Ghosts of Culloden Moor 01 - The Gathering Read online

  THE GATHERING

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor (No.1)

  By L.L. Muir

  AMAZON KDP EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY

  Lesli Muir Lytle

  www.llmuir.weebly.com

  The Gathering © 2015 L.Lytle

  All rights reserved

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE: Introductions

  CHAPTER TWO: The Meeting

  CHAPTER THREE: The Bonding

  CHAPTER FOUR: Discord

  CHAPTER FIVE: The Gathering

  CHAPTER SIX: The Bargain

  CHAPTER SEVEN: First

  About the Author

  DEDICATION

  To Soncerae

  for that smile

  those eyes

  that joy of life…

  CHAPTER ONE: Introductions

  The moors of Culloden never give up their dead…easily.

  Oh, the place seems peaceable enough, and many find solace walking the trail that was once a road, visiting the stones they believe mark only the graves of their ancestors. They shiver and imagine all kinds of horrors at the Well of the Dead. And the young try to prove their mettle by treading across one portion or another in the black of night. But none, save a few of the keepers, knows what truly watches and waits…

  But I do. And I’m no keeper—I’m a Muir witch.

  My name is Soncerae and I’ve found a way to win back the lives of a certain group of young warriors—79 souls who refuse to leave their hallowed, forever-bloody ground. I can win back their lives, I say, but only for a time.

  The trouble will be convincing them to make the bargain.

  In springtime, some of the mosses send up a moist, fascinating shoot—a thin, brilliant sliver of green—straight into the air, as if shouldering their own weapons. Brief flashes of sunlight encourage the plants to take a sip of rain to see how it tastes. Soon, a warm breeze chases all doubt away and the turf gets drunk on melted snow. And it all dares to live again.

  I must tempt these Highlanders in the same way—give them a taste, get them drunk on life and dare them to grasp what they can.

  In summer, the gorse and heather fight for right of way. It’s a colorful field to tread for those with eyes that can see the hues.

  In the fall, the ghosts rise and stomp about, grumbling for the fact they will never see home or shelter again.

  In winter, they shake and shiver as if they can actually feel the cold creeping into their bones—bones that have long since ceased to feel anything at all. I hear it all and it breaks my heart. I know them all and I am compelled to end their self-imposed Hell on Earth.

  The moors of Culloden are wondrous. My heart and body are a part of them now. But oh, how I loathe them for what happened above ground…and what still happens below.

  ~

  There are 79 of us.

  We are young men, all.

  We never gathered before the battle. Most of us were strangers, so we found it passing peculiar when the stramach was over and the lot of us stood apart from the rest. Apart, but together. Perhaps we were united in our need for vengeance, we doona ken. Perhaps there is something about a younger man’s heart that can be stilled neither by bullet nor bayonet.

  There were others of course. There still are others of all ages who haunt the battlefield, who cry out in a need to be remembered, who refuse to go on to whatever God has in store for them.

  The women make things harder for us all. Mothers and widows wandering the swampy ground. Like mournful birds, they cry out for their sons and husbands, reminding us all that we were once loved by a mother, that we never had the chance to take a wife.

  But they are somehow removed from us, blind to us, the 79. And since we have no interest in their painful reminders, we choose not to see them anymore.

  Not everything is a choice, however.

  We are the 79.

  Until sixteen years ago, I thought we would remain Culloden’s 79…

  CHAPTER TWO: The Meeting

  Sixteen years ago…

  Over the centuries, few occasions could rouse all 79 of us at once. But that 1999 Summer Solstice was momentous indeed.

  We stood together, blinking into the cheerfully pale, gray sky, wondering what had awakened us. I half-expected God Himself to arrive and summon us to stand before His judgment seat whether we wanted to or no. When nothing so impressive happened, we looked to the small white car entering the car park.

  Those were the days before the Great Visitor’s Center was constructed, and the little family forewent the tourist path and came straight onto the battlefield instead. The man and woman stirred nothing inside us, but there was something about the babe that pulled us like a magnet to her.

  She wasn’t much to see. After all, babes and wee ones rolled and toddled around the grounds nearly every day. And this one was naught more than bundled blankets and two wide eyes staring back at us as we peeked over the edge of her pram. She was not unique—many of the wee ones looked us in the face and smiled. Some cried. Some stared saucer-eyed and waited for someone to explain us.

  But this bairn was different.

  We all must have felt the same thing, for after each of us finished looking the lassie over, we turned and nodded to our brothers, pretending to understand, but in truth, knowing nothing more than we were united once again.

  We needed her.

  Most folks who come to the battlefield at Culloden Moor are looking for…something. Whether it be peace, or a brush of wind from days long gone, or a feeling of family that goes back to Adam, they’re expecting something from the ground they cross. Some even come hoping for a ghost to rise and greet them.

  On days of remembrance, some come bearing gifts and tokens to honor the dead. But until the lass came, there had never been anyone from whom we’ve all…expected something. Perhaps she is our peace. Somehow. Peace for those who refuse to be fully at peace. It’s a quandary.

