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It's a novel of 85 chapters inspired by a mystical experience I had in Scotland in 2005. |
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I had a vision in Scotland in 2005. I saw how a woman died during a massacre of which I had no prior knowledge. After intensive research I discovered the identity of the woman. The history book’s speculation about the cause of her death is not what I saw, although it would have looked the same. |
| (South Africa – Cape Town) (February-13 -2002) (The same day) McIain had decided to see his mother's best friend Rita McMinn. She had always been a shoulder to cry on, especially since the shooting. The two of them clicked like a well-oiled mousetrap. He parked the Land Rover in the small parking lot behind her building unfolding his tall frame from the vehicle clutching a cell phone to his ear. 'Are you sure.... I am so sorry to trouble you so early, .... Yes, I'm in the parking lot downstairs. See you soon. Same here.' He slipped the phone into his jacket pocket putting on a pair of sunglasses, turning his collar up and locked the Rover with his remote. After scanning the parking lot he quickly strode into a side entrance. The same black Toyota as before entered slowly and parked close to the Land Rover. A stocky man of average height looking like an ex boxer got out and lit a cigarette, flipping the matchstick into the air. After scanning the lot he sauntered over to McIain's vehicle, kneeling down next to the driver's front wheel and attached a small radio transmitter inside the wheel cover. He got up slowly, scanning the area once more, before strolling back to the Toyota where he flicked his cigarette the same way he did with the matchstick, watching it arch through the air until it came to rest in the gutter. He drove away slowly. ********* McIain felt out of breath by the time he reached her flat. He used the stairs to avoid other people; with a trembling hand he knocked. He had to swallow a lump in his throat when she opened the door, looking up at him with tenderness. 'Good morning young man. What did I do to deserve a handsome hunk like you to come and visit me?' She noticed the sadness in his eyes and stepped forward hugging him. 'What's the matter? Are you okay?' 'Mom died this morning.' 'You poor thing. Come inside.' She led him through to the lounge. She was an attractive, middle-aged woman, with permanent dimples in her cheeks, giving the impression of a perpetual smile. 'I'm so sorry to hear that McIain. What time did they say she died?' 'Just after five this morning.' 'Have you eaten today? Make yourself at home and I'll make us some coffee and sandwiches. Black with two sugars, if I remember correctly?' She didn't wait for his reply. McIain walked up and down like a caged animal, hugging himself every so often, shaking his head. 'How could I do it? I'm a murderer. Who the hell was the priest? Why didn't he stop me? How could I? Oh, mom please forgive me. Please, I beg you.' He sat down eventually on a low couch, holding his head in his hands, listening to the noises from the kitchen, of plates being handled and a kettle whistling. 'Almost done!' Rita called from the kitchen. McIain said nothing. Rita returned soon after with a tray carrying the coffee and sandwiches. He got up taking the tray from her. 'I wish my sons had such good manners. Your mother was a real lady. Put it here, I'll move these magazines.' They sat down facing each other. McIain waited for her to take the first bite, before he followed suit. 'I know, it might seem callous, but it's a blessing. Imagine being in a coma for three months. I can't belief it's that long since the shooting. Time has many feet.' She said chewing. 'I've done something terrible Rita.' 'What?' 'I don't know if I'll ever be able to live with myself again. I wish they still had the death penalty in this country. I deserve to die.' 'What are you talking about, McIain? 'I killed her Rita.' 'You did no such thing. It was the assasin's bullet.' McIain looked up and their eyes locked. 'You don't understand Rita... I killed her this morning.' He whispered. She looked at him in disbelieve. Her eyes filled with tears and she got up joining him, putting her arm around him. ' You poor, poor boy.' 'I'm a murderer Rita.' 'No you're not. You're a saviour. That's exactly what she would have wanted. We often spoke about it. I thought you both had living wills.' 'Rita it was terrible, but she looked so peaceful when she died. It almost looked like she was smiling. Oh, who am I trying to fool.' He leant his head against her shoulder. 'But there's more.' ' What?' 'There was a priest in the room who saw everything.' 'What did he look like? Was he also tall and dark like you? What are you, 6'6"?' 'It was so quick...how did you know?' 'He's your mother's brother.' McIain sank further into his chair, shocked. 'My mother has a brother? Why didn't she ever tell me? Then he'll definitely go to the police!' He jumped up, and paced again. 'McIain please sit down. There's a lot you don't know. I'll try to explain, but I know there are many things your mother hasn't shared with me either. Oh you poor thing. Excuse me for a moment. I have to make a few phone calls to reschedule my day; I want to spend some time with you.' She got up. 'Please don't. You must despise me.' 'On the contrary. Please stay. I insist. Please.' McIain nodded and sat back in the chair steeping his fingers in front of him, in a trance. He tried to listen to Rita's voice, but the conversation was unintelligible. She returned a few minutes later with a small manila envelope. 'That was easy. One advantage of being your own boss.' She sat down. 'You came to South Africa when you were four, after your father and sister were killed in an accident.' 'So? That's common knowledge.' 'Your mother confided in me about a year ago, the reason she came here from Scotland was because she feared for your lives.' 'Our lives? You can't be serious. She would have told me. There were no secrets between us.' 'That's the sad part. It broke her heart, but she had her reasons. She wanted to protect you.' 'Protect me from whom?' 'A massacre took place on February 13 1692 in a valley in the highlands of Scotland, called Glencoe.' 'I know about the massacre, but how in heaven's name can it have anything to do with us?' 