The Recalcitrant Wife

Chapter 2: Culloden

Chapter 2: Culloden

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. . . . .

I lay on that blasted hilltop for heaven knows how long, and awoke with a start. My head ached, and my brain was decidedly fuzzy about how I came to be here. Disoriented, I sat up, and looking around, noted the placement of telephone poles. Bloody hell, the memories now came flooding back, much to my consternation.

My kingdom for a wristwatch ... I had no idea what time it was, or even how to discern it. I stood up, wobbly at first, and brushed the dried grass from my woolen skirt. The highway was visible from where I stood, so I ventured down the knoll, perchance I could flag down a passing vehicle and ask for the time of day. Ironically, I thought it would behoove me to ask about the year also; that would certainly be an interesting conversation, one that I imagine would have me speedily encased in a straightjacket.

Sauntering along the roadway, I heard the roar of an engine, and quickly waved to the oncoming driver. He stopped fortunately, gave me an odd look, but politely answered my inquiry. It was a few minutes after the noon hour. All I had to do now was to wait awhile to be sure that Murtagh was on his way back to Culloden field. It would be a pity to slip though the stones once more only to be met by that irascible little man.

I spotted a few large-sized boulders set back from the highway that seemed suitable for a resting place, and I needed to be well rested if I had to hoof it all the way to Culloden. A number of automobiles drove by, the passengers glancing at the lady in the peculiar clothing that was sitting on a rock. I probably would have done the same were I in their shoes.

. . . . .

It was terribly vexing to sit here doing nothing. I had to get back; surely an hour had passed by now. Flagging down the next vehicle, I was told that it was indeed half-past one.

Fairly flying to the summit of the hill, I retraced my steps to transport myself to 1746, and successfully completed that mission.

The wind had a biting chill to it, so it roused me more rapidly than in my previous attempt to skip time. The area momentarily appeared to be deserted, and one man in particular was nowhere to be seen. Eureka, I'd done it, now I could hurry along, anxious to journey to my destination.

How long would it take to reach the battle field, I wondered? My legs and feet were already beginning to ache, despite the fact that I was used to walking great distances. Night was fast approaching, and my stomach was growling in protest, my throat parched from want of water.

Up ahead, I heard a faint whinnying, and the clip-clop of a horse's hooves. Should I hail whoever it was, or skitter away for cover? Even with a war on, there were still brigands abounding in these parts. Lovely ... I hid behind a tree waiting for the mystery rider to pass.

The animal came closer, and I noticed there was no one at the reins. The beast looked strikingly familiar to me. All at once, I realized, oh—bless her russet hide, it's Brimstone.

Clicking my tongue, I stepped gingerly toward her. I grabbed the bridle, and patted her neck. "How did you get here, Brim? Did you run away ... huh? No matter, we'll go the way you came. You're such a braw girl. Yes you are."

. . . . .

Brimstone appeared to be just as exhausted as I was, for she walked along at a leisurely pace. Time was of the essence, and the animal's slow steady gait annoyed me to no end.