Outsider (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 4) Read online

  Kristie groaned in exhaustion and stood beside her sister-in-law, trying to catch her breath. They both stared at him in silence until Jean said, “Domnall has a stained tunic that will not come clean. A naked man will not be found on my farm.”

  She wandered slowly from sight, going around the side of the home with her hand pressed to the low of her back. Kristie waited anxiously for her to return, and when she did, Kristie was the one who tugged the long tunic over the stranger’s head while her plaid still covered his groin. She noticed that more than his head and shoulders were scuffed up. His right knee had a series of scrapes and appeared to be swollen like the bump on his temple.

  Once he was covered, Jean sighed. “There. He be one step closer to getting well.”

  Kristie shook her head. “Can ye look me in the eye and tell me he will not wake and run off with our livestock?”

  “I cannae,” Jean answered with a shrug. “But it be the right thing to do.”

  Kristie wasn’t so sure about that and went to find the hayfork. She handed it to Jean. “I did not get far before finding him. What if Domnall and Hendrie shared his fate? I will go back out to walk the length of our shore, but ye best not leave his side until he draws his last breath or wakes.”

  “Aye, if it makes ye rest easy.” Jean took hold of the forked tool and took a seat on an empty barrel. “I will not move from this spot until ye come back.”

  Kristie took a deep breath and swept out of the byre. She hurried back down the slope to the loch and was careful not to slip on the rocky beach as she moved as quick as she safely could along the shore. The morning had gone, and there was still no sight of her brother and neighbor.

  She had gone far north of their home when she decided to turn back. When she was more than halfway home, she spotted a man on the bluff. He held up his hand in greeting, so she decided to go have a word.

  Their older neighbor, Sacharie, had a dark-blue plaid wrapped around his upper body. It was belted around his waist, leaving the bottom of his linen tunic uncovered at his knees. He grinned at her from under his knitted woolen cap. His graying hair came out in a wiry mass beneath it, and his bushy eyebrows furrowed as he said, “Afternoon, Kristie. Ye never struck me as the type to leave yer chores for a walk.”

  “To be sure,” she answered. “I be looking for Domnall and Hendrie. They went out in the currach yesterday and have not returned. Have ye seen anything amiss?”

  “Nay, lass.” He shook his head. “I will be sure to spread the word. My boy and I can go out to search.”

  “Thank ye.” Kristie looked at the fellow and thought of another way he could help. “There be something else.”

  “Speak up, lass. Ye know I will do what I can.”

  Kristie pointed down the shore. “While I was out looking for my brother, I found a fellow, an outsider. He looks a sight and will not wake.”

  “That is a strange happening,” the man breathed out in wonder.

  “Jean would not leave him be. He sleeps in our byre, but what if he wakes and steals our cattle? I wonder if ye would stop by to give him a look. See if ye recognize him? Give yer opinion to Jean since she respects ye so?”

  “Oh, aye.” The older fellow folded his arms across his chest. “I said to Moira this morning, a strange wind blows from the west. The fairies are behind it, to be sure.”

  She continued on her walk home, squinting along the loch, searching for anything out of place, but saw nothing but the trees and rocks protecting the shore. Kristie hurried up their slope to let herself into the fenced property. She ducked into the darkened byre, hoping the man had woken and departed during her absence.

  Jean’s eyes had drifted shut while she rested sitting up, and beside her the fellow was still sleeping on the hay-strewn ground. Kristie sighed. She shouldn’t have left her alone with the outsider. She walked up to her sister-in-law and placed her hand on her shoulder. “Time to wake.”

  Jean’s lids fluttered open, and she glanced to the outsider with a bleary look in her eyes. “Oh, I fell asleep. Did ye find Domnall?”

  Kristie shook her head and helped the pregnant woman onto her feet. She took the hayfork from her and suggested, “I can look after him. If ye would bring him a drink, maybe I can wake him and get some answers.”

  Jean wandered outside and yawned before walking out of sight. Kristie gripped the hayfork and sat against the bumpy stone-and-clay wall. She set the sharpened forked points of the tool in the ground beside the man and took a deep breath. If he made any move to hurt her, she would be ready.

