The Mysteries (28 page)

He interrupted me with a grunt, turned his head, and shouted back into the house, “Betty!” before shuffling away.

I waited on the doorstep and soon a thin, nervous-looking, white-haired woman appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Can I help you?”

“Well, I hope so.” I smiled, trying to put her at her ease. “I'm looking for Fred.”

“Fred? There's no one by that name here.”

“Uh, the woman who rented your caravan?”

“Oh! Do you mean Miss Green?”

“Yes,” I said, although Fred had never told me her last name.

“I'm afraid you're too late. She left a few days ago.”

“Did she say where she was going? Leave a forwarding address?”

She shook her head, then cocked it. “No, but are you Ian Kennedy?”

I almost sighed with relief. “She left a message for me?”

“A parcel. Quite a big box, actually. It's in the caravan. Shall I take you there?”

“Yes, please.”

I had been inside the caravan with Fred only twice, very briefly. It might have been reasonably comfortable in the summer, but the only heating available was that provided by a small, two-bar electric heater, and even by early October it was scarcely adequate. Now, after two or three days of being left empty and unheated, there was already a smell of mold and decay filling the damp, chilly interior.

“Here. This is what she left you.” A cardboard box salvaged from the local supermarket stood on the table. It was filled with books, Fred's personal library. I glanced around the cramped, bare interior, wondering what had become of her other things, her clothes, any other possessions she might have owned.

“Will you take it now?” She jingled her keys, impatient to get me out.

“Did she leave anything else? A message?”

“Just this. Everything else she took away with her.”

“Um, would you mind if I had a look around?”

The little woman drew herself up, affronted. “I cleaned and tidied as soon as she'd left. If she forgot anything, I would have found it and put it aside. There wasn't anything else.”

I believed her. Fred had owned little enough, as far as I could tell, and I was willing to bet on her being single-minded enough to have discarded everything she couldn't carry before she went up Doon Hill on Halloween, shedding her old self like a used skin. I was touched that she'd thought enough of me to leave me her books—but maybe it had nothing to do with me. Maybe, like a lot of bookish people, she just couldn't bring herself to throw a book in the garbage.

“Thank you,” I said, backing down before the woman's basilisk glare. “I appreciate your keeping this for me. I'll take it now.”

When I got a chance to go through the box I found no letters, notebook, or personal scraps that might have told me more about the woman who had owned them. Two of the books had names written on the flyleaf, but as one was a man's and the other included Christmas wishes from 1923, I didn't think they would help me find Fred. Several of the books were from libraries, one from Huddersfield, one from Aberdeenshire. Probably they'd all been acquired secondhand. Although reading them made me feel a little closer to her in spirit, they didn't help me find her.

Nothing did. The name Fred (Winifred? Frederika?) Green was not much to go on, even if—as seemed very unlikely—that was ever her legal name. As far as I could find out—and I spent months trying, learning my trade on this unpaid, personal pursuit—no woman of that name had been reported missing in Scotland, England, or Wales. Maybe her real name was nothing like it, or maybe there was no one who cared sufficiently to notice when she went missing. I was convinced that she'd managed to perform her vanishing act as far as society was concerned long before that Halloween.

I continued to look for her even as I researched the subject of unexplained disappearances, and particularly visits to Fairyland, or the Otherworld in any of its guises. Where was it?
What
was it? How did people get there? When did they come back?

“I went back to Aberfoyle the next Halloween and spent the night on Doon Hill. I felt like I owed Fred that much, just to
be
there for her if she wanted to come back.”

“But she didn't,” said Hugh.

I shook my head. “I don't know. I never saw her again. Never heard from her. Nothing happened to me that night—except for getting very wet, because of course it rained.”

I stopped. My story was done. I wished I could have ended on a more upbeat note. Success is supposed to be what matters, but it doesn't live in the memory like failure. It's the unanswered questions that remain.

“Hey,” said Hugh. His voice was gentle, and there was a note in it I hadn't heard before. “You did your best.”

I shrugged and pushed a bit of toast around my plate. “Which wasn't good enough.”

“Don't beat yourself up. You saved Amy. You had to let Fred go—that was her choice. You can't save somebody who doesn't want to be saved.”

23. Caroline

John Roy was a Scottish Highlander, living in Glenbroun, in Badanoch, in the early 1700s. One evening as he went to bring in his cattle from the hillside, he was passed by a large, rapidly moving flight of fairies carrying something in their midst. It was not his nature to meddle with otherworldly creatures; he wanted nothing to do with “the Good Neighbors,” yet he feared they might have abducted a local child and left behind a mere stock in its place. Fortunately, he had learned a few tricks at his granny's knee. He knew, for example, that if a human being should offer to trade with them, the “people of peace” cannot refuse the exchange.

