Eilean Donan Castle, May 2021
Rogene Wakeley laid two long candles neatly next to each other on the polished antique sideboard. Taking a deep breath, she told herself she was 99.9 percent happy for her friend.
Karin was getting married in Eilean Donan, having her dream wedding to the love of her life in the most beautiful castle in Scotland.
Rogene glanced at the fine painting hanging above the table on a rough stone wall. The portraits of generations of clan MacRae looked at the guests from the walls of the Banqueting Hall, surrounded by rococo and neoclassical furniture. Rogene took the bottle of whisky out of the bag and placed it near the silver quaich, a traditional, shallow drinking cup the couple would use as part of the wedding ceremony.
She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the guests were fine. Fifty or so people sat on the Chippendale chairs, murmuring quietly—elegantly dressed women in small hats with flowers, nets, and feathers, most men in kilts. The happy 99.9 percent of her had been glad to shake the hand of every single one of them as they had arrived and smile so much her face ached.
The happy 99.9 percent of her rejoiced in being the maid of honor, making sure all went according to Karin’s German standards: perfectly and by the minute. Which was good because Rogene was the responsible one. The one who had basically raised her brother, David, from the time she was twelve years old, despite living with their aunt and uncle.
David was talking to one of Karin’s relatives sitting in the front row. The fabric of his suit stretched across his broad shoulders. He was close to being accepted into Northwestern and was likely to get a football scholarship. Good Lord, when did he start looking so much like Dad?
Rogene’s eyes prickled.
That was the 0.1 percent talking.
To distract herself, she turned back to the table and placed the silver candleholder by the quaich.
The 0.1 percent reminded her that she couldn‘t rely on people. That people could disappear at any moment. That they could die. That people wouldn’t take care of her when she needed them the most.
That she was so much better off on her own.
She took the vase that held a gorgeous bouquet of thistle, white roses, and freesias and placed it in the center of the table. As she removed a rose from the side of the bouquet and put it into the center, the unhappy 0.1 percent of her wondered if she’d ever have a bouquet like this at her own wedding. Probably not. She couldn’t imagine getting married. How did others manage to be happy and in love and trust another human being?
As she turned the vase a little, she went completely still.
The bouquet!
She whirled around to the arched exit, her heart slamming in her chest.
“What is it, Rory?” Anusua, her colleague from Oxford University, asked. She stood at the entrance to the hall, ready to greet newly arriving guests. Short and full-figured, she looked stunning in a similar lilac dress to Rogene’s.
“The bouquet…” Rogene grabbed her hair, likely messing up the intricately woven braids and the chic updo that felt like bread crust under her fingers. She felt naked in the long, mermaid-style, lilac dress with low cleavage. Rogene’s usual wardrobe included elegant blouses and turtlenecks with suit pants or black jeans, which made her look like a professor before she even was one. “I forgot to pick up the bouquet.”
“Oh, bollocks,” Anusua muttered, abandoning her post. “Let me fetch it. What’s the address?”
Anusua was an Indian Brit, and definitely more accustomed to driving on the “wrong” side of the street. But Rogene was the maid of honor, and if Anusua made a mistake, Karin would be crushed. There was also the bagpipe player who was due to arrive any minute…
“Come on, Rory,” Anusua said. “Give me the car key.”
Anusua was right, Rogene could delegate, be part of a team.
But the 0.1 percent stopped her.
David walked towards them and opened the beautiful, massive door under the arched entryway for an old lady to pass through. Too bad the door was only a replica made in the grand restoration of the castle in the 1920s, the historian within Rogene thought distantly.
“Everything okay?” David asked.
He was so handsome in his suit, his dirty-blond hair cut in a simple, classic style that made him look older than he was.
Or, maybe, it was because he’d had to grow up sooner than he should have, especially with her abandoning him in Chicago for her doctoral program at Oxford.
“All good,” Rogene said, her voice tense.
“You aren’t going to let me help, are you?” Anusua said softly. “You know you can rely on people to give you a hand.”
Anusua sighed and walked to the old lady who had just come in, no doubt to see if she needed any help. David patted Rogene on the shoulder. “What was that about?”
“I need to go get the bouquet, but the bagpipe player still isn’t here.”
“Let me get the bouquet. You deal with the bagpiper.”
“Is your permit even valid here?”
If he misread the name of a street while driving the car on the other side of the road, she’d need to deal with a lost teenager in a foreign country. His face darkened. He knew she was thinking of his dyslexia, not his driver’s license.
