Highland Portrait (7 page)

Had Robbie brought her here – and where was
here
?  She was in a small clearing, about thirty feet across completely surrounded by grey standing stones, irregular in shape and height, looking like ancient sentinels of closely guarded secrets. She couldn’t remember any random monolith circles of large standing stones dotting the Hill Country landscape, and that was another reason to believe this place, wherever it was, was definitely not Texas. She knew immediately that these stones were significant and had something to do with her arrival. So, if this was the magic spot then where was Robbie? Had she passed through a portal or had Robbie passed through and come to her?  Stella was a creative person by nature, giving birth to masterpieces of illusion and fantasy, but her thinking was based on logic and there was no logic to this predicament.  Reason and rationality seemed to be in short supply here and that made her nervous.             

Gingerly she got up, wiping her hands on her jeans and picked up her Stetson, slapping it on her thighs to rid it of dirt and leaves.  She placed it on her head, the brim back from her forehead allowing an unobstructed view of her new environment. 

Robbie had made it very clear that he would be coming to ‘get her’, giving her a time and professing all kinds of emotional attachments and now that she was lost god knows where, possibly in danger, where the hell was he? She felt like she’d been invited to the dance and her date did not show up or even call to let her know he wouldn’t be there.  She could not feel his presence, and she wasn’t sure if she should feel fear or anger at the man for dumping her in some place she didn’t belong and not being there to help her out.  Was she dreaming this?

If Robbie
had
come for her would he have brought her back to his time?  Stella believed in magic because she was often the recipient of magical items, but believing in time travel was different. Or was it?  Was time travel magic?  It just didn’t seem possible and if it
was
possible the one place she would never have chosen to travel was the United Kingdom in the 1600’s.  If this was the 1600’s and if anybody were to find her here in jeans, with a backpack full of 21
st
century items she would surely be branded a witch, or a whore or something else god-awful and that would be the end of her.  She’d be barbequed before she had a chance to find her way back to Texas. The population had been a superstitious lot and she had no desire to be the object of their fears.

She slowly took in her surroundings letting her senses post information.  She noted the intensity of the sky.  Only air with no haze, no smog or pollution particulates could ever be that clear or blue.  She could see that beyond the stones, the landscape was rolling hills green with foliage and sweet grasses, scattered trees and a lot of rock. 

She was startled at the silence.  There was no noise pollution, no background drone of highway traffic, no low humming of electrical wires, no manmade sounds of any sort and the absence of that noise felt oddly liberating, imparting a sense of physical well being.  As she attuned herself to her surroundings she gradually picked up the beautiful sound of water moving over rocks and the chirping of birds. She couldn’t remember ever hearing birds so clearly, their songs like conversation, sounding alarms about her disturbing appearance.  Were she able she would gladly accommodate them and leave as soon as she could, but she had no earthly idea which way to turn, or if she should stay there and wait for a ghost to show up.   

She stood a moment and listened to the water.  She had never actually listened to water before but she could hear it, noting its musical quality.  Sure, she had been to the beach many times hearing waves crashing and the tides moving, and the memory of hurricanes would always be with her as a testament to the power and glory of moving water, but this sound was different.  It was delicate and lyrical, nature’s sweet laughter.  She now understood the phrase ‘babbling brook’.

She took a deep breath and smelled her environment.  Pine and heather.  And dirt, she could actually smell the dirt.  Close to her foot she noticed a small plant that looked like heather, but was white, not pinkish lavender, so this must be a different variety.  Or maybe it wasn’t heather.  Whatever it was, it was pretty and Stella liked pretty flowers of any sort so she picked a sprig of it and inhaled.  It smelled like heather so she tucked it in her hat band thinking she would press it when she got home.

She continued her survey noting the stones, the plants, the ground, the air. Wherever this place was it did not yet breathe poisons, but was clean and filled with sweetness. Trees stood tall and strong, thick branches reaching toward the sun, the ground covered in the rich compost of ages past.

She walked toward the sound of the brook she thought to be right past the standing stones, but she stopped at the edge of the circle, unsure whether she should go beyond it.  If she went past the circle, would that break the spell and send her home or would it release some other magic that was worse than being lost, all alone with no notion of where she was?

Or would walking past the stones commit her to staying here, trapped forever in a place that could yet reveal itself to be hostile, although so far it had manifested no danger but only pleasant stirrings to her senses. Would stepping past the stones put her in a time and place that she did not want to be?  Was that Scotland past those stones, and more importantly, was it Scotland in the 1600’s?

She knew the stones held the key and she had to figure out what, exactly, she was to do.  Cautiously she approached the largest stone, and taking a deep breath hesitantly reached out her hand, palm up and lightly grazed the rock.

Nothing.

She looked around and all was the same, no swirling mirages of magic, no loud noises that sounded like tornados or pipes, just the continued sweet chirping of birds.  She firmly pressed her hand into the rock, but still nothing happened, as if the magic of bringing her here had sapped them of strength and now the stones were naught but stones, their use dormant until she could find the key to bring them to life again.  That being the case she felt that her only option at this point was to go beyond the stones, to leave the safety of the circle, find Robbie and demand that he send her back to where she came from.

She turned and spoke to the middle of the stone circle, “Robbie?  Robbie, are you here?  Casper?”  Her only answer was the protest of birds disturbed by her presence. She thought, again, about the mysteries of her work and how adventure, knowledge and growth only came to those that jumped.

“What the hell,” she said to herself, “let’s do it.”  She stepped past the stones, hoping to feel some kind of magical electrical current as she passed them, but again there was nothing.               She walked toward the brook hoping to slack her thirst, or maybe find Casper there waiting for her, but alas, as she approached there was no one. She kneeled at the edge of the water and scooped fresh, cold water into her mouth, drinking deeply.  The small brook ran with water transparent in its purity, undefiled by the hand of man’s industry.