  Chapter 2

  Something cool and wet touched his lips. It wasn’t salty like he expected. The tangy flavor drew him from the safe recesses of his mind. A little more made it past his lips and down his throat, and he sputtered, gasping for breath.

  He opened his eyes and found himself staring into an unfamiliar woman’s face. She pulled back, taking away the wooden cup that was pressed to his lips, and lifted something else into his line of vision. He tried focusing on it, but his sight grew blurry. A throbbing pain in his temple forced his lids shut again.

  “Do ye have a name?” Her voice cut through the pounding in his head, though he didn’t understand her question.

  He took a breath and lifted his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes. The edge of his palm brushed against his swollen temple. His flesh burned in response, so he pulled his hand away. A gasp broke from his lips.

  “Ye have a real goose egg there,” the woman said from above. “I was unsure if ye would wake. But now that ye have, I have some questions.”

  He tried once more to open his eyes. Slowly this time. It took a moment for everything to come into focus. Above him was the identifiable wooden frame of a roof covered with straw and yellowed grass. He tilted his head to the side, spotting the rear end of a milking cow. The creature’s tail swept back and forth as it blinked back at him. The all-consuming smell of manure filled his nostrils. Out beyond the opening of the darkened byre, the sky was gray and cloudy. He felt the breath of the winds sweep through the darkened space, whispering in his ears.

  Movement drew his attention. The woman who’d spoken leaned into his view with her brows lifted. It was then he realized she was holding a hayfork in his direction. Through the dim, he could see her rosy cheeks and dark eyes. A few locks of her pale hair had pulled free from whatever fastened it at the back of her head and framed her face. She didn’t have the appearance of a young, impressionable lass; her hardened expression made her seem to be a woman who’d seen more than her share of sorrow.

  She raised the sharpened end of the hayfork and clenched her teeth. “What be yer name?”

  For the first time her words filtered into his thoughts, and he opened his mouth to answer but couldn’t. It seemed the sort of thing a fellow should know. Simple. Straightforward. But nothing came to him.

  Her eyes widened in frustration. “Do ye not know yer own name? Or can ye not speak?”

  He didn’t know, but he thought he ought to try, so he cleared his throat, sending a deep sound from his chest. “I cannae be sure, but a name does not come to mind.”

  She appeared just as relieved as he was to hear his deep voice. That answered one of her questions, but not the one she was bent on getting. He watched the subtle way her face changed expression as he tried to determine who she was and why she was holding a pointed tool in his direction. Had he tried to harm her?

  “I found ye on my shore, naked and a sight, like ye were roughed up. Ye are too far from the border to be a reiver, unless ye be lost.” She ignored the horse that brushed past her.

  He tried to think. Was he a reiver, sacking any home or farm about the Scottish border for valuables despite his loyalty or birth? Though he knew what a reiver was, he had no memories of such things—nor any memories at all from before he woke. The suggestion of being lost was quite a confusing thought. “I do not know where I be, where I belong, or why my head rings louder than any kirk bell.”

  The woman pi
nched her lips into a straight line and her brows pulled together. After a moment, she said, “We be kind folk, tenants who work the land and raise cattle. We do not need trouble, ye hear me?”

  “Better than ye might think,” he answered, wincing. Her voice was loud, and it echoed in his head.

  She did not appear amused by his comment. Her eyes narrowed, and she lowered the pointed end of the hayfork closer to his chest. He raised his hands in a hurry and held her gaze. “I cannae rightly say who I am, but I swear there be no intent to take even a stick of yers. I dinnae have any reason to hurt any of yer kinfolk, or may the Lord strike me dead where I lie.”

  His answer seemed to put her more at ease, and she lowered the tool to the ground. “Ye swear ye cannae remember a thing? When we carried ye back, ye muttered something about trying to save him—who be the fellow ye spoke of?”

  “I said that, did I?”

  She nodded and blinked. “We be expecting my brother to be returning in his currach any time. He must have been blown astray in the gale winds last evening. Dinnae be thinking that gives ye rights to be taking advantage, ye hear?”