  It was a lucky thing we were patient young men—a virtue learned over 254 years—because it was obvious we would be waiting until the lassie was old enough to tell us just what the devil we were supposed to need from her.

  A year later, she came again. But this time, we were surprised when the one we usually look to as our leader, Number 79, hurried to the child’s side and stayed there for her entire visit. It was difficult for the rest of us to get a close look at her, what with him lording over her. But he allowed us a quick look, one at a time, before a flare of his nostrils signaled our turn was at an end.

  The next year, even he kept his distance.

  Most two-year-olds are on the cusp of greeting and wailing any time of the day. With 79 scraggly warriors staring at them, the wrong twitch of an eye can send the worst of them into a screaming fit. Our lass turned out to be a bit more composed than others, but still, our tall silent leader guarded her from a distance and used one sweeping, dark stare to warn us to stay back. We didn’t mind so much, though, now that we knew the parents would be returning with her every year.

  The following summer, the sober, intense mob of us turned into a pack of grinning fools when we heard the lass laugh. She reached out to touch Number 79’s short beard and he pulled back so suddenly, it shocked her. In the blink of an eye, she was giggling so hard she could barely catch her breath. Begrudgingly, he stepped aside and let us all have a chance to impress the lassie.

  Number 23 taught her how to wink while she sat on a stone bench beside her oblivious mother. Number 4 tried to teach her how to whistle and we all stood stock still when we realized she was able to hear him. After that, the men sang and spoke to her, but had to stop when the three-y
ear old started speaking back. It was clear her mother was beginning to worry.

  She blew us kisses over her father’s shoulder while he carried her to their car. We grinned on and off for a month, then started grinning again as the next Summer Solstice neared.

  The fifth time she came, she was over four years old and far too inquisitive.

  “What’s yer name?” she boldly asked 79 while her parents looked at the empty air before them. “Can you not see him, Da? The big one, with the golden hair?”

  “No, Soni. Do you see someone?”

  “Aye, I do.” Her wee brow furrowed. “But he wilna give me his name. Will you ask him?”

  Her father shook his flushed head. “Since I canna see him, lass, I doubt he’d hear me.”

  “Seventy-nine,” the warrior blurted. Then he looked about like he was confused by his own answer. We’d all forgotten our names from time to time. But 79 was none too happy at the lapse and he stomped off and vanished, never to reappear that day.

  The next June, to our dismay, she didn’t come. The big blond was fit to explode like a keg of gun powder. And in the following week, we kept our distance while he stomped around the car park more than a hundred times as if he could summon her to him. But it was no use.

  That year passed slowly for us all.

  When the lass was seven, she hardly noticed us. She had a purple plastic purse with puzzles and games inside it. All we could do was look over her shoulder or peek up into her face for a heartbeat or two before we were shoved out of the way by the next man.

  But at least she’d come, and we knew she was alive and hale. You never know with children. It wasn’t so long ago that a cold Scottish winter could steal the breath of many a bairn, and the graveyards were scattered with small square stones. But those days had been washed away by Penicillin, and we thanked God that our lass hadn’t been born before that miracle.

  Our lass.

  Soni, we called her, as did her parents.

  When she was eight, she left her parents’ side, strode straight over to 79, and took his hand. For the whole of her visit, she walked the battlefield with him, chatting his ethereal ears off. He looked uncomfortable with some of her questions and glared at anyone who came near enough to eavesdrop, but he never pulled his hand from hers. And when the afternoon waned and her parents called her back to them, she seemed content enough.

  One winter day, when we were all shivering up against our stones and our memories, our despair was interrupted by a surprise visit. Soni’s trusting mother stood by their car while the lass hurried over to the monument and her mob of loyal warriors.

  “We are on our way to Inverness and my da said I could stop for a mite!” She shivered and wrapped her scarf tighter around her head, then pulled the edge down beneath her chin so we could see her quickly-reddening face. “Have any moved on since I was here in the spring?”

  79 frowned and shook his head.

  “Moved on?” asked Fraser. “And miss a visit from our Soni come June?” He laughed and the others laughed with him. But it was clear we were all a bit unnerved by her question.

  The lass didn’t laugh. “None of you? Ye’re sure?”

  “Aye, lass.” 79 put his hands on his hips. “It’s no child’s place to tell a man when he should go and when he should stay, aye? I told ye, I’ll go when I’ve been heard and not before. The rest feel the same.”

  She smiled hopefully and rushed forward. “But don’t you see? I’ve heard ye.”

  79 patted her head and I could almost imagine the scarf moved beneath his insubstantial touch. “Ye canna understand. It’s Prince Charlie that needs to hear me, to hear all of us. We’ll stand our ground until that day. No mistake.” He twirled his finger and pointed to the car park. “Now go before ye catch yer death. Not one of us is worth yer takin’ ill.”

  She strode away as she’d been told, but shook her head as she dragged her wee purple boots. “Ye’re wrong, Simon McLaren.” A dozen yards away, she turned to face him. “Ye’re worth as much as all God’s children. I asked.” The look she gave him seemed oddly confident for a girl of eight. And while we all contemplated her words, she climbed in her car and left us.