“Wow, they need to bottle this stuff.” she murmured to herself. 

She got up from the edge of the brook and turned around to try to determine her next move and was struck senseless to discover that the monolith stones were now gone.  She stared at the place she had stood but moments ago and even though it was just as lovely as before, the stones were now missing.  Gone.

Stella shook her head and braced herself.  She knew that any kind of normal life seemed improbable from this moment forward.  If she had any hope that the stones would be the portal home then that was just dashed to pieces. She held fast to her thin thread of bravery and walked back to where she had awakened. The small white heather plant beckoned her and she sat on the ground picking sprigs of the unusual white flower and tucking them into her hat band, contemplating her next step until her hat was completely circled in white heather.

She looked up at the sky and determined that it was somewhere close to noon, maybe eleven thirty or so.  She’d gotten home from riding about eight in the evening so she was missing some time.  Or was she?  Maybe it was only moments ago that she fell in the studio.  She wasn’t sure about anything just now, but she knew she had to make a plan about getting out of here, especially if she was where she thought she was – Scotland in the 1600’s.

“Damn that Robbie!  Damn him to hell,” she said out loud, hoping that if he were skulking around his ghost would hear exactly what she thought of him.  When and if she ever found him she intended to give him a good dressing down, a well deserved verbal ass kicking for his rudeness and presumption for leaving her all alone like this.

She remembered what Barbara had said, Robbie was last known to be at Kilmartin and that was somewhere In the Highlands.  Were these the Highlands or were the Highlands the peaks she saw in the distance?  She noted the shadows and remembering what her father had taught her about orienteering she determined that the peaks were northwest, which would make them the Highlands. Okay, she had a direction and a goal.  Now she needed transportation.

She opened up her backpack and took out her water bottle, filled it at the brook, returned it to her pack and after putting the pack back on headed north toward the peaks.  They looked to be several miles, maybe ten and that made for a long walk, so finding a horse would be a good idea, but she needed to avoid people.  Renaissance folks would probably not take to her in her present state of dress so she needed to be discreet, not to mention a woman traveling alone would be highly suspect so caution was of utmost importance.  Placing her flowered cowboy hat on her head she began her search for a horse.

After walking across rocky hills for what seemed like an eternity, but in actuality was probably only a mile or two she crested a hill and spying people down in a small vale darted behind a large tree to hide.  Edging slowly around the tree she allowed herself a keener glance noting that at the bottom of the hill was good fortune – or bad, depending on how clever she was.  A string of horses were tethered to trees and shrubs by a stream grazing. Close by she counted six or seven men in various stages of rest.  Some were eating, others leaning against trees napping, while others were repairing or cleaning riding equipment.  If she had any doubts about the time and place they were now dispelled as she gazed at 17
th
century soldiers. They wore odd looking balloony short pants with stockings and waist length skirted jackets with full sleeves.  They did not wear boots, but cloddish, heavy shoes and an odd triangle hat that seemed almost like American patriot hats, but not quite. They all sported trimmed beards and mustaches.  Considering the warm weather she felt they may have been a tad overdressed and were probably miserably hot and uncomfortable since everything they were wearing was most likely made of wool.  That had to itch.

There seemed to be a tension and wariness to the group as if they expected trouble of some sort, although they had picked a good place to camp, close to a source of water at the edge of a forested area where they could be partially hidden and protected from thieves.  Like herself.

A fast examination of the horses and Stella discovered an odd mixture of shaggy, sturdily built mountain ponies and sleek Arabians.  All of the mountain ponies appeared to be saddled and outfitted for riding, while the Arabians had no more than halters which brought her to the conclusion that they were delivering them to somebody. She didn’t think Arabians were quite suited to the climate or rocky terrain, but she wasn’t going to argue or over think this.  She was going to take one of those Arabians.  Not normally inclined to theft, particularly horse theft, she felt that her situation begged a non-traditional solution.  She reasoned that if she was back in time then those people and horses were really already dead since time travel, theoretically, was impossible, so nothing was really real and she was just taking something that didn’t exist anymore so that didn’t really count as stealing.  Stella closed her eyes and silently thanked Professor Prillaman for her one semester of logic.  She could do this and not feel guilty. 

She reconnoitered the Arabians and decided on the white mare.  She looked like her Arwen; proud bearing, with the tail turned high and the head arched in such a pretty, graceful way.  Actually, she looked a LOT like Arwen, completely white except for the dark grey muzzle and black mane.  Surely that odd coloration couldn’t have manifested itself twice.  That horse had to be Arwen and considering how she came upon Arwen she wasn’t going to discount anything, so she planned out her rustling activity. She could get down to the campsite if she circled wide across the hill and slipped into the woods east of the horses.  The white Arabian was on the farthest edge so she would be the easiest to cut loose.  The mare wore a halter and Stella had cord in her backpack so she could fashion some reins. She’d ridden bareback enough times that it would be comfortable for a couple of hours at least.  She’d have to find a saddle at some point but she wasn’t going to worry about the small details just yet.  First the horse.

Robbie had ridden all morning, his heart still heavy with thoughts of the young lad and his dead mother.  Miles from the destroyed croft now, he could still smell the burnt flesh and knew that it was upon him, lingering like a bad memory, hanging about his shoulders like a heavy shawl. He needed to wash himself of the smell and the vision and began to search for a likely place to bathe.  The weather was unseasonably warm and both his horse and hound would be well served to rest and drink.