Fyskar

Chapter 7

The house lay dark save for the banked fire. Eoin eased himself in through the door to be greeted by Seonaid and Fearchar cuddled on the floor in front of the hearth. They looked up at him and smiled as he entered. Eoin nodded a hello.

"A job well done, doc!" Fearchar untangled himself from his wife. Eoin ducked, the sudden outburst loud in the dark hours of early morning. Seonaid raised an eyebrow at her husband. Pulling herself off the ground, she shook out her skirts and resettled her apron. She retrieved a cup from the shelf and handed it to her husband. "I do believe a toast is in order." He rooted around in the rafters and freed a jug tucked up under a tuft of thatch.

"The beer from Portree?" Seonaid took the proffered clay vessel and set it on the table.

"I think this calls fur somethin' special." Fearchar pulled down three mismatched tankards.

Eoin tried to wave them away. Fearchar placated," I ken, doc, I ken. Ye dinnae have'a be such a worry. We'll leave ye ta yer's, but see here," he handed over the filled cup, "it's celebratory!"

The doctor stared at the tankard in his gloved hands, the swirling liquid in the firelight digging up dark memories that now lay too close to the surface. A scream split through the night. He glanced up, looking for the sound. Did you hear that?

Hear what? Seonaid set aside her cup to go to the door.

A scream? He realized, only after asking, that his memories were playing tricks. Too loud. Too cumbersome. The sooty pungent fire and the liquor and the night. He was worn thin and now his memories were more in his present than he was. Don't worry. Just my imagination.

The husband and wife downed their cups. "Oh, that's stiff!" Fearchar blew out, his chest hot from the dragan. Seonaid poured them another before motioning Fearchar to the bedroom. "Least I'll have a warm bed t'night." The man gleefully followed his beckoning wife.

Eoin's shoulders eased with the click of the door behind them. He held the cup up to the firelight. A toast? More like a Wake I was never allowed to have. Unclasping his mask for the third time that evening, he raised the cup to his lips and savoured the robust, dark flavour. It was a touch more bitter than he would have liked, but it was a kind gesture from his hosts. The doctor wrinkled his nose at the brew in thought. He downed the rest of it in one swift gulp, rather than leave the bitterness to put him off the gesture.

A job well done? I was never given the option of washing, of winding, of wailing. There was no plate of salt and earth. No bell-man. No watch set. No dance. So too shall the Daleroch fall from the tongue of man. No one to watch them, to wail for them, to see them over to the other side. He snorted as he toasted the room with his empty cup.

Eoin replaced the mask and secured it before deciding to seek out his bed near the fire. He stood, and his legs wobbled beneath him. The room tilted. His limbs tingled with lethargic warmth.

I'm either getting too old for these late nights, or the beers are becoming stouter in their age. He barely made it to his covers before slipping from consciousness.

An hour later, Fearchar and Seonaid peered out of their room. The man in the mask had passed out on the bed in a heap. "Now what?" Fearchar whispered to Seonaid.

"Now, let's find out who this man really is. We massacred the entire Daleroch clan in one night and made it look like they died a' Plague. He did. With three bottles of wine. We can only hope that no one knows it was us." Seonaid rubbed at her arms.

"Dinnae ye worry, hen. Na' one left that place save us 'fore e'eryone died a' 'plague'. Na' one'll know it was us." He pulled her shawl around her.

She drew in a steadying breath. "At the very least, I need to stoke the fire. Sending him off to sleep like that when he's the one that takes care of it through the night has made for a cold house." She took a tentative step toward the man in the plague mask.