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  HIGH ON A MOUNTAIN

  Copyright © 2010 Tommie Lyn

  All rights reserved.

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover image adapted from photographs from:

  Big Stock Photo © Stephen Gibson

  Big Stock Photo © Rafa Irusta

  Dreamstime © Jeffbanke

  Selection from “The Tears of Scotland” by Tobias Smollet

  is in the Public Domain

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  HIGH ON A MOUNTAIN

  by

  Tommie Lyn

  Dedicated to our Scottish ancestors,

  who suffered so much, yet

  endured it all without complaint

  and without succumbing to self-pity.

  GLOSSARY

  of unfamiliar words used in the text

  Scottish Gaelic Surnames Appearing in the Story

  Gaelic Name..........Anglicized Form

  Cambeul....................Campbell

  MacAntoisch..............MacIntosh

  MacGriogair...............MacGregor

  MacIlleDhonaghart....MacDonald

  Mac'Ill'Eathainn........MacLean

  MacEòghainn............MacEwan

  MacLachlainn............MacLachlan

  MacNeachdainn.........MacNaughton

  MacPhàrlain...............MacFarlane

  MacThàmhais............MacTavish

  Stiùbhart.....................Stewart, or, Stuart

  Prionnsa Teàrlach Stiùbhart - Prince Charles (Edward) Stuart, also known as “Bonnie Prince Charlie”

  Scottish Gaelic Given Names Appearing in the Story

  Name.....Pronunciation (Anglicized Form)

  Ailean.....A lun (Alan)

  Aodh.......OOGH (Hugh)

  Boisil.......BO shil (Boswell)

  Brandubh.BRAN doow (Branduff)

  Brìghde....BREE ju (Bridget)

  Coinneach.KOIN nyuch (Kenneth)

  Coinneach-òg.KOIN nyuch og (Young Kenneth)

  Dearshul....JER hool

  Eachann....ECH unn

  Faolan.......FOOL

  Fearghas...FE ruh ghus (Fergus)

  Gabhran....GAW run (Gavin)

  Gòrdan......GOR dun (Gordon)

  Lachlainn..LACH lunn (Lachlan)

  Latharn......LA urn (Lorne)

  Mùirne.......MOORN a (Morna)

  Odhran......OE ran

  Raghnall....ROOL (Ronald)

  Ruairidh....ROO uh ree (Rory, Roderick)

  Suibhne.....SOOEE nyuh (Sweeney)

  Teàrlach......TCHAWR luch (Charles)

  Ualraig......OO ul rik (Walrick)

  Una...........OO na

  Name pronunciation key from http://www.namenerds.com/scottish. Used by permission from Norah Burch.

  Definitions of Gaelic Words Used in the Text

  àirigh - (airy) - A shealing; a hill pasture, or summer residence for herdsmen and cattle; a level green among hills

  airisaid - The outer garment worn by women, a large piece of fabric, usually of a pale color with contrasting stripes, pleated around the waist and tied in place with a belt, the upper part pulled over the shoulders and fastened with a brooch or bodkin

  bùrn - Water, fresh water.

  caman - The curved, slanted head of a stick used in the game of camanachd

  camanachd - A game played by Celts for 2,000 years, also called shinty; field hockey and golf are said to be derived from this game

  céilidh - (kay-lee) - A social gathering where stories were told, poems recited, songs were sung.

  féileadh-mòr - (filamor) The outer garment worn by Highland men; a large piece of fabric, usually woven tartan, which was worn pleated and belted at the waist, with the excess fabric pulled over the left shoulder and fastened with a brooch or bodkin

  Sasunnach - Saxon, i.e., English

  sporan - A purse or pouch worn by Highland men

  triubhas - Trousers

  NOTE: the Scottish spelling “whisky” is used throughout the text. “Whisky” is an anglicized form of the Scottish Gaelic uisge-beatha, “water of life.”

  Definitions of Cherokee Words Used in the Text

  anetsa - a ballgame from which la crosse was derived. Anetsa means “little brother of war.”

  Ani-Kawita - Creek Indians

  Ani-Tsalagi - Cherokee people

  asehi - yes

  asi - hot house

  edoda - father

  ehena - come

  gvgeyu - I love you

  osiyo - hello

  Tsalagi - Cherokee

  wado - thank you

  PART ONE

  MÙIRNE

  The Western Highlands of Scotland, March, 1728

  Dim light from the peat fire on the hearth cast a softening glow over the rough stone walls. Lingering aromas from supper had aroused five-year-old Mùirne MacGriogair’s appetite before the meal but hung about her unappreciated now that her stomach was full. She scooted off her chair, stood at Granda’s side and tugged at his tunic sleeve.

  “And what would you be wanting, little lass?” he asked, habitual smile crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes.

  “A story.” Mùirne bounced on her bare feet. “I want a story.”

  “All right.” He lifted her onto his knee, as he did every evening of her visit.

  She leaned back against his chest and entwined the fingers of one hand into the red curls of his beard. Her other hand rested in her lap.