“Okay,” he said. “Go. I can deal with the bagpiper.”
She sighed. That was the lesser evil, even though she did hate to leave the responsibility to anyone but herself.
“I’ll be right back. Thanks, Dave.”
She opened the arched door into the damp, freezing air of the Scottish Highlands and hurried down the old stone stairwell into the courtyard. Harsh wind blew in her face as she passed through the gatehouse with the raised portcullis and onto the long bridge that connected the island to the mainland. She barely glanced at a couple of tourists who roamed around the shape of the medieval tower back on the island.
Rogene’s heels clacked against the bridge as she ran towards the parking area. Damn it, she hadn’t taken her bolero, and it was so windy—probably because of three lochs that met here. Her lungs ached for air, and a needle pierced her side, reminding her that she should really get more exercise, not spend all her time in archives and libraries working on her PhD.
But her current discomfort didn’t matter. She couldn’t let her best friend down on her wedding day. She was already walking on a thin ice by refusing to let other people help with her research. There were two problems with that. One, her thesis supervisor was pissed off. Two, she had a bold topic, and she had no proof for it yet.
Panting, she got into the car. After three and a half years in the UK, she was used to driving on the other side of the road, and quickly navigated to Inverinate, which was ten minutes away. Luckily, there were no problems on her way, and she quickly picked up the bouquet and drove back to the castle.
When she was back in the courtyard of Eilean Donan, she saw Karin on the small landing in front of the arched entrance into the Banqueting Hall. Wind played with the long locks of her blond hair that cascaded down her back. A wreath of white heather circled her head. She was such a beautiful bride. One hand was on her flat, corseted belly, the other on her mom’s shoulder. David watched her, looking as if he’d swallowed a frog.
Rogene’s legs growing cold, she waved with the bouquet as she climbed the stone stairs, careful not to slip on the smooth surface. “It’s here! Don’t you worry, everything’s all right.”
Karin glared at her. “All right?”
Rogene swallowed as she kept climbing. Usually, Karin was sweet, but she was now definitely in bridezilla mode.
When Rogene stood in front of Karin, she handed her the bouquet and plastered a happy smile on her face. “Did the bagpipe player arrive?”
Karin paled as her eyes widened at David. “Did he?”
“Yes, he’s already inside,” David said.
Karin sighed. Her eyes glistened, and Rogene knew her best friend was on the verge of tears. “Do I look horrible?” Karin asked.
Rogene gasped. “What? No! You look amazing. Where is this coming from?”
“Even with this makeup?”
“What do you mean?” Narrowing her eyes, Rogene studied Karin. This looked like her usual evening makeup. Oh…shoot!
Karin sniffled. “The makeup woman never showed up.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Rogene said. “You look beautiful and Nigel’s going to be over the moon. Are you ready?”
Karin exchanged a glance with her mom, then took a deep, steadying breath and nodded. “Yes.” She smiled. “I am.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
She opened the door and nodded to the bagpipe guy, who began playing. Nigel, who stood tall and handsome in his kilt, watched the door like a hawk. When Karin appeared, his face lit up, and Karin beamed as she met his gaze.
The couple lit candles and said their vows, which were beautiful and very Scottish. They drank from the silver quaichs, and finally signed the marriage license—or the marriage schedule, as they called it over here.
There were photos, and more bagpipe music, and cheers and broad smiles. The couple looked happy, and as enamored with each other as they could be.
After the ceremony, everyone descended into the Billeting Room on the ground floor for the champagne reception. As the waiters carried trays with drinks around, Rogene felt like she could finally take a breather. Her stomach squeezing in nervous spasms from the adrenaline that hadn’t stopped racing through her veins yet, she took her bolero and her clutch and went out onto one of the curtain walls facing north.
David stood on the circular wall around the Great Well, leaning on the parapet with his elbows.
Rogene knew something was wrong and made her way up to him. His eyes were on the island, which was covered with grass, a few bushes and small trees. A group of four people walked down the pebble-covered path that stretched from left to right.
Rogene couldn’t see any sign of the curtain walls that she’d seen on archaeological maps of the islands. There were supposed to be three towers that had been raised here in the first phase of construction, in the thirteenth to fourteenth centuries, and the castle where the wedding took place must have only had the keep building.
David’s profile was stern, his gray eyes fixed forward.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“I almost ruined Karin’s wedding.” He swallowed hard as he met her eyes, a muscle in his jaw flexing.
“Don’t say that,” she said.