Quick as thought, he threw his cap into the thick of the swarm, crying out “Mine be yours and yours be mine!”

Thus compelled, the fairies fled, taking John Roy's cap, and leaving on the ground before him a beautiful lady dressed in fine white linen. She was in a swoon, half-conscious and feverish. He lifted her in his arms and carried her back to his cottage, leaving the cattle to fend for themselves this one night.

John Roy's wife was startled indeed to see what her husband had brought back from the hillside, but she was as good-hearted and generous as he, and immediately set about tending to the poor lady. They soon restored her to health and learned that, whoever she was, she was no Highlander, for she could not speak or understand a single word of Gaelic.

Gradually, over the months, the lady learned some Gaelic, and taught the Roys a bit of her own language, which was English. She told them her name was Caroline, that she had lived in a fine house in England, as a gentleman's wife, and had been carried off while on her sickbed. Never a believer in fairies, she had thought her abduction a feverish dream until the passage of time, and her improved health, had demonstrated otherwise. But surely her husband, seeing her gone, would have searched for her?

But John Roy knew that the fairies would have left a stock in her bed, an image of herself that would have seemed to die, then been buried. Her husband must think her dead.

Caroline sank into a deep depression for a time, scarcely able to bear the thought of life in this remote and savage land so far from everything she had known and loved, never to see her husband or her dear children again. Yet, live she must. Although poor in material goods, the Roys were rich in hospitality, and shared all they had with Caroline, accepting her into their family.

And so the years went by, until, in 1725, King George sent his red-coated soldiers to build roads and “civilize” the savage Highlanders. Most locals were far from pleased by the sudden influx of foreign soldiers, but John Roy, who had learned English from Caroline, thought he might as well make the best of it and offered lodging to the English captain and his son.

The sound of English voices lifted Caroline's heart, and she stared at the two Englishmen as if she couldn't bear to take her eyes away. The captain was too polite to stare at a strange woman, but the younger man met her eyes, and felt something jolt his heart.

“Sir,” he exclaimed, tugging at his father's arm. “If I did not know my dear mother was dead these many years, I should say I saw her again now.”

“Do you say so?” said Caroline. “Why, if miracles could happen, I should say that I saw my little child grown into a man and standing before me.”

At the sound of her voice, the English captain gave a start and looked at her face. He thought he could see the likeness to the young woman he had married—and buried!—so many years ago. He at once demanded of his host how an Englishwoman came to be dwelling in a remote Scottish clachan, and John Roy told his story.

Still scarcely daring to believe it was true, the Englishman questioned the woman, asking for details of the place where she had lived and other things only his wife would have known. She answered him readily, until forced to stop by tears of joy. At last, they fell into each other's arms and wept together. And so, after many years, the stolen lady was finally restored to her husband, who took her back home where she belonged. Never to their dying days did they forget their gratitude to John Roy.

24. Peri

A week later, the three of us were on our way to Scotland, hoping to rescue Peri at midsummer.

It was still a few days shy of the twenty-first, but that gave us time to investigate all the possible sites and settle on the right one. Was midsummer's eve significant? I didn't know. Some of the old stories were quite specific about dates, but not so the story of Etain, in which the passage of many years had more significance than mere seasons. Peri had been taken in December, and returned, briefly, at the end of May. That might mean something or nothing at all.

When he turned up at the airport Hugh looked haggard, almost shockingly thin, his blue eyes more prominent than ever in his narrow face. Laura had told me that he'd been working all hours to get the editing done on his film before we left. She worried that there was something sinister in this—maybe Hugh was planning to stay if he managed to find his way through to the Otherworld. I didn't think so. Hugh was riding high, on his way to fame and fortune in the career he'd always wanted, and I couldn't see him giving up his human inheritance just to step into the unknown. He believed in the Otherworld because he had the ability to see it, but that didn't make him particularly interested in it.

As I looked at his gaunt countenance I thought of Lancelot du Lac, or a male Joan of Arc, and wondered if, like a Christian knight of old, Hugh had spent the last night in fasting and prayer rather than with one more critical viewing of the film he'd made. The rings in his ear had gone, and there were specks of dried blood on the fleshy lobe. I almost flinched at the thought of his Amazonian girlfriend in a jealous fury, ripping them out and cursing his faithless heart. What would she do if Hugh returned to London with Peri in his arms? Would loyalty to the new girlfriend stop him from doing all he could to save the old?

As we sat in silence waiting for our flight to be called, I told my companions a story.

“Robert Kirk tells of a woman he knew personally who was stolen away by fairies. They left an image in her place, and it appeared to wither away and die, and so was buried. But after two years, the woman managed to escape and returned to her husband. Fortunately, he recognized her and believed her story. He was still grieving over her loss, and so he was naturally delighted to welcome her home again, and so it all ended happily.