'It's a black mark in Scottish history as you know. There are still some pubs in the highland areas with signs; No dogs or Campbells allowed, your mom told me once.' McIain looked uncomfortable, and went pale. 'What's wrong? Are you okay?' 'My mother was a Campbell, and today is the 13th of February 2002. Don't you think that's weird?' 'Rather.' She shivered. 'This envelope contains a short synopsis of what your mother wants you to know, and two keys.' 'What are they for? What about her brother, Father Campbell? What do you think he's going to do? Where does he fit in?' 'Not so fast young man. One thing at a time. I've just spoken to him.' 'You have!?' 'Yes. He told me about this morning.' She started to cry, indicating to McIain to sit down when he was about to get up to placate her. 'Sit down. It must've been terrible for you. He says it was one of the saddest, yet one of the most beautiful and pure moments he has ever witnessed.' She blew her nose with a small handkerchief. 'Why didn't he try to stop me?' 'He says there was a larger force at work, to complete the circle started on the day of the Massacre. It pinned him to the chair.' 'Is that all he said?' 'The impatience of the youth... He said he'll contact you, and he's going to organize tickets to Scotland for you to meet him in a place called Kinlochleven. Apparently, he has to fly back today, to conduct a funeral for a woman who died there this morning. He apologizes.' 'What did he tell the staff?' 'He told them when he woke up, she was dead already. They're not sure why the alarm didn't go off, but there won't be any investigation. I think deep down, everybody's relieved she's gone. You know what I mean.' 'I'll never be able to forgive myself.' 'That's not what she would've wanted, and you know it.' She handed him the envelope. 'The keys are for the safe at her house and the safe at your mountain cottage in Franchhoek.' 'What's in the safes?' 'It's all very involved. Father Campbell said you must watch your back since he suspects your mother's shooting was an accident, but you were the actual target. It had been orchestrated by a Campbell movement.' 'I find it very hard to believe, but I don't really have an option, do I?' 'I'm afraid not.' 'I won't rest until I find the scum responsible for this. Somebody has to pay. I'll get the documents before I go to Scotland.' 'What about your studies? You've only got two more years to finish your post grad surgical course.' 'That will have to wait then, won't it? How will I contact this Father Campbell, my mother's so-called brother?' 'I've given him your cell number. Hope you don't mind.' She said getting up. 'What will you do now?' 'I don't know. I'm too upset to think straight.' He got up and hugged her. 'Thanks Rita, you're a star.' 'I wish I could help more. I'm going to miss both of you.' McIain said nothing. 'When you look like that, you look just like your mother. The same dark hair and those deep blue eyes. Look after yourself and don't let some Scottish lass trap you into marriage before you finished your studies now.' She started to cry and guided him from her flat. ****************** McIain arrived at his mother's house a few hours later and parked his Land Rover in front of the double garage doors and unfolded his tall frame from the vehicle, looking around, stretching. He yawned but did not forget to put his hand in front of his mouth. He strolled towards the front door on an old railway-sleeper pathway between two well-kept flowerbeds dripping its purple petals onto the walk, looking at the beautiful mountains behind the property, sighing, before he unlock and entered, forgetting to lock the door behind him. He walked over to a beautiful pencil drawing of his mother, he did 5 years ago, and traced the outlines of her face with his index finger. A tear trickled down his cheek. 'Going to miss you mom.' He walked down the short passage and entered his mother's bedroom. It was tastefully decorated, with mainly pink and white colours. His felt sad when he walked around touching some of her things. He picked up one of her pillows, burying his face in it, falling facedown onto the bed, and sobbed into it for a good twenty minutes. He didn't hear the faint sound of a door opening and closing with his face still buried in the pillow. 'Common pull yourself together. Don't be such a sissy.' He chastised himself. He approahed the safe next to his mother's bed, hidden behind an oil painting. Suddenly the stocky man approached him from the rear, with a baseball bat held in both hands, but as he was about to hit McIain over the head, McIain turned slightly causing the bat to glance off the side of his skull crashing onto his collarbone. McIain staggered into the wall and the attacker managed another swing at his kidneys. McIain pushed himself backwards from the wall with both arms catching the attacker by surprise causing him to drop the bat. They staggered backwards, falling over a low table, which fractured, shattering into pieces sliding into the passage. The assailant pulled a gun, but McIain tackled him and the gun went flying, as they skidded on the polished floor into the lounge. They struggled to get up first and the man dived towards the gun, which had slid almost halfway across the lounge floor. McIain managed to grab him by the ankle yanking him back just short of he gun. His assailant kicked at the hand on his ankle, skinning some of McIain's knuckles in the process, but he managed to hold on. McIain became aware of the pain in his right shoulder when his assailant tried to pull his foot free from his right hand. He could felt hyped from the adrenalin rush, and the life and death struggle. He managed to get up first that time and with a proper well aimed, round-house kick, managed to kick his assailant, who was by then reversing on his buttocks sliding towards the gun, on the temple. With satisfaction, he saw him topple over unconscious onto the wooden floor. McIain staggered back to sit on the leather couch catching his breath. He slowly got his breath back, feeling all over his body for injuries, which might have been veiled by his oversupplied adrenalin. His right collarbone was definitely fractured, but as far as he could palpate, it felt like an uncomplicated fracture, which fortunately had not been displaced and should therefore, heal well with proper management. He gingerly got to his feet, walking towards the man on the floor, kicking the gun as far away as possible. His assailant's shirt was torn from his body during their struggle. He had a large ruby birthmark covering half his torso and back. McIain turned him over onto his back, checking for a pulse and his breathing. Satisfied that he was alive, he searched the man's pockets, because the face meant nothing to him. He found a packet of Camel cigarettes and a Bic lighter in his pant's pocket, but nothing else. He scanned the wreckage they caused during their struggle, before striding back to the bedroom to retrieve what he came for. He tried the phone in the bedroom, but the line was dead. 