  “So what shall I tell you tonight, lass. Let me see…”

  “Tell her about some of the things done to us MacGriogairs. It’s time she knew.” Uncle Suibhne thumbed a string on his fiddle, turned the peg a bit more.

  “No.” Grandma spun her drop spindle. “Those are things you tell a boy. Tell her a story more fitting for a girl. She doesn’t need to hear about the fighting and the—”

  A loud bellow from a cow penned outside the door interrupted her.

  Granda sat straight. “That one may be getting ready to drop her calf. Suibhne, go see if she needs help. We may have to bring her inside.”

  Uncle Suibhne laid the fiddle on his chair and left the cottage.

  “Now.” Granda settled himself onto his chair again, and Mùirne nestled closer, twisting a curl of his beard around her finger. “What about a story of the fairies that live inside the hills?”

  “Oh yes, please. I like the fairy stories.”

  “Which one shall I tell you?”

  “Tell me the one about the bonnie lass who—”

  “Well, now. The bonnie lass again, is it? How many times have I told you that one?” He smiled, cleared his throat and began. “It happened one day that a man named—”

  The door burst open. “It’s the Cambeuls!” Uncle Suibhne shouted. He slammed the door, lowered the bar and rushed to the wall where swords hung on pegs.

  Granda pushed Mùirne from his lap and jumped up from his chair. He started for his sword but paused and turned to look at Mùirne. He scooped her up, and she gasped, threw her arms around his neck and clung to him. She pressed her face against his cheek, buried it in his beard.

  He hurried to th
e chest in the corner and lifted the lid, pulled out the blankets and placed Mùirne inside. He wrested her arms loose from their tight grasp and pushed her down inside the chest. Her eyes widened at a muffled thump on the door. Granda looked over his shoulder, then at Mùirne, his eyes a molten mix of hot rage and cold fear. Mùirne shrank from him.

  “Stay in here where you’ll be safe. Don’t come out until I tell you to. And don’t make any sound at all. Understand?”

  Mùirne stared at him, frozen, unable to respond.

  “Do you understand!” he roared.

  She nodded.

  He shut the lid. Mùirne wanted to cry—wanted to call to him not to leave her in this dark place—wanted to push the lid open and fly to the safety of Granda’s arms. But she remained where he placed her, rigid, twisting the folds of her clothing, wrapping the fabric about her fingers as though they were still embedded in the wiry familiarity of Granda’s beard.

  Voices Mùirne didn’t recognize called out, the words distant and indistinct. Granda and Uncle Suibhne yelled in reply. And then came more thumps and a splintering.

  She covered her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, tried to shut out the terrifying clamor of fighting: bellows and curses, the clang of sword striking sword. When she heard sobbing from Grandma, her breaths became panting, and her fear grew, swelled until it seemed to fill the wooden chest, and it pressed down on her, holding her in place.

  She thought the fighting would go on without end, and she wanted to throw open the lid, jump from her hiding place and run far away. A shriek from Grandma pierced the air like a sharp dirk, and Mùirne shoved her fist into her mouth to stop an answering scream from escaping. Other sounds came, went—and all was quiet.

  Mùirne waited for Granda to take her from the stuffy chest. But he didn’t come. Perhaps he had forgotten her. Surely it was safe to get out now. Each breath came harder, and she longed to be in the open air. She pushed the lid open a little, just enough to get a breath.

  No one said anything.

  She waited a bit longer and raised the lid further. Mùirne looked through the open crack and saw part of the room where firelight dispelled the darkness. Granda was slumped over the worktable against the far wall.

  “Granda,” she whispered.

  He said nothing.

  She couldn’t see Uncle Suibhne or Grandma. Where were they?

  “Granda,” she called again, louder this time.

  He still didn’t answer.

  So Mùirne pushed the lid open and stood. And she saw them.

  Uncle Suibhne lay on the earthen floor at Granda’s feet, his head tilted back at an impossible angle. Grandma lay near the fire, the front of her tunic covered with blood.

  Mùirne began to shake. Her knees grew weak, and she hardly had the strength to climb out of the chest. With her back against the wall, she sidled toward the shattered door, her eyes wide with horror and her breath coming in shuddering gulps. She neared the door and saw Granda’s blood-spattered face, his eyes open but not seeing. As she stared into them, Uncle Suibhne’s words echoed through her mind…

  It’s the Cambeuls…

  ONE

  The Western Highlands of Scotland, December, 1738

  Ailean MacLachlainn clenched his teeth. He pushed Latharn Cambeul’s caman aside with his own and took control of the ball again. Latharn glared at him. Ailean gave the ball a nudge to move it further into the open so he could strike a solid blow and send it flying to the goal, but Latharn rammed his shoulder into Ailean, pushed him off balance and interrupted his swing.

  He shouldered Latharn away, and the two combatants shoved one another while each tried to take possession of the ball. Two Cambeul players remained on the periphery of the intense struggle between Latharn and Ailean, a duel which transcended the rivalry of their clans’ annual camanachd game.