“But Kirk couldn't help speculating on how things might have gone wrong. What if the husband had remarried? It would have been perfectly legal; his wife was dead as far as he knew, dead in the eyes of the world and the law. But when she turned out
not
to have been dead after all, if he had remarried, would he have been obliged to divorce the second wife? Kirk reckoned that he would, because as the first marriage had never been terminated by death, it was still in force, and the second marriage had no legal status. Of course, in those days, a divorce was a much bigger deal. The scandal of it, especially for the second wife, would have been awful. Probably, she'd be like a fallen woman, and probably, unless she was very rich, no one else would have wanted to marry her. Her life would have been ruined. It's lucky that things are easier now, isn't it?”

Laura looked nervously between me, with my faux-innocent smile, and Hugh's frowning glare.

“Your Reverend Kirk was interested in the legal and theological implications. In his day, they would have been serious. This is totally different.”

“You didn't marry Peri or Fiona. You're all free agents, sure. But somebody's still going to get hurt.”

“Yeah? Well, even if you're right, it's not your concern.”

“Actually, it is. Peri's my concern.”

“You've never even met her. Laura hired you to do a job—that's all.”

“Hey, guys,” said Laura anxiously, but our eyes were locked, horns down, both of us testing the other for weakness, goading.

“Sure, so it's my job to make sure she gets back. I don't want you deciding it would be too much trouble to bring her back, not wanting to mess up your nice lifestyle with an out-of-date
girlfriend . . .”

“You're talking out your arse. I
loved
Peri—I'd do anything for her. I still would.”

“Which means letting her go if that's what she wanted—does it include taking her back to London, marrying her, if she decides she wants that? No matter what it does to Fiona?”

His cheek twitched, it might have been in remembered or anticipated pain.

“What about Fiona?” I persisted. “Your girlfriend?”

The flight to Glasgow was being called. In quick, nervous response, Laura got to her feet. Hugh and I stayed where we were.

“I care for Fiona,” he said quietly. “I won't just dump her, no matter what happens.”

No, I thought, you won't have to, because if she's got any pride, she'll dump you first. “Loved” vs. “care.” No contest.

“Does she know about Peri?”

“Sure.”

“About what's happening?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “Not really. She knows Laura hired you, and that I'm
helping . . . but she doesn't understand why I have to help. So she is kind of jealous.”

“With good reason.”

“No!” He frowned. “I'm not cheating on her. I wouldn't.”

“You want Peri back. Otherwise, why are you here?”

His frown deepened. “Look, mate. You know why I'm here. I'm here because you can't do this without me.”

Laura, hovering anxiously, now descended, sinking into the seat beside Hugh and resting her hand on his. “He's here for
me
.”

Around us, people were moving sluggishly in a rough line toward the gate, or waiting with bovine patience to be herded on board. We were the only people in the boarding area still seated.

Beneath the warmth of Laura's approval, Hugh's fierce frown relaxed and he nodded agreement.

“That's bullshit,” I said harshly.

Hugh's eyes flickered, and Laura's mouth dropped open in surprise.

“Forget it,” I told Hugh. “You're not Laura's proxy, and you're damn sure not mine. There's only one reason for you to go after her, which is that you still love her. If she still loves you, she'll come back. But if you're going to pretend, so you can shrug and whine that you did your best, sorry—no way. I won't have Peri tricked into coming back, and I'm not having you let her down at the last minute. If she needs saving,
I'll
save her. I don't need you.”

Emotions battled in his face while I ranted at him: incredulity, anger, and hope.

“You? You think you could win her? You think she'd even look at you?”

As he spoke I seemed to feel again Amy Schneider in my arms, and an unexpected pang of loss. I'd never loved her, never even known her, really.

Hugh leaned forward until he was right in my face, then he said, practically spitting, “I'm going to bring her back, not you. And don't think for a minute that I'm doing it for
you
. You keep out of my way.”

He jumped up and, without looking back at either of us, pushed his way forward to the front of the queue. People gave way before him, not even annoyed by his presumption. He had the natural authority, the innate arrogance, of someone who deserved to be first.

I realized that the loss I felt was not for Amy, but for a younger, bolder self, someone not yet worn down by failure.

“What'd you go and do that for? What if he
had
gone home? We
do
need him.” Laura was staring at me, obviously annoyed.

“It's no good unless he loves her. And he had to know that. If we just needed somebody to bargain with Mider—hell, I could do that. But if Peri comes back with Hugh, it'll be for love.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

I thought of all the stories in which visitors to Fairyland, dragged back into reality by well-meaning, interfering friends, had simply pined away and died, like the maidens abandoned by the ganconer. People needed something more than everyday life to live for, they needed some sort of magic to give it meaning, and love fitted the bill. But looking at Laura's tight, anxious face, I thought she might not understand. Hadn't her own life been dedicated to shutting out all possibility of magic, the supernatural and, probably, romantic love as well?