'His cell phone was still in the car; damn!' he realized after patting himself down. The assailent was still unconsious when he checked on him and he jogged to the Rover. He phoned his security company and two men arrived within minutes. They went into the house with drawn weapons, but there was no sign of the man. They searched every room without luck. 'He must've slipped out the back door,' the elder guard said, holstering his gun again. 'I'll phone the police. To send someone over.' McIain said. He felt emotionally too upset to deal with the police and the older guard sensed it. 'Don't worry, I'll go myself and open a case. You should go to hospital, you look like shit.' They said their goodbyes outside, and McIain drove off. ***************** A few minutes later, the garage door opened and his assailant appeared rubbing his head swearing. He was dusting himself down for he hid in an old tool-cupboard in the garage, and his heart was still racing since the younger security gaurd almost opened the door. He used a remote, which he found in the cupboard to close the door, and crossed the road entering some dense foliage. On reaching his black Toyota he lit a smoke, before getting in, and drove into the road turning in the direction McIain took earlier. McIain kept looking in his rear view mirror. His heart was beating fast and his shoulder and head were throbbing a foxtrot in his scull. There was dried blood on the side of his face and a large egg like swelling above his right ear. He grimaced when he felt his shoulder, and looked at himself in the rear view mirror pulling a face. 'Mom, what else don't I know?' The Toyota kept a safe distance making it impossible for McIain to pick him up. McIain couldn't believe his eyes when he saw a sign - FRANCHHOEK 15 KM – HELSHOOGTE MOUNTAIN PASS – CAUTION SHARP CURVES AHEAD. Time seemed to have passed like the tortoise overtaking the rabbit in the Great Race fable. He slowed down, putting the vehicle into a lower gear, when he went up a steep incline. McIain had to swerve violently to avoid hitting a tiny Klipspringer buck when it jumped almost right in front of the Land Rover, causing him to loose control,and drove into a deep ditch next to the road, hitting his already sore head against the roof. Shock waves travelled right up his spine when the nose of the Land Rover hit the opposite wall of the ditch with its reinforced-steel protection-bar. At the same time the black Toyota drove past the dust cloud caused by McIain's accident. When the driver looked at the transmitter reading he realized he had passed McIain. Trying to look back he veered too much to the side. His face distorted with shock when he hit the barrier. The car flew in an arc and started to roll down the mountain bouncing, with glass breaking, and metal tearing until it came to a standstill landing on its roof at the foot of the cliff. McIain struggled to put the Land Rover in gear due to his sore shoulder and reversed out with only a small amount of wheel spin. He saw the Toyota breaking through the barrier and drove to the spot, where he got out taking his doctor's bag. He used his mobile to make a call. 'Operator we need emergency services. A car has rolled down the mountain on the Hellshoogte mountain pass... ten km from Franchhoek... I don't know. I'm on my way down to the vehicle now... Bye.' He made his way down as fast as possible, jumping from boulder to boulder and reached the vehicle perspiring like a hippopotamus in a Turkish bath. When he got down on hands and knees, he could see the driver hanging upside down from his safety belt, and a strong smell of gasoline filled the air. He tried the door, with no luck while the smell of gasoline got worse. Sitting on his butt using both feet he kicked the window in. He sniffed the air like a meerkat on heat, increasing his struggles. After some time he managed to pull the body from the vehicle. Gasoline was still leaking from under the bonnet, prompting him to drag the body away from the vehicle as fast as possible, gasping for air. The man's face was smashed to a pulp. He felt for his pulse and listened to his heart using a stethoscope. He closed the man's still open eyes with two fingers. He saw the large ruby birthmark through his torn shirt and sore under his breath. 'Who the hell are you?' He looked up to the top of the cliff, where the sound of shrill sirens, broadcasted the arrival of the emergency vehicles and got to his feet slowly, putting his stethoscope back into the bag. |
| This is the preface, historical back ground, prologue and first two chapters of the novel Forgiveness of Nightmares Preface It is not often in life one has a mystical experience, which can leave you breathless afterwards. However, in the story I am about to share with you, this was exactly what happened to me. I wouldn’t have imagined in my wildest dreams that I would ever put pen to paper; nowadays rather put fingers to keyboard. (In my case only two fingers) I have been a dentist for over twenty years in Cape Town, South Africa, spending most of my working day in the small confinement of human mouths. I, went on holiday to Scotland (my first time) in June 2005, where we met up with some Scottish friends in Castle Douglass. The Scottish couple took us for a trip up to the Isle of Skye for a night in Portree. On our way, we stopped in Ballachulish West Laroch for some coffee and scones at a coffee shop on the shores of Loch Leven. What happened next I would never be able to explain as long as I live. When we entered the coffee shop, I made eye contact with a young waitress. For an instant of about three seconds, our eyes locked. It was as if I have known her from a previous life I guessed, although I do not believe in reincarnation at all. During our eye contact I felt some sort of mystical wave entering my soul, akin to an ‘I am home’ feeling. I felt an incredible connection with the old Celtic clans of the highlands of Scotland. The story became one with my soul, as there it was, fully formed from beginning to end in my mind. I saw a woman who died. According to history books, I discovered later, she died because of exposure to the elements. However, that wasn’t what I saw; I saw her die in a different way although it would have looked the same if one should investigate the cause of death. I irritated my travelling companions no end with my constant chattering about this amazing event trying to explain to them as well as to myself that I had been there before. For somebody who had never been in Scotland it felt weird. I must confess I knew next to nothing about Scottish history. A few hours later on the same day, we went to the memorial museum commemorating the Glencoe Massacre, which took place on February 13 – 1692 at 05h00. A historical tragedy I had no prior knowledge of. I told my wife that I’ve been there before, almost like déjà vu, but yet more. What I could not understand and still can’t, is that this historical event was the starting point of the story as it was revealed to me a couple of hours earlier in the coffee shop. In the vision, I saw a ‘battle scene’, burning houses, and a naked woman being thrown out into an ice-cold blizzard. She was not dead and tried to escape on all fours. What I saw then, I haven’t been able to confirm through my extensive research into the history of this Massacre. Even more mysterious was the fact many of the things revealed to me during my vision kept on cropping up in my research of this tragedy and it’s after effects; e.g. names, events, and the Scottish deerhound breed of which I had no prior knowledge either. The latter I saw in the same vision I had, and it created a complete picture of the dog in my mind. The closest breed to the visionary canine was the Irish wolfhound breed. Needless to mention, my surprise when I came across the Scottish deerhound. Like magic there it was! I by no means imply the story has any factual references to any characters involved with this tragedy. All the characters are fictitious in nature and have no connection to anyone dead or alive. Although the story starts within a real historical event, the characters and settings are fictional. I include a very brief, factual, historical sketch (Approximately: 300 words) of the happenings on that fatal morning of February 13, 1692 at 05h00. If you are interested in a more comprehensive background, there are plenty of Web sites to browse through. Go to any search engine and type - Massacre of Glencoe, Scotland. Deks Dekenah (The Author) --------O------- Historical Background (Scotland - 1692) (13 February – 5AM) Massacre at Glencoe It is 5AM on 13th February 1692. A dark, cold, misty morning with fresh snow on the ground. The McDonalds have been entertaining the Campbells, who, for the past twelve days have shared their homes, their wine, their wit and their food in the spirit of true highland hospitality. They are still asleep, when suddenly the morning explodes with screams. Alexander McDonald (better known as McIain) the infamous leader of the clan is dragged from his bed and shot twice in the presence of his wife. They strip her of her nightgown and throw her out into the driving snow to perish from the cold. The Campbells are murdering the McDonalds. Neither women and children nor the old and frail are spared in the carnage. Many of those who escape will freeze to death in the surrounding hills. Among those who did survive were the sons of the murdered McIain, one of whom was married to Colonel Robert Campbell’s niece. Robert Campbell was the officer in charge of the massacre acting on the orders of Sir John Dalrymple, the mastermind behind the whole plot. With the help of another Campbell in Edinburgh, Dalrymple had embezzled paperwork, which enabled him to issue false orders. These orders were signed and counter-signed by King William III, who afterwards denied complicity. However, the most brutal murderer throughout the ghastly happenings was a dragoon leader, Captain Thomas Drummond. Although all of this is now history, it is very easy to picture the scene when walking through this most haunting of Scottish glens, with majestic mountains framing an amphitheatre, which in those days contained three villages belonging to the clan of the McDonalds of Glencoe. --------O-------- PROLOGUE (SCOTLAND- GLENCOE) (5am- February 13 - 1692) Although it had stopped snowing a few hours ago, it was notably colder. There was no blanket of cloud over the serene landscape and a steady wind was still blowing from the east. The majestic mountains surrounding the beautiful glen of Glencoe looked like silver haired giants looking upon the village on the centre stage of the large amphitheatre in their midst. The full moon, provided the correct lighting for the ghoulish play, which was about to start. As if God wanted to protect the majestic giants from the opening scene, a blizzard had started up creating a cloud cover, and a shroud of snow, which covered the carnage developing on stage. Soldiers in red tunics and others from the Campbell clan with muskets and fixed bayonets went from house to house setting it alight amongst shots and screaming. They dragged women, crying children, the old and frail outside into the cold driving snow. Nudging them with their bayonets kicking some of the slow ones herding them into the foothills of the blinded silver haired giants. Some of the women were naked or half-naked with no protection against the cold driving snow of the blizzard Muffled screaming followed by two shots and a dog’s yelp came from the house of Alexander, the leader of the McDonald clan. Moments later, Alexander’s wife staggered into the snow, trying to hide her nakedness. ‘You cunning bastards! Why did you kill him? After all our hospitality to you! Eating our food and drinking our wine, sleeping under our roofs! How could you? You dogs, you sons of Satan!’ she screamed. ‘Shut up! You whoring bitch. You’re nothing more than a highland thief and should be shot like your stinking husband and stupid dog!’ the soldier, who had pulled the rings from her fingers with his teeth, a moment ago, barked. He knocked her over with an open hand, prodding her like a wild boar with his bayonet when she fell. ‘Yes, crawl like a dog, the bitch you are!’ he yelled. She started to crawl away on all fours. He turned and re-entered the house, and she crawled away as fast as her trembling arms could carry her. Smoke and fire came from the windows. The freezing snow attacked her like a swarm of bees on her exposed skin. ‘We’ll have our revenge! You will be cursed you Campbell scum!’ She screamed into the face of the storm. She crawled into a pair of heavy boots, and cried out when she recognized the owner. ‘Will we now?’ He whispered close to her face. The same bastard bully, who had stolen her rings, knelt down beside her with a cruel look of lust. She tried to scratch at his eyes with no effect against his brute strength. He grabbed her by the neck, pushing her face into the snow smothering her. ‘Look how dangerous you’re now, McDonald,’ He jerked her face from the snow by her long hair. His warm smelly breath burnt on the side of her ice-cold face. He flipped her over with ease onto her back, holding her down with one hand by the throat. ‘My, my, the old fox’s whore doesn’t look so bad after all. Look at these tight nipples.’ He flicked them with his free hand, ‘and you’re not too flabby either.’ His eyes explored the rest of her body, lingering on the dark triangle of her pubic mound. She tried to wriggle free but only managed to spit into his face. ‘Don’t worry lassie this is just going to make it sooo much better to tame you’ He wiped the spit from his face, fumbling with the tie string of his pants. ‘JOCK… JOOOOOCK! The colonel wants to see us immediately at McIain’s house. Where are you?’ ‘I’m here, behind the shrubs having a leak. I’ll be there in a moment!’ He waited awhile making sure the soldier was out of hearing range before releasing his strangle hold. ‘Don’t worry my dear. I’ll be back and I know you’ll be here waiting for me’. He hit her with a clenched fist on the jaw. To satisfy his mean streak, he kicked her with his heavy boot in the side, adjusting his throbbing manhood. She wasn’t knocked out cold, due to the cushioning effect of the snow and she heard him mumbling to himself. ‘You’ll remember the name Jock Campbell for the rest of your life, McDonald slut! Please don’t miss me too much, love. I’m bringing some friends shortly.’ He chuckled. His crunching footsteps retreated away. ‘I would rather die than be touched by your dirty hands, you despicable disgusting bastard.’ She tried to get up, gasping when a vicious stab took her breath away. She lay back, crying softly. Something warm oozed from her mouth. She saw the frothy blood on the back of her hand, gaping. She tried again and had to close her eyes when a severe pain rammed through her side. She managed to get up after a long struggle and battled through the deep snow. ‘Oh Lord help me’, ten more steps later she fell on all fours. Her breathing, a gurgling, wheezy effort. Her head hung between her hunched up shoulders. She concentrated gathering all her strength, but a stabbing pain made her fall forward onto her face. She rolled onto her back trying to get a glimpse of the moon, but the clouds obscured it. Suddenly somebody lifted her head gently. Her middle son Alexander looked down at her. ‘Mother! What happened to you? Where’s father?’ He covered her nakedness with his plaid. She grabbed his collar, dragging his face down towards hers. ‘Where are your brothers? Are they safe?’ Alexander almost smiled; looking down at his mother’s concerned face in his lap. Always worried about the wellbeing of everyone else. He noticed her swollen face, bleeding mouth and fingers. ‘Mother please! Calm down! You’re badly hurt. Who did this to you?’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘Please… They’re all safe, hiding way up in the mountain; they’ve sent me to come and see what’s happened to you and father. I can’t believe this, oh my God’ He peered through the driving snow closing his eyes to mere slits, looking towards his father’s house. ‘Alex! Listen! You must get away. They shot your father!’ She closed her eyes, her teeth clattering in the cold. She opened them again. ‘I cannot believe the deceitfulness.’ Alexander battled to hear her properly. ‘Mother please; stop! We must get you out of here! You’re getting weaker!’ Alexander tried to get up, but her grip tightened. ‘No Alex, No! Look at me. I’m dying! You won’t be able to carry me. If Jock Campbell and his friends come back, they’ll kill you.’ ‘Who the hell is Jock Campbell?’ He said through clenched teeth. ‘He’s the bastard who did this to me! He’s just been here smothering me. He kicked me! He said he’s coming back with some others.’ The muscles in his cheeks contracted, and tears from an internal rage, welled up in his eyes. She gathered her strength. ‘Alex I have to ask you something… it will change your life, but it’s the only way. If you refuse, I’ll understand, but then… leave your dagger.’ she begged. Alexander looked at his dying mother with a certain dread when it dawned on him what she wanted. ’No, mother, please don’t ask me to do that.’ ‘Alex, please; we both know I’m going to be dead in the next few hours. I’d rather be dead than alive when they come!’ She cried. ‘If you stay they’ll kill you too. It must look like I’ve died from the cold to protect you.’ She cried quietly looking into his eyes. She struggled to speak, even though her voice seemed to be stronger. He knew what she was saying was true. But how would he ever be able to live with himself, if he had to kill his own mother? His deep blue eyes seemed more troubled by the second when he stared into the identical blue eyes of his mother. ‘Please Alex, I sense them coming back. Please! I beg you!’ She saw the change in his eyes almost immediately. She realized he had come to some sort of decision. She knew him so well the darling son of hers. She stared at the grim set of his strong mouth and chin. Alexander had certainly made up his mind, but the anguish and pain, which went hand in hand with his decision, tore his heart to shreds. He made a silent vow with God that he would not speak again for fear of letting slip for what he was about to do. He would stay mute until his oldest son was old enough to carry his vow of revenge into the future generations of Jock Campbell. He, himself would see to Jock Campbell. ‘Please forgive me mother’ he whispered. He gently brushed her damp hair from her forehead. He forced snow into her nostrils and mouth. The snow would melt and leave no trace of foul play. He looked into her eyes, firming the grip on her wrists to prevent her from removing the suffocating snow, but there was no struggling. He realized the extent of his mother’s love for him. It had to take super-natural resolve not to react to the strong primitive instinct of your own survival. She was trying to spare him the extra agony. He saw an incredible love and forgiveness in her eyes, but also an immense sorrow for his predicament. For a fraction of a second she smiled. Her body went limp, followed by involuntarily spasms. She was dead. He didn’t know how long he sat there rocking his mother’s body back and forth, when he heard the voices of Jock and his friends, returning through the driving snow towards their ultimate goal, of desecrating the McDonalds. It was still snowing he realized when he got up. He battled due to his cold stiff joints and loss of blood. He retrieved his plaid leaving her naked body in the snow. He battled towards the foothills. His vision blurred by tears of extreme anger and grief for what he had to do. Only the silver haired giants caught a glimpse of Alexander limping into the darkness, through an opening in the cloud curtain exposing the center stage of the horrible opening act. Heavy snow and wind rapidly covered his footprints. Neither the silver haired giants, nor Alexander noticed the young boy behind the bushes sitting in the wings who had witnessed the whole ghastly opening act. They discovered Jock Campbell’s body 5 years later in a deep crevice near Loch Leven. His friends had no idea what he was doing in the area though he was acting strangely the last two months prior to his sad death, they said – ‘almost like a hunted animal.’ It seemed he suffered a great deal before his death though. They found his Tartan miles away from the crevice, where they suspected he fell from his horse fracturing some ribs and a leg. They assumed his knees were worn through to the bone for he must have crawled on all fours for miles, to finally have died in the crevice. His horse had never been found. He left a wife and two young sons behind. Exactly ten years after the massacre in 1702, King William III fell from his horse, after it 'tripped' over a molehill, suffering injuries, which led to his death. The Jacobites coined the euphemism. ‘The little gentleman in black velvet.’ for the mole. Alexander McDonald and his elder son McIain junior, who witnessed his grandma’s death, both started speaking again miraculously, after five and ten year’s respectively of muteness. No foul play was suspected in either case. Alexander and his son… knew otherwise. -------------O----------- CHAPTER 1 (SOUTH AFRICA-CAPE TOWN) (5am-February 13 – 2002) (Exactly three hundred and ten years later) It was drizzling outside. The clinic was coming alive like a large beast waking up from a long slumber. Father Campbell realised he had dozed off, for when he opened his eyes he could see a tall dark figure stooping over the pale woman in the bed. Some strange sound must have woken him. He had become so used to the constant beep of the heart monitor and its slower companion the ventilator, in their endless duet of life support. His heart raced. He realised the figure next to the bed must still be finding his night vision, after coming in from the brightly lit passage, indicating he had entered the room only moments before he woke up. In the gloom, he could just make out the shape of a tall man in a dark raincoat. Father Campbell sat motionless in the chair in a dark corner of the room furthest away from the woman’s bed. The stranger hadn’t noticed him yet. He involuntarily tried to make himself smaller. He reached into his pocket to find the familiar shape of the small wooden cross. He stared at the scene, mesmerized. The stranger’s face was close to the woman’s ear and he could make out the faintest of whispers. The stranger’s shoulders shook. The man was crying. He gave the woman the gentlest of kisses. His fingers traced the outlines of her lips, eyes and ears, painting her face with the wetness of his own tears. It was one of the most beautiful and tender moment’s he had ever witnessed, but something felt ominous. The stranger took some sort of electric wiring from his pocket, and busied himself behind the monitors, glancing at the door every so often. Once finished he turned back to the woman giving her another kiss on her brow. Father Campbell was about to get up to alarm the staff, when the stranger stood up and the light caught his face. His legs went lame and he sank back into the low fake-leather chair without a sound. His throat turned dry when he witnessed what was happening at the bed, but he sat there, paralysed. The stranger, who no longer was a stranger, sat down on the bed next to the woman, cradling her head close to his chest, rocking her, ever so slowly back and forth. Father Campbell stayed frozen to the spot. He noticed the woman’s face turned ashen grey, and her lips purple. Only then, he realised why he felt uneasy. The ventilator had stopped functioning, but no alarms rang warning the staff on duty of the power failure. The man rocked her until the waves of the heart monitor turned into a flat line; even then, he kept on rocking her for another few minutes. He got up, and gently put her head back onto the pillow brushing her limp dark hair away from her forehead. He hastily removed the wiring from the back of the monitor, putting it into his coat pocket heading for the door. He opened the door carefully, checking if the passage was empty. He looked back for a last glance. A passing vehicle’s headlights illuminated the room. McIain noticed the priest for the first time with total disbelief. For the briefest of moments, their eyes met. McIain hesitated for a second, before slipping from the room as quietly as he had come. Father Campbell got up, staring at his sister on the bed and for a moment, he imagined, he saw movement. He blinked his eyes a few times noticing that her chest was moving in tandem with the regular pump action of the ventilator. ‘When did the ventilator come back on?’ he wondered. He started towards the bed in a trance listening to the single tone of the ECG monitor informing the world of yet another flat line. His sister was dead. He shuffled next to the bed feeling her pulse knowing already that there wouldn’t be any, yet he had to be sure. His heart was still racing because of everything he had just witnessed. His whole body trembled slightly. He tried to comprehend why he didn’t raise the alarm immediately, because he didn’t fear for his own safety. Why didn’t he try to stop McIain? Did he, because of his spinelessness somehow condone what had been done? His conflicting emotions tore him apart. He looked at his sister’s face with moist eyes. She looked peaceful; almost satisfied. He wondered for a moment, what he should do. He stood in the same position for what seemed to be hours before making up his mind. He reached out and pressed the alarm bell. Outside McIain’s heart was beating fast. His mouth felt dry and he had a hollow feeling in his guts. ‘How could he have missed the priest’s presence in the room?’ He thought. He still couldn’t believe what he had just done. ‘Where did he get the strength from for what he just did? How could he just sit there witnessing his mother’s death in his arms? He could swear he saw her eyes opened for a moment looking at him with understanding just before her body went limp. Who was he trying to fool?’ She had been in a coma for three months since the shooting. ‘Surely, people would understand. It was definitely, what his mother would have wanted; or was it? He got into his Land Rover 4X4, parked just outside the entrance to the clinic. He fired it up, starting the windscreen wipers, but stayed put. He sat there in a daze, gazing at the hypnotic movement of the wiper blades. Back and forth, back and forth. He shook his head clearing his mind realising that he had better get away. The priest would have raised the alarm by then. ‘Oh Lord, what have I done? What must I do now?’ He dropped his head onto the steering wheel. He felt prompted to make a vow of muteness to God, but didn’t. He was unaware why, but a greater force linked to the long ago massacre had tuned into his brainwaves. He groaned, and lifted his head from the steering wheel and drove away, into the un-seasonal February rain. Father Campbell had been standing at the window of the second floor room looking at the lone figure in the Land Rover with compassion all that time. He saw the Land Rover’s red lights disappearing into the rain and whispered to himself. ‘Good luck young McDonald, you’ll certainly need it. May God be your keeper.’ Both Father Campbell, and young McIain, had failed to notice the man who had been sitting in a black Toyota in the shadows of the parking lot for the past half hour. The circle had started to turn after exactly three hundred and ten years. The date was the same… 13 February. So was the time… 5 am. -------O------- CHAPTER 2 (Scotland – Kinlochleven) (5am - February 13 – 2002) (The same day) Molly tried to ignore the constant ringing of the bell. She closed her ears from the persistent noise clutching her pillow tightly around her head. It was too nice under her warm goose-down duvet. She didn’t want to get up that early, facing the freezing cold. ‘Who wants to leave ‘club duvet’ now?’ She soon realised her mother was not going to give up. She got up with trepidation. Even though it was winter and cold, she loved to sleep in only a pair of white cotton panties and thick woollen socks, which made the cold even more awful when she slipped from bed. She hurriedly put on her thick knee-length white night gown and even thicker woolly slippers. She tried to comb her thick wild blonde ‘bed’ hair with her fingers walking to the half open door tightening the tie string of the gown some more, hugging her shoulders. She entered the dimly lit passageway to her mother’s room. ‘What can it be now?’ She mumbled under her breath. The time on the hallway clock showed ‘5 ‘o’ clock’. She opened her mother’s bedroom door without knocking. ‘Yes mother?’ She tried to keep the impatience from her voice. ‘What can I do for you?’ she managed in a chirpier tone when she noticed the hurt look on her mother’s frail ashen face, against the pillows stacked behind her. It allowed her to sleep in a half sitting position due to her chronic congestive heart failure. ‘I had that horrible dream again Molly. It was even worse than before. It woke me with this severe pain in my chest’ She clutched her left shoulder looking anxious. ‘Mom, I have to phone Dr McPherson immediately.’ ‘No please don’t Molly; I feel my time has arrived.’ Mary said with a strange authority in her voice, stopping Molly mid-stride. ‘What do you mean, your time has arrived?’ Molly asked incredulously, coming back to the bed tilting her head slightly. ‘Don’t be silly mother!’ However, looking into her mother’s eyes Molly realised her mother had never been more serious. ‘What do you mean?’ She took her mother’s frail hands into hers, sitting down next to her. Mary looked at her beautiful daughter with sadness. Molly’s life hadn’t been easy since her dad died so tragically, shortly before she started high school. She was at such an impressionable age, and had always been close to her father. Molly noticed the suffering expression on her face. ‘Mother I’m calling Doctor McPherson now!’ Mary grabbed her gown. ‘Please Molly don’t! I’ve something important to tell you. Pass me those pills. I’ll put one under my tongue.’ Indicating with her head towards a small, decorated crystal holder on the bedside table. Molly passed her mom the container with a resigning sigh wondering what it could be. Mary slips a pill under her tongue. ‘Molly, years ago, shortly before his death, your dad told me he had found some old documents, which --.’ ‘What documents?’ ‘Documents revealing there had been some sort of conspiracy or vow made against a certain lineage of Campbells, who were involved with a massacre.’ ‘Massacre? What massacre? When?’ ‘The massacre of Glencoe. It happened more than three hundred years ago. We are related to the lineage of Campbells who were involved.’ ‘Three hundred years ago!? Why don’t I know anything about this?’ ‘It’s not important now. You—‘ ‘Can’t I be the judge of that?’ ‘Stop interrupting Molly. I’m about to tell you. Your dad said before his death should anything strange ever happen to us, we should get into contact with a Priest, who knows the McDonalds. He’s a Campbell.’ ‘Which McDonalds?’ ‘Your best friend, Jeanette’s family.’ ‘Mother, what are you telling me?’ ‘At the time of your father’s death, I didn’t expect anything, but since I’ve been getting these recurring nightmares, I’m not so convinced anymore.’ ‘How can your nightmares have anything to do with this?’ ‘I’ve never shared this with you. I didn’t want to give you any extra worries.’ Mary sounded a bit short of breath finishing her sentence, but she carried on before Molly could interrupt her again, holding up her hand. ‘Molly, I’ve no idea what this is all about, but knowing you, I suspect you won’t rest until you’ve solved the riddle.’ ‘You bet!’ ‘I believe it’s a curse, and I want you to be careful not to trust strangers or to put yourself in any danger. Promise me Molly!’ ‘I promise mother, but I’m sure it’s nothing.’ ‘Cross your heart Molly.’ ‘Cross my heart, but you must remember how preoccupied dad had been about mystical things, conspiracies and secrets? We used to tease --’ ‘No Molly, this is more serious. Please listen to me. Your dad has kept the documents in a safe behind that pile of rubbish in his work shed’ ‘Have you got the key?’ ‘Look in the top drawer of the desk over there. The key’s stuck with tape to the underside of the desktop.’ Mary said with some difficulty in breathing. Molly got up, laughing, throwing her head back to get the hair out of her face. ‘Now this is so typical dad; forever the James Bond games. Imagine sticking a key to the underside of your desk in the middle of Kinlochleven. Now have you ever!’ She started towards the desk, but when she passed the foot of the bed, she saw her mother holding her lower jaw on both sides, grimacing with pain. ‘Mother! I’m phoning the Doc right now and do not try to stop me!’ She turned on her heel rushing from the bedroom to the phone in the hall. Mary could hear her daughter’s muffled conversation in the hallway, but she couldn’t make out what was being said. A moment later, Molly reappeared in the doorway. Mary still couldn’t get over the fact how beautiful Molly was. She felt slightly better since the angina pill had lessened the pain in her chest, shoulders and lower jaw. ‘Go and make us each a nice cup of strong black coffee and bring some of those chocolate chip biscuits while you’re at it, while we wait.’ She said mischiefiously. Molly hesitated a moment in the doorway looking at her mother’s face with concern. ‘The Doc says he’ll be here in ten minutes. You know how skinny he is. He probably needs to dress in about five layers of clothes’ she laughed, going down stairs. As soon as she entered the room five minutes later with a tray carrying two big red mugs of steaming coffee and a plastic bag full of biscuits she knew something was wrong. Her mother was slumped in bed and her face was a pale grey with slightly blue lips. She managed to put the tray down on the foot of the bed without spilling any coffee, rushing to her mother’s side. ‘Mother! Mommy! What’s the matter!?’ She dropped onto her knees putting her head onto her mother’s chest and a finger onto her carotid artery, listening for a heartbeat and feeling for a pulse. Finding none, she picked Mary’s frail body up laying her gently on the floor. She knelt down next to Mary sitting on her haunches grabbing her mother’s compact mirror from the bedside stand holding it close to Mary’s nose confirming she wasn’t breathing. She reached for Mary’s feet lifting them up high, trying to get a rush of blood to the heart to get the heart to react. She let her feet drop and hit her with force using the side of her fist on the lower centre part of her chest. Still no heartbeat. She put one hand on top of the other lifting herself up a bit from her haunches to get more downward pressure. She depressed Mary’s chest, letting it go in a rhythmic sequence. She counted fifteen compressions before tilting Mary’s head back, pulling her chin forward. She pinched her nose close, putting her mouth over her mother’s and breathed deep into Mary’s lungs. She kept her own head slightly angled to see her mother’s chest rise and fall, in tandem with her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She did it twice, before shifting her position slightly to start with fifteen chest compressions again. ‘Mother, Mother, hang in there, Mother, Mother hang in there!’ She repeated like a mantra in harmony with her rhythmic actions. Then back to the mouth for two deep breaths, back to the chest, back to the mouth, feeling for a pulse every so often. She didn’t notice Doctor McPherson entering the room until McPherson gently grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘Molly let me take over.’ ‘No leave me!’ she gasped out of breath. ‘Please Molly, I’m her doctor!’ he said with authority, but Molly didn’t seem to hear him, carrying on in her set rhythm. Only when Doctor McPherson tightened his grip, she stopped. She looked up at him, with some relief turning sideways. She sat back on her heels with her knees apart, placing her hands on them. She closed her eyes like she was praying, breathing deeply. She was unaware that her nightgown had fallen open revealing her firm body and perky breasts. Kevin Drummond, McPherson’s new assistant appeared in the doorway and stopped. He stared at Molly shamelessly with lust. He realised if she opened her eyes then, with his eyes riveted on her nakedness, it would lead to a bad first impression. He stepped back quietly exiting the room, before calling out. ‘Derek are you in here?’ waiting just long enough so Molly would have enough time to cover herself. Mary died soon after. “The funeral will be in four days time. The service will be conducted by Father Campbell who is arriving from South Africa as the relief priest for Father O’Sullivan whose health has deteriorated rapidly over the past fortnight. The flowers will be donated by the sisters of the parish and Molly’s Coffee bar will be the meeting place for snacks and drinks after the funeral,” it said in the local daily paper later on the same day. News travelled fast in small communities. “Mary Anne Campbell (Nee Stewart) - 10 October 1935 – 13 February 2002 will be dearly missed by her only daughter Molly Anne Campbell and her dear friends from Kinlochleven.” The circle was set in motion in Scotland. --------O-------- OTHER CHAPTERS TO FOLLOW LATER.PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT STYLE ETC. I'VE NEVER WRITTEN BEFORE SO ANY CRITISM IS WELCOME. |
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