“It’s my fault. The makeup artist’s car broke. Her phone was dead, and she came here. I gave her the address of Karin’s hotel…”
“Good.”
“Not good. I said 51 Dornie Street…”
The address was 15 Dornie Street. Rogene felt the blood leave her face. He sometimes reversed the numbers or the letters in a word and read things like “left” instead of “felt.”
“Karin was upset because of me,” he muttered.
Rogene searched for David’s hand to squeeze it like she had when he was younger. A dyslexic born to professor parents, and with his older sister receiving a scholarship to do a PhD at Oxford, he’d always felt inferior. That was part of the reason he’d gone into sports and was now a football team captain.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said.
He scoffed and shook his head. “Who else’s?”
“Mine. I should have never left you. I should have sent Anusua to get the bouquet.”
He sighed and lowered his head, looking at his shoes. “Whatever. It wouldn’t change a thing about me. My only hope for a good future is a football scholarship, and it’s still up in the air. I’m the black sheep in a family of geniuses, and you know it. Mom and Dad were professors. You will be, too, one day.”
She wasn’t so sure about that. The date of her thesis defense was fast approaching and she still didn’t have any tangible proof of her mom’s outrageous hypothesis that Robert the Bruce had come to Eilean Donan in 1307 on his way to surrender but something or someone had changed his mind.
“David, come on. You’re not a black sheep.”
“Stop,” he said and pulled away. “I don’t want anyone’s pity.”
He pushed himself off the banister and strode into the castle.
“David!” Rogene called.
Guilt weighed in her chest. He was upset, and she couldn’t just abandon him, not again.
She went after him, fighting against the icy wind, her heels clacking against the stones. She hurried down to the ground floor, hoping he had gone back into the Billeting Room where the reception was taking place, but he wasn’t among the guests. Maybe he’d gone into the kitchens? She turned, trying to think of the best route to get there when she heard steps against stone. The tiny foyer had only three doors, two of which led to the Banqueting Hall.
Could he have gone through the third one? Wrought iron hardware held together the planks of massive wood under the arched pathway. A barrier with a red rope guarded the entrance, but that wouldn’t stop an upset teenager. She thought she heard footsteps descending.
There were no museum workers present. She went around the barrier, opened the door, and flicked the switch. Lights came on, illuminating stone steps leading down.
“David!” she called as she made her way down the stairs into the grave-like coldness of the basement.
Downstairs was a surprisingly large space illuminated by electrical lamps. Tables and chairs covered with protective sheets stood along the rough stone walls. The chilly air smelled like wet stone, earth, and mold. Light didn’t quite reach the very far end of the hall where she noticed a massive door in the shadows.
“David, where are you?” she called.
Only her echo answered, jumping off the ancient, vaulted ceiling. Looking around, she remembered an old legend claiming the castle’s name didn’t originate from a sixth-century saint, but from a colony of otters that had inhabited the island. Supposedly, the King of the Otters was buried beneath the foundations of the castle. Cu-Donn meant an otter, or a brown dog, but it was also very likely that a Pictish tribe might have been called this. There had been, after all, an Iron Age fortress here before, which had burned to the ground.
Suddenly, Rogene felt like a little girl again, like the first time Mom had gotten her fascinated with history. They had been on a trip in Stirling, and Mom had told her a ghost story, and then the real story behind it. Life would never be the same for Rogene.
She wished she could spend more time here, but she needed to find David. The reception would be over soon, and the wedding party would head to the hotel for dinner. Huddling in her bolero, she walked towards the dark door.
“David?” she called.
The echo of her heels was loud and felt foreign here, as though she could wake up the ghosts of Bronze and Iron Age people, the Picts, and generations of Mackenzies and MacRaes. She could almost feel their eyes on her.
With a shaking hand, she pushed the cold wood of the door and it opened with a gnash. The scent of wet earth and mold breathed on her from the pitch darkness. Was it even safe to be here?
She stepped in.
For a moment, she had the weirdest sense she had left the world as she knew it and stepped into another one. She also had the sense that someone was there.
“David? Hello?”
The echo greeted her back.
She searched with her left hand against the rough wall and found a switch. A single electric bulb suspended from an arched ceiling illuminated the space, which resembled a dungeon, minus the iron grating and torture instruments. A pile of boulders and rocks rose to her right. Steel columns supported the ceiling.
Rogene shivered and huddled into her bolero.