  Latharn, the older, shorter and stronger of the two, gritted his teeth, his lips curled away from them in an angry sneer. He drew back his stick, swung his caman, not at the ball but at Ailean’s legs, and tripped the lanky boy. Ailean hit the ground with a thud. He winced as he struggled to his feet, blood flowing from a gash on his shin.

  Ailean’s older brother, Coinneach, and three other MacLachlainn teammates came running toward the two scuffling players. Coinneach, his eyes blazing with uncharacteristic anger, slid to a stop in front of Latharn.

  “You did that on purpose!” Coinneach smacked the ball with a short but powerful stroke. A twinkle replaced the anger in his eyes as his innate good humor rose to the surface. “You better watch out that someone doesn’t mistake that little head on your shoulders for the ball and take a swing at it.”

  Latharn’s brown eyes emitted a vivid flash of animosity. He raised his stick, aimed it at Coinneach and jabbed him in the stomach. Coinneach grunted as his breath left him. He doubled over and crumpled. Latharn ran after the ball, a satisfied gleam in his eyes.

  Camanachd was a rough game and players were often injured during play. But Coinneach had not been injured because of play. Ailean knew it. Latharn often behaved dishonorably. Ailean glanced at his brother lying on the ground, retching and gasping for breath, and rage flowed through him. He wouldn’t let Latharn get away with his maliciousness. Ailean’s anger gave him strength and resolve, and he ran after Latharn, heedless of the pain from his injured leg.

  With long bounds, he overtook Latharn, elbowed him and knocked him off stride. Ailean pushed his caman under the ball and lobbed it skyward. Two Cambeul players hurled themselves at him, but he kept his balance and raised his stick, watching the descent of the leather-covered orb. Latharn swung his stick up in front of Ailean, jumped and reached for the ball with it. His swing missed its intended target, and his stick collided with Ailean’s head. The ball dropped untouched to the ground between them.

  Latharn snaked his stick in front of Ailean and took the ball again. Ailean plunged to the left, his stick extended, but Latharn changed direction to keep the ball out of Ailean’s reach. Ailean made a long leap and landed in front of Latharn. Ailean pushed the ball away from Latharn’s caman, took aim and hit it.

  It bounced along the ground, with all the players in pursuit. Latharn thrust his stick in front of Ailean to trip him again, but Ailean jumped over it and tore down the field at top speed. His long legs carried him faster and farther than the other players, and he reached the ball first as it rolled to a stop. He took a long swing, hit the ball hard, and it streaked past the goalkeeper.

  Ailean made the winning goal. Again.

  A raucous cheer went up from the Clan MacLachlainn spectators, and they ran onto the field. They congregated around their victorious players, cheering and celebrating their win. The small clan had beaten powerful Clan Cambeul for the third year in a row.

  Ailean limped back to Coinneach, who pulled himself to his hands and knees.

  “Are you all right, brother?”

  Coinneach nodded. “I’m better than all right.” He smiled, then grimaced and sat back on his heels and clutched his stomach. He smiled again. “You fixed Latharn. His clan lost.”

  Ailean held out his hand. His brother grasped it and pulled himself to his feet.

  “I couldn’t let him get away with what he did to you.” Ailean brushed damp hair from his perspiring face and wiped away the trickle of blood from the cut Latharn’s stick had made on his forehead.

  He caught sight of Latharn, who glowered at him from the fringe of a group of Cambeul men. He frowned at Latharn, pointed a finger at him and mouthed the words, “Don’t ever hurt my brother again!”

  The two stared at each other until some of Ailean’s clansmen reached him. They patted his shoulder and congratulated him along with the other MacLachlainn players. Everyone knew who had won the game, knew who had won every game each of the three years since he began playing at the age of fourteen: Ailean MacLachlainn.

  His father, Aodh, and mother, Brìghde, made their way through the crowd to congratulate their sons.

  “You
did well, son,” Aodh said to Ailean.

  Ailean’s smile broadened at the words of praise from his father. “Thank you, Da. But it wasn’t just me. If it hadn’t been for Coinneach—”

  “Aye, you did well, too, Coinneach,” Aodh said. “I’m proud of both of you.”

  “How is your leg?” Brìghde leaned down to look at Ailean’s shin. “I need to see to that cut.”

  “I’m fine, Ma, just fine.” Ailean, embarrassed by his mother’s attention, turned his body to keep his injured leg away from her scrutiny.

  “And you, Coinneach,” she continued. “How is your stomach?”

  “I’m fine, Ma.”

  “That Cambeul man.” Brìghde shook her head. “Sometimes I’d like to—”

  “Well, little brother.” Coinneach looked up at Ailean with a smile. “You won the game for us again this year. I guess they’ll let you claim to be a part of the clan for a while longer.”

  “Maybe.” Ruairidh MacLachlainn, one of the chief’s tacksmen, clapped a hand on Ailean’s shoulder and laughed. “Brilliant playing, Ailean, just brilliant! Thanks for winning for us again.”