I shrugged and got to my feet. “This is a fairy tale, isn't it? Come on, we should be boarding.” I tried to give her my arm, but she wouldn't touch me.

In Glasgow, a rental car had been reserved in Hugh's name—he was paying for it. He and Laura both took it for granted that he would drive, and I should have had no quarrel with that: Years of living as a pedestrian meant I was out of practice, and the traffic on the roads around the airport was even worse than I remembered. But when I crawled into the tiny backseat to sit alone, the feeling of being not merely unnecessary but actively unwanted intensified. Laura had been cool to me throughout the flight, and Hugh was ignoring me.

The noise of the car made it difficult to follow any conversation in the front seat, and it became impossible once Hugh turned on the radio. Leaning forward all the time was uncomfortable, and as most of my contributions received no response, I gave it up to sink back in my seat and into my own thoughts.

We quickly bypassed Glasgow and left its suburbs for open country. As we traveled steadily west, my heart lifted at the sight of the green hills on the horizon. What is it about
scenery
? It sounds such a negligible thing, mere distant background, and in fact I, like most people, spend most of my life in rooms, or on streets lined with parked cars and buildings, scarcely ever lifting my eyes to anything more than a few feet above my own head. I'd never claim that I needed nature, or wilderness, or wide-open spaces in my life; certainly, in all the time I was in the city, I never felt “scenery” was something I lacked.

But at the first glimpse of wide green pastures dotted with grazing sheep, of sloping, dark green conifer forest behind an open stretch of water gleaming in the murky daylight, I felt something inside me relax and expand, and I wondered, with faint surprise, how I had managed to survive without it for so long.

When we reached the shores of Loch Lomond, Laura sighed, “Oh, God, it's so beautiful.”

Even on a dull day, beneath a low, grey sky, the water of the loch gleamed like a silver mirror, reflecting back the steep hillsides. In the narrowing distance down the water, mountains stretched away, the peaks rising until they disappeared into low cloud.

“Like the cover of some bloody fantasy novel,” said Hugh.

It was true, we were entering another world. Rocky slopes rose up on one side of the road, and the gleaming water of the loch stretched away on the other. The radio signal was by then very weak, the sound annoyingly patchy and scratchy. Finally, Hugh switched it off and the eerie silence of the mountains settled upon us.

As the road rose, twisted and turned, taking us farther into a haunted, unpeopled, mountainous region, my brain buzzed. This landscape affected me more powerfully than any art or music I'd ever encountered. It was real, it was natural, yet, like art, it worked on my emotions and my imagination as if it meant something more than itself.

We passed a ruined house—only the chimneypiece and a few low, stone walls remained standing—and the sight of that ruin, lonely in a little glen, shadowed by the dark hills, stirred feelings of loneliness and loss. I thought vaguely of the Highland Clearances—the long, sad history of people forced out of their houses and off their land, dispossessed. My own great-great grandparents might have been among them.

I gazed out the window at a shadowy woodland, full of hiding places; at rocks and trees and ancient stone walls; at a stream that became a waterfall and fell, like a long, silver chain, down the flank of a dark green hill, and I thought of Fred. Where had she gone? Did she find what she wanted? Was she happy? Would I ever understand?

We'd been traveling for almost two hours when Hugh and Laura decided to stop in the village of Lochgilphead. They wanted a meal, but I was feeling somewhat carsick after so much rolling around—Hugh was not a gentle or a timid driver—and, besides, I'd eaten the snack lunch served on the flight, so we went our separate ways, agreeing to meet back at the car park in an hour.

I felt better as soon as I stretched my legs and walked around in the open air. Lochgilphead was attractively set at the head of a loch, bordered by a long, narrow green common where people walked dogs and children played on swings and slides. The village itself looked rather drab and far from ancient, but it seemed quite a bit bigger than Aberfoyle and was alive with people and activity on a warm, dry afternoon.

Across from the parking lot I noticed a bookshop, sandwiched between a wineshop and a store selling large electrical appliances. I went in and made for the “local interest” section, where I found just what I'd been hoping for, a locally published guide to walks in Knapdale, including the history and folklore of the area. After I'd paid for it, I took it down to the waterfront and found a seat by the grey stone war memorial. At first it was just a rehash of things I already knew, information I'd picked up from the books and maps in my own library. The sites I'd noted from the Ordnance Survey maps were described: Dunvulaig, with its connections to the mythical
Sidhe,
and the Iron Age
Dun a'Chaisteal
associated with the tale of Deirdre of the Sorrows. And then I found something new: