The Beast by Hildie McQueen

Chapter Seventeen

For days he’d fought to keep the demons at bay. It had been a long time since he’d been so out of control. He’d gone to the forest and ran until his lungs threatened to explode, but still, he could not find it easy to settle.

Since Farlan’s appearance, every moment memories haunted him. Each one becoming worse. The lashings in his dreams so real, he felt the pain. So many things he’d forgotten were now so vivid that he wanted to scream and throw himself off a cliff.

Every night after everyone slept, he’d gone outside out of earshot when the visions attacked. He was reduced to howling like a wounded beast.

Beatrice would never forgive him for not going with her.

He’d been planning to go, but at the last moment it proved impossible. And now he was aboard a different bìrlinn, heading to Skye, away from everyone and everything his life had been.

He’d left a letter for both her and Caelan, and one for Darach, so he could explain things to the family. Not that he expected any of them to begin to understand. How long he would be gone? Duncan wasn’t sure. Perhaps forever.

The horse neighed in protest at being tied down and he ran his hand down its long nose. “We are almost there,” he soothed, looking into the misty distance.

When they arrived on shore, he paid the fees and mounted. It would be a pair of days travel to arrive where he was headed. Hopefully, the cottage was still there. It would be his home for the foreseeable future.

As he traveled, he imagined Beatrice’s disappointment. How he hated hurting her, especially after her falling in love with him. The idea of her feeling pain over his actions made his own ache so much harder to bear.

She must have been devastated.

Duncan let out a frustrated breath. He was so very broken, so lost in his own nightmares that he should have fought harder to keep from marrying her. Instead, he’d been foolish enough to believe it was possible to have a normal life. To grow old with a beautiful wife, raise children, and get to know his grandchildren.

“How stupid of me,” he mumbled as night fell and he looked for a place to find shelter and sleep.

The next day,he found the old cottage. To his surprise, Fergus, the old man who lived nearby, hobbled over to greet him.

“Ye promised yerself not to return,” he said by way of greeting as he leaned heavily on his cane and watched Duncan dismount.

“There isna much in there. Been empty for a few years.” The old man walked to the front door.

With only two cabins in a clearing in the woods, Fergus had appointed himself overseer. When Duncan had stumbled upon the empty cabin ten years earlier, Fergus had found him sick and dirty and with festering wounds. The old man had taken care of him until he’d healed and then promptly found him work and insisted he pay rent.

Duncan had lived there for a year, working and waiting to heal both physically and mentally, before gaining the courage to go home.

“I was foolish to think it would last. The ability to live among them, people who do not deserve to be exposed to someone like me. Broken and filled with hate.”

Fergus let out a sigh, shaking his head. “Come along then. Was about to eat me mutton. Once yer belly is filled, ye can clean up the cabin. Tis not fit for living in at the moment.”

Although bent over with age, the old man was spry, making quick time to his cabin, which looked in much better shape than the one Duncan planned to live in.

“I will get work and pay rent.”

“I know,” Fergus replied. “As much as I can use the coin. I hope it will not be for long.”

They settled inside the man’s humble home and ate the surprisingly good meal. The rest of the day, Duncan worked on the empty cottage’s roof. Huge gaping holes in the thatched covering had to be repaired.

That night, he slept on Fergus’s floor until a nightmare shook him awake.

He hurried out, at first confused by his surroundings, before realizing where he was. In his mind, the cracks of a whip still sounded again and again, and he pressed the heels of both hands against his ears. It didn’t help since the sounds were inside his head.

What sounded like a moan made him whirl toward the woods where a bed appeared, on it was Beatrice wearing a flowing white gown. Arm stretched, she held out her hand. “Come darling.”

“No,” Duncan said and moved backward, knowing it wasn’t real.

“Duncan.” Her voice sounded hollow, sad.

“No,” he grunted, turned away, and hung his head. It was not going to be easy, the new memories mixing with the old. Some beautiful and the others terrifying.

By the time he was settled enough to lay back down, it was almost dawn. Daylight helped, but only a little. The tormentors in his head cared little for time.

The next several days passed quickly. He spent the days working and the nights fighting the monsters in his head.

“The roof looks good. Ye are a fast worker,” Fergus said craning his neck to get a better look as Duncan slathered mud on the outer walls for better insulation during the winter.

“I am going to the village. Ye said ye wanted some things,” Fergus explained motioning to a small wagon with a mule hitched to it.

“A pair of blankets, some whiskey, and a pot,” Duncan replied and pulled out his coin sack. He’d already given Fergus more than he’d asked for rent. “Get a new blanket for yerself as well.”

The old man grinned, showcasing the gap between his few teeth. “Aye, and a pint or two of ale as well.” Climbing to the bench, the man made a tsking sound, and the mule pulled away.

Duncan continued working on the walls, refusing to consider that this would be his home. Instead, he concentrated on each handful of mud. The mixing, the smell of it, and the weight of it in his hands.

Hopefully as time passed, the terrors would lessen. What he wished to never lose, were memories of his wife. Her face, voice, and the sensation of her body against his.

“Beatrice,” he said into the wind. “I love ye. I hope ye believed it.”

Weeks later, Duncancooked a rabbit, his gaze concentrating on the fire in the hearth. The cottage was finally done, and he was comfortable enough.

He’d kept busy building a table, two chairs, and a bed so he would not have to sleep on the ground. A merchant traveling by had gifted him a mat and some cups for allowing him to sleep there during a rainy night.

It was all he needed. To pass each day, unable to distinguish between them. Other than occasionally speaking to Fergus, who seemed to understand he needed to be alone, he hadn’t spoken to another person in many days.