To her left and straight ahead, the walls of rough stone and mortar were whole. Curious, she walked farther into the room, her heels sinking into the packed-earth floor. She held the edges of the bolero closed over her chest, but the wet cold crept into the marrow of her bones. Her knees shook, but she couldn’t say if it was from cold or from excitement.
With her eyes on the pile of stones, she approached it and went completely still. Among rubble, dirt, and sand, a carving on a flat rock caught her attention, and something else…
A handprint?
She gasped and her echo gasped with her. Sinking to her knees, she began clearing the rock. When the carving and the handprint were clearly visible, she tasted dust on her tongue. She realized she was touching her mouth with her dirty hand.
Light-headed, she felt the ground shift. Gently, she brushed the carving with her palm, every indent distinct against her fingers. There were three wavy lines and then a straight line and a handprint, just like the footprint on the inauguration stone of the Kings of Dál Riata in Argyll.
“Wow…” she whispered.
“Do ye ken what that is?” a woman said behind her.
Rogene jerked, lost her balance, and fell right on her behind. A woman in a green hooded cloak stood a few steps away from her.
Rogene sighed out. “Jesus Christ, you gave me a heart attack.”
The woman came closer and stretched her hand out. When Rogene accepted her hand, the woman pulled her to stand up.
“Sorry,” the woman said with a Scottish burr. “I didna mean to frighten ye. I always forget ye humans get so startled.”
Ye humans? She must be the castle worker and had probably gotten a bit too into her role or something.
“I’m probably not supposed to be here,” Rogene said.
“’Tis all right,” the woman said. “I dinna mind. My name is Sìneag, by the way. And ye are?”
“Rogene Wakeley.”
“Well, Rogene, ye found a fascinating stone.” Her eyes sparkled in the yellow semidarkness.
Rogene distantly wondered why a castle worker didn’t scold her for being in a prohibited area. Perhaps Sìneag was a bit more chill about the rules…and maybe this basement wasn’t as dangerous as it looked.
Sìneag lowered her hood, and Rogene marveled at her pretty pale face and beautiful red hair that cascaded in soft waves down her shoulders.
“’Tis a Pictish carving that opens a tunnel through time,” Sìneag said.
A tunnel through time? Rogene frowned.
“I’ve never heard of a time-travel myth,” she said. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, aye.” She nodded. “Very sure. The three waves are the river of time, and this line is the tunnel through it. A druid carved it.”
Rogene bent down and studied the lines and the curves. “Hm. It does look ancient. Picts, huh? So, between sixth and eighth centuries, probably.”
“Aye. That druid believed ye can fall through time and find the person ye’re truly destined to be with. The one person ye love. Do ye ken?”
Now Sìneag was clearly inventing things. Picts didn’t have written language, so they had no way of leaving such messages. The only tiny accounts of them came from the Romans and Christian monks, who wrote chronicles that were concerned with battles and wars. Not myths of romantic love.
“One romantic druid, huh?” she mumbled, not wanting to confront the woman.
“Aye. He was. This stone has always caused curiosity. When clan Mackenzie owned the castle in the fourteenth century, a certain Angus Mackenzie wondered what this carving could mean.”
Rogene glanced sharply at Sìneag. “Angus Mackenzie?”
“Aye.”
“The one who married Euphemia of Ross?”
“The very same.”
“Their marriage produced Paul Mackenzie, who famously saved the life of King Robert III. Did Angus Mackenzie have something to do with this rock? Did he leave some information about this myth?”
Sìneag laughed. “Nae he didna. But he is the man for ye.”
Rogene stared at her in disbelief. Then gave out a loud laugh. “For me?”
“Aye, dearie. Look.” She looked down at the rock and Rogene followed her gaze.
The carved lines glowed.
Rogene shook her head, not believing her eyes. The three lines of the river glowed blue, and the straight line through it glowed brown. Blinking, she sank to her knees by the rock and looked at it from different angles. What could glow like that? Puzzled, she ran her finger along the blue line, and a buzz went through her. Her heart accelerated. What the hell was that?
She looked at the handprint and had an inexplicable urge to put her own palm into it. Had the Kings of Dál Riata had a similar impulse to step into the footprint? Something called to her, and she just had to press her hand against this rock.
As though, if she did, everything would be all right in the world.
Blood pulsing in her hand, she pressed her palm into the print.
A shiver went through her. The sensation of being sucked in and swallowed consumed her. She felt as if she were falling into emptiness, hand, then head down, as nausea rose in her throat. She screamed, terror washing through her in a cold, paralyzing rush.
And then she became darkness.