  He noted the toughness of her demeanor and didn’t doubt she’d be willing to pitch the hayfork into anyone who tested her boundaries. He nodded. The movement made his head feel like it was filled with wriggling eels. “Aye, ye be heard loud and clear.”

  “Well then, since we have an understanding, do ye think ye be well enough to go on yer way with a belly full of pottage?”

  For the first time he tried to lift himself onto his elbow. His head pounded fiercely, but he pushed past the discomfort to test himself. She wasn’t the only one who was curious about what had happened to him. He sat up, noticing the stained tunic that covered his torso. A green plaid was arranged over his groin and thighs. He lifted an eyebrow. “Is it ye who I should be thanking for the clothes?”

  In the shadows of the byre, he thought her cheeks flushed crimson. She gave a quick nod without looking at him and muttered toward the packed clay wall. “I will be needing my plaid back, but Jean might be able to find ye another to keep ye warm.”

  He pressed his knuckle against the packed earthen ground and tried to rise onto his feet, but once he bent his knee, a stabbing pain shot through his bones, and he gasped.

  She took a step forward, her forehead creased in concern. “Lie down.”

  He lowered himself back onto the ground and looked at his knee. It was scuffed up and swollen. He tried to remember what had happened to him, but his memories only began from the time he woke in the animal byre. He glanced back at the woman and apologized. “I dinnae wish to be any trouble.”

  “Well, it be too late for that,” she muttered.

  She seemed to be thinking over her options when he recalled she’d asked for her plaid back. He worked at lifting up his backside from the ground to pull the length of the tunic down to cover his groin and thighs, something the woman had been either unable or unwilling to do while he was unconscious. Once he was properly attired, he was able to lift her woolen blanket from his legs and hand it to her.

  As she leaned in to take it from him, he said, “I would like to thank ye properly for not leaving me on yer shore.”

  She was quick to retort. “If it were my doing, ye would be there still.”

  He paused to look at her, wondering if she only knew how to press her lips into a tight line, or if she was capable of smiling. “What should I call ye?”

  She yanked the plaid away from his fingers and stepped back to shake it out. Then she wrapped it around her shoulders and answered curtly, “Kristie be my name. Now ye stay put while I get ye a bite to eat.”

  “Thank ye, Kristie.” He watched her turn heel and hurry out of sight.

  For someone who didn’t know who or where he was, he was fairly content. He wondered if he should be more distressed than he was, but couldn’t dredge up the worry fitting his situation, so he used his good leg to help him move against the outer wall of the byre. The heifer watched him go, and once he settled, its focus shifted to other things.

  He didn’t want to anger Kristie and get himself into trouble, but he was right bored waiting. His headache began to dull, though it wouldn’t go away. He noticed a basket hanging on the opposite wall, presumably the outer wall of the tenant’s home and had an idea.

  He picked up a few pieces of gravel from the ground and glanced toward the light coming in through the opening of the animal shed to make sure the lass wasn’t near before sending a minuscule shard at the basket, trying to get it in. It bounced off the rim and fell to the ground. He bit his lip, then tried again. He threw another tiny stone toward the woven container and made it in.

  “Aye!” he called and ran his fingers over the ground to find another rock.

  “Whatever are ye doing?” a voice asked.

  He turned to look at the threshold again to find a boy of at least eleven, standing with his head cocked, watching him. The lad’s chestnut hair was swept in a flurry from his face and tucked haphazardly behind his ear.

  “Oh, I dinnae know. Just made up a silly game while I be waiting on Kristie.”

  The boy stood in place. “Never seen ye before. Who are ye?”

  “That be the question of the day.” He shrugged with a sigh. “I woke in the shadow of this here animal shed and have no recollection of a thing before. Kristie says she found me on the shore all scuffed up.”

  “Bad luck,” the boy breathed out, his eyes wide. “Ye dinnae know who ye are at all?”

  He shook his head with a shrug, and the boy took a step closer. The lad seemed to give it some thought before touching his chin. “That means ye can be whoever ye want to be. Ye be looking like a Creag to me.”