He often wondered what Beatrice did and pictured her in the mornings, hair disheveled, as she chose what to wear that day. He’d loved her expressions, the bottom lip between her teeth, and the way her blue eyes flashed to him when happy or annoyed.

More than anything, he missed making love to her, the sounds she made during and the huskiness of her voice when finding release. The woman enjoyed bedsport. That they’d learned to be lovers together was something he was thankful for.

“Duncan,” Fergus called from outside. “I need help.”

He rushed out to find Fergus bent over, breathing harshly. “My chest… it hurts…” Fergus stumbled forward, Duncan caught him, and carried the man inside.

“Breathe slowly. Give yerself time to catch yer breath,” Duncan said unsure what else he could do to help.

He poured whiskey into a cup and held it up to the man’s lips. “Drink.”

Taking a sip, Fergus coughed and sputtered when the strong liquid slid down his throat. He grabbed Duncan’s tunic tightly. “I am glad not to die alone.”

“Ye are not dying,” Duncan said attempting to convince himself of it as well. “Ye are just ill.”

Fergus shook his head. “It is my heart. I know it.” His unfocused gaze pinned Duncan. “Ye must return to her. Make amends. Work on what ails ye, without abandoning yer wife.”

“It is for her own good. I cannot subject her to being married to someone like me.”

“Would ye wish for her… to leave if she were in yer shoes?”

Duncan swallowed, not wanting to argue with a dying man. “Concentrate on breathing old man.”

“Ye love her. Fight for yer marriage.”

“Ye do not know how I feel.” Duncan couldn’t keep the resentment from his voice. “I am not a young lad that cannot control his feelings.”

Fergus gasped and grimaced. “I hurt. Give me more whiskey.”

Once again Duncan poured the amber liquid into his mouth. “Take yer time.”

The man’s eyes closed, and Duncan waited to see what would happen. When Fergus opened them again, it was as if he could not focus. “Fear made me run away. Fear kept me here. Do not be like me.”

He coughed and clutched his chest and then Fergus died.

Hours passed and Duncan sat with his back against the wall. Fergus’s body remained on the ground where he died. His unseeing eyes staring up to the ceiling.

A humming sound that had echoed in his ears finally ceased and Duncan closed his eyes allowing the silence of the moment to pour over him. It was the first time in many days that his mind was quiet. There was no fear, no sense of impending doom. Only pure silence.

Outside his horse neighed, the sound bringing him to action. Fergus deserved a burial, so Duncan would wrap him and take him to the vicar at the village so he could be laid to rest in the small graveyard.

The mule thatpulled the wagon seeming to understand that someone other than his master drove. The animal looked over his shoulder to Duncan, its sullen eyes taking him in.

“I am sure the vicar will be appreciative of ye and will give ye a good home,” Duncan soothed the beast although it didn’t understand a word.

His horse made grunting noises, obviously considering it was beneath him to be tethered to a wagon pulled by a mule.

When they arrived at the small vicarage, the man hurried out. “What happened?” He looked to the shrouded body. “Fergus?”

Duncan nodded. “Aye, he died just this morning.” He gave no other information, there was no need for it. The man had lived a long life. Before that day, Duncan would have added that Fergus lived a good life. However, it seemed that Fergus hid from whatever he feared. Living alone in a small cottage deep in the woods.”

“He was a good man,” the vicar said shaking his head. “Helped many a wayward traveler.” The man’s knowing gaze sized Duncan up. “I am sure ye are aware of that.”

“Did he have family?” Duncan asked as he began digging a grave where the vicar pointed.

The man gave Duncan a confused look. “Ye lived with him for a long time, did ye not learn his story?”

Duncan shook his head. “I was unable to hear much in those days.”

“One day in a storm, Fergus lost control of the horse that pulled a wagon. The animal, along with his wife and two bairns, plunged into a deep ravine. Fergus and a daughter were thrown from it and survived. He left the girl with family and fled, too grieved with self-blame to remain and raise the wee lass.”

It took a long time for Duncan to finish digging the grave. By the time it was done, several villagers gathered to hear the vicar pray over Fergus’s body. He was well liked in the village it seemed. One woman even cried, wiping at her eyes as he was lowered into the ground.

Despite what he’d been through, the man had found ways to help others throughout the rest of his life.

As the people dispersed, the vicar stood for a few moments later. “Come inside, join us for a meal before going back.”

The vicar’s wife was a jolly woman, with rosy cheeks and bright eyes. She wore her hair tucked into a cap that suited her face. “Ye should move here to the village,” the woman insisted. “The woods are no place for a young man to live.”

It didn’t take much to see that she was already plotting to find him a wife.

“I am sure Fergus would like ye to keep the land and continue to help others who travel through,” the vicar said between bites. “Although the cottages are old, they are sturdy. Fergus told me that ye fixed the abandoned one.”

At the thought that he would die alone like Fergus, without a purpose in life other than waiting for wayward travelers, Duncan’s stomach clenched. The entire time the vicar’s wife packed a basket of food for him to take, he couldn’t keep from thinking the future the vicar had described was not his calling.

“Ye do not have to heat up the meat pie, it will hold for a of couple days,” the woman said with a wide smile.

“I appreciate it,” he told the vicar’s wife as he and her husband walked back out.

The man met his gaze. “Ye should return to yer people. When we run away from our problems, we do not realize that they come with us. Whatever yer troubles are, ye should seek courage from God.”

Duncan remained silent, unsure what exactly he would do. “Do ye know of someone who would want to live out there, in Fergus’ cottage?”

The vicar thought for a long moment. “There is someone. He is without a home and has been living in a farmer’s barn. I will go speak to him.”

“Thank ye.” Duncan mounted his horse. He would not return to the cottage, but instead headed to the shore to hire a bìrlinn.