructed. The machine beeped rudely at him.

  “Here.” She took his card, turned it round, and inserted it again. A more pleasant beep signaled a nod from the lass, and she returned the card.

  He took another step to the left and added the fiver to the tips.

  “Wait.” She poised her pen over a new cup. “Spell your name for me, please.”

  Name. Name. Cannae forget it now! And the spelling, ye dolt!

  “S. E. O—”

  The lass glanced sharply at him.

  “C.” He nodded to let her know he was finished.

  She lowered her chin and gave him a dubious look. “S. E. O. C?”

  “Aye.”

  “How do you pronounce it?”

  “Seoc. Like Shock, but more of a z than an s.” He demonstrated.

  “Like Jock?” She shook her head. “They’ll slaughter it. How about your last name?”

  He frowned from side to side, wishing fewer people were within hearing. His last name always drew more notice than he wished, especially from a non-Scot.

  He leaned close and lowered his voice. “Macbeth.” Only after he’d said it aloud and noted the surprise on her features did he realize he could have used any of a hundred other names and still known when his coffee was ready for him.

  He closed his eyes and waited for her pithy comment. The lass had been quick-witted thus far. Surely she would have something clever to say.

  Perhaps, “I am, in coffee, stepped in so far…”

  “Thank you,” she said, suddenly straight-faced. “If you want to take a seat, it will just take a minute or two.” After a quick glance at the empty doorway behind him, she took the cup to the small kitchen area and forgot him.

  Probably doesn’t know her Shakespeare.

  After he’d made certain that no females would be left without a seat, he lowered himself onto a metal chair and tucked his sporran between his legs like a gentleman.

  The chair was cold. And what’s more, he could feel it!

  He kept his face a smooth, emotionless mask, but inside he was jumping about like a wee child let outside to play. Of course Soni had told Culloden’s 79 she’d be giving them life again so they might perform their daring do. She’d even teased him with a quote from the Bard’s play, telling him he would be mortal. But he’d supposed she would simply cast some spell that would give him substance for the duration of the quest, not life in truth!

  He was a learned man. Barring some miracle like unto the Frankenstein tale, he couldn’t fathom any way a body could be re
animated. But Soni hadn’t had bodies to work with. They’d been spirits only!

  Admittedly, he’d been educated in an era little more advanced than medieval times. But he’d studied what he could on the telly. He’d learned much more after death than he’d ever learned in life. But still, his respect for otherworldly things held strong for obvious reasons.

  He was a ghost himself—something that couldn’t be explained by science. And he’d respected the fact that Soni was a witch and she was able to see them and talk to them. None of which could be explained by physics.

  So truly, he shouldn’t have been so surprised that Soni was able to give him this gift—the gift of feeling the chill of metal beneath his…well. And yet, he was.

  A server called out two names and the young women stepped forward, collected their beverages, and gave him a fleeting glance before stepping out into the dying light of the gloaming. Much earlier in the day than Scotland, then. Six hours at least, for he’d left the moor long after midnight.

  The small slip of paper the lass had given him read The Press Gang, Portland, Oregon.

  Oregon. The west coast of The States, then. Far, far from Culloden’s boundaries. He gave himself a moment to consider whether or not he might miss his ghostly home. Although he’d been eager to quit the place, he’d anticipated regret for leaving it. It had become a part of him just as permanently as he’d become a part of it, so he expected something akin to homesickness to affect him, at least until he was settled elsewhere. But no.

  Perhaps Soni’s magic extended further than the ability to anticipate the cost of a cuppa.

  “Phillip.”

  The bald man stood and collected his prize, then gave a nod to Seoc as he passed. His expression seemed quite cheerful compared to earlier, and Seoc wondered if the man was that delighted to have his hot drink in hand, or if he was pleased with himself for remembering his manners.