  From then on, Soni came twice a year. At Samhain and Summer Solstice. In 2007, The National Trust for Scotland built the Great Culloden Visitor’s Centre. In the spring of 2008, we were all on tenterhooks when the lass went inside. One man volunteered to accompany her—the only soul willing to brave the place—Ewan MacFie.

  It took her a good long while to walk through the exhibit, Ewan reported later. But when she went inside the battle room, she’d burst out the door in less than a minute. Ewan himself was so taken aback by the skirmish replaying around him, he failed to follow her. But others were peeking through the thick glass and saw her run past the weapon displays and out the exit.

  Tears poured down her young pink cheeks as she passed through us and ran into the grassy field. 79 followed the distraught lass and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Together they strolled away from prying eyes while the rest of us waited for Ewan to tell us what he’d seen.

  It sounded quite a horror, and though I had been a wee bit curious in the past, nothing could have tempted me to enter the building afterward.

  By the time Soni’s parents came outside, she had recovered enough to join them. Together the family walked around the field with their new-fangled headsets lecturing them on how the battle had unfolded. We’d eavesdropped often enough to know what they were hearing. And while the lass listened to dramatized accounts, she eyed us all through a thick curtain of tears. At the end of the strolling tour, she was stunned and spent, and had to be led back to the car park by her troubled father. We truly wondered if the man would ever let her visit again.

  Not if he were wise, he wouldn’t. But deep down, I prayed the man was a fool.

  CHAPTER THREE: The Bonding

  At the tender age of ten, our lassie began studying us. She wanted our names and patiently waited for us to remember them. Some could recall their lives before we arrived at the battlefield. Others had to wait another eight months or a year to bring it to mind while the lass was on the grounds, so they could be recorded in her special notebook.

  Her parents were an odd couple of ducks. After the age of eight, they began treating her differently, allowing her to have free rein of the place as long as she stayed within sight of them. It was obvious they knew of her gift, that she was able to see us. But remarkably, they didn’t mind it. They certainly didn’t act as though she should be committed to a hospital simply because she could see spirits. And they didn’t seem to worry that we might cause her harm. After all, it was only the exhibit and battle immersion room that had upset her in the past.

  When she was thirteen, she braved the building once more. By the time she emerged, in tears yet again, we were all standing just outside the doors, ready to brave the place ourselves if she hadn’t shown herself soon.

  If we’d had our druthers, we’d have never come so near the exit, of course. For Ewan MacFie had come out far whiter than when he’d gone in, and that was saying something for a dead man. In the end, we reasoned, there was nothing inside we didn’t already know. So all were happy to avoid the place.

  It took years for the lass to interview us all what with the few days she spent at Culloden. But by the end of a cold Samhain visit, she had finished. When she came to visit that spring, she was fifteen. She left her tattered notebook in her bag and spent all her time with 79. And though we still wondered why the lass continued to affect us all so strongly, Wyndham suggested that the Good Lord had given her to us for a bit of companionship while we bided our time.

  But no one should assume to know what The Almighty has in store…

  CHAPTER FOUR: Discord

  Lachlan, Summer Solstice, 2015.

  Something was wrong.

  Throughout the cloudy day, the mood among the 79 grew into a sullen cloud of its own. Our Soncerae had not come. The sun set with all
the traditional fanfare on the longest day of the year and still, our precious lass never appeared.

  79 was physically ill—at least as physically ill as a spirit can be. I saw him retching in the gorse when he thought no one was looking. But we all watched him out of the corner of our eyes because we knew that no matter how disappointed we all were—and our disappointment weighed heavier by the minute—we knew it was somehow worse for him. There was something between this tall silent blond and the wee lass whom we’d all watched grow up.

  “She would be sixteen this year,” I mumbled and glanced in 79’s direction.

  Alan McHenish, to my left, tried to shove my shoulder but his hand went through me, my mood had weakened me so. “Dinna be daft. Sixteen is still a child these days. There can be nothing between him and the wee lassie, aye?”

  “Oh?” I pointed to the blond with my blade. “Tell that to him.”

  McHenish snorted again. “Weel, it’s not as if she’s dead, is it? I mean, sixteen-year-olds dinna just keel over of a bad heart or die of the sniffles, now do they?”

  The man’s logic made me shake my head. “Ye just said she’s a child. Now she’s too old to die of the sniffles? Make up yer mind, for pity’s sake.”

  “Her parents didna come this year,” someone said quietly. “Perhaps they’ve all gone on holiday. To the States, maybe. Can’t just swing up to the Highlands for the day if ye’re across the pond, aye?” Wyndham was ever one to tell a cheery tale. But that day, it didn’t help much. 79’s mood always seemed to dictate our own, we were that tethered to one another.

  The car park emptied of all but two vehicles. What with the Pagan holiday and all, it seemed the folks in the Great Visitor’s Centre expected trouble and had kept on a pair of security guards for the night instead of just one. Because of the solstice, all 79 of us remained upright, still waiting for our semi-annual moment of cheer. I expected none would give up hoping until the sun found the eastern sky again.