  “Creag, ay?”

  The lad nodded. He pointed away. “Yer hair be the color of the rocks in the loch out near the inlet to the sea. The crags the seals claim as their own.”

  He looked at the boy again, surprised by his keen observations. “Ye might be just a lad, but ye are bright as any I ever met.”

  “If ye dinnae remember meeting none before me, how is that a compliment?”

  He laughed at the child’s quick wit. “To be sure. The more I think on it, the name grows on me.” He held his hand out to the boy and said, “Call me Creag, lad. What be yer name?”

  “Around these parts I am known as Jock.” The boy walked forward to shake Creag’s hand.

  Once again Creag chuckled at the child’s remarks. He held the boy’s gaze. “Are ye known as something else in other territories?”

  Jock shook his head and crossed his arms. “Might be. I have not always lived with my aunt and uncle, but with my pa on the coast up north where the winds call yer name if ye are born of the sand and surf like me.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Creag asked, “And where is yer pa?”

  The lad blinked and tilted his head. “He went with the King of Scots to fight for our freedom. He brought me to my mam’s sister before he rode off over the Highlands. That was two springs ago. I was told he died in the forest. I imagine the saplings taking root from the very spot he last drew breath to mark a hero’s grave, but my Aunt Eileanor tells me I am foolish to think so.”

  The lad scratched the top of his head and shrugged matter-of-factly. Though Jock didn’t seem happy his father had passed, he also didn’t appear terribly saddened about his current situation.

  “Good thing ye have yer family, then,” Creag said.

  Jock sighed in response and shook his head. “Ye would think. My uncle does nay mind me telling stories to my little cousin by the hearth, but the way Auntie goes on and on, ye might imagine I had drawn and quartered the lass. She says I distract everyone from their work, and that the yarns I tell are just lies dressed up like a mule pretendin’ to be a pony.”

  “What sorts of tales do ye tell?” Creag frowned. His temple throbbed from the simple action, so he let his face slacken.

  “Oh, well, there be the one about the sprites that hide in the boug
hs of the trees during All Saints’ Day, and the one about the animals who gather to rid themselves of the ferocious bear that claims their home as his own—”

  “But that sounds harmless.”

  “Aye, well…”Jock folded his arms and pursed his lips as if deep in thought. “If I were an honest lad, and I am, I would have to say she be most in a twist when I talk of my mam coming back to find me, but that be no imagined tale like the others.”

  Creag sensed this was a delicate subject, so he simply waited for the lad to continue. After all, if the child was orphaned, Jock might not wish to answer questions about his kin.

  But the lad surprised him, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure they were alone and lowering his voice. “My mam was cut from a different cloth than her sister. She was kindhearted with the soul of a bard. She lived in the stories she dreamt of. Not only that, she was as fine a lady ye ever did see. When Pa first laid eyes on her, his heart was claimed by her bonnie face and her long flowing hair that tumbled to her waist. He used to tell me my mam would gaze at the sea with a sad look in her eye. I dinnae remember much about her, but I have a memory of us walking on the beach until we found a clan of seals moving about the shore, sunning themselves while they could. We watched them ’til my hunger forced us home, as it always did.”

  Creag found himself absorbed in the lad’s story. Jock’s lilting voice pulled him in, soothing his pounding headache. He certainly had the gift of telling a good yarn.

  The lad paused and lowered his voice even more. “Have ye heard tell of the spirits who take a seal’s form and ride free on the currents of the ocean? They cannae stay put for long. They be curious and playful creatures who explore the coast for the love their hearts crave. Selkies shed their gray skins upon the rocky shores, stepping on land as the most bonnie folk ye ever saw. They sate their yearning for companionship and love. If ye find the skin they leave on shore and hide it away, they be trapped forevermore as a human. Though nothing can ever be so simple. The call of the sea cannae be ignored by a selkie, for it be even stronger than their yearning for love. They always find their gray skins and return to the cold gray waters, leaving behind their kin—the folk who loved them in return.”