Tag Archives: Paranormal Fantasy

Date Published: 12-01-2021

 

 

A genre-bending breakout novel from a bold, fresh voice in contemporary
fiction, think Highlander.

 

Debilitated in Afghanistan, Angus MacDonald struggles to find peace and
escape his nightmares. He visits Culloden Battlefield, Scotland, the
pitiless field where his ancestors were butchered and the MacDonald clan
lost its power. Ancient voices traumatize him and reveal a shocking
connection to his relatives who died there in 1746, where he now stands. The
voices compel him to fight again, but this time against an unworldly
enemy.

To protect humankind from slavery Angus must face the past, but more
troubling, his future while unraveling the mystery of his heritage. He
strives to discover millennia-old truths from Olympus, Greece, and the
violent history that produced them. The truth of who bred him to die saving
humanity. The most crucial battle of Angus’s story begins on the same
infamous field of his clan’s decimation, but worse, when he returns to
Washington, D.C., war follows.

 

Rob James’ WHEN GODS CLASH includes a fascinating take on Greek mythology
through vivid world-building. This novel is a searing, unique makeover of
loved themes.

 

 

EXCERPT

CHAPTER 1

 

Angus kicked at the sodden soil of Culloden Battlefield, navigating the tangles of heather and lush grasses. I can visualize them. The moor’s thistles scraping their bare legs beneath MacDonald plaids, furling as they charged. Afghanistan had been sand-seasoned rations and heatstroke in shades of tan and khaki. This green field delighted his senses under a leaden sky so moody it threatened to ruin the adventure. His father had told tales of the Highlanders’ heroic charge, but he saw recklessness. Tartans, snagged by briars, covering his ancestors’ bloodied chests as they lay dying.

Head raised and facing west, Angus closed his eyes and sucked a lungful of air dragged from the Highlands by the gusting wind. The MacDonald Clan had made their desperate fight for freedom here. They died upon this peaceful moor, which back then was hell’s gate. The thought of their heroism tempered his mood, forcing a frown.

They say battlefields hold souls; mine feels at home here. I wasn’t expecting that.

His father had called last evening and said he craved to join him, rather than working in Washington, D.C. Instead, it was Angus’s godfather, Tony, trudging along next to him, and Bruce—Tony’s best student, carrying the metal detector.

“Not quite as romantic as Dad told it,” Angus said. “I can’t believe those crazy Scots fought through all this crap.”

“Bloody stupid if you ask me,” Tony said. “Too far, and easy targets for the withering British cannon and musket fire. Come on, let’s get to it.”

“Bloody?” He chuckled. “What’s that, Brit talk? You’ve been working in the U.K. too long, me old chum,” Angus said, spruiking an English accent and ribbing his father’s closest friend. “I expect you’ll wanna retire for tea and scones soon? Time to come home to the States and remember how to speak proper English.”

A gust tore through their conversation as Tony snarled. Angus grinned. Touchdown! He harnessed the craving to score more points.

Bruce leaned in, smirking. “Get this! When he’s lecturing, he even wears a tweed jacket with elbow pads. For real, man—elbow pads! Went out with Noah’s Ark, didn’t they? Might find a few buried here…”

They laughed as Tony mumbled, face tight.

“If the detector beeps, how are we supposed to dig with these tiny trowels?” Angus asked.

“We don’t dig; we scratch, scrape away the surface and take our time.” The retort was swift, and Tony’s voice a touch firmer than usual. “Historic Environment Scotland wouldn’t thank me for bringing you here with spades. Or with bloody shovels, to stay on the British theme.”

Bruce set off, a spring in his step, sweeping with the detector and listening for signs. Tony fiddled with his GPS tracker and scribbled notes, while Angus’s military mind overlaid the maps he had studied onto the landscape before him.

Confident he stood near the position his clan fought, Angus faced the enemy line. The British waited over there, making them difficult to flank with the rock-strewn bordering fences. They would have ruled with their cannons and muskets, and Clan MacDonald attacked through here, right into the killing zone.

Wind slithered under his collar when he looked down. What if underfoot lie the bones of his great ancestors? Goosebumps, unrelated to the cold prickled his neck. This battlefield instilled shudders, brewing a foreboding sense.

Ping-Ping-Ping! Bruce spun to the others, smiling.

“Guys, I’ve found something!” Bruce steadied the detector over an innocuous patch of dirt, scanning left to right.

Tony pointed to the ground. “Why are you waiting?”

After a quarter-hour of scraping, a musket ball emerged from the soil.

“It’s English, larger than those used in Scottish muskets,” Tony said, turning it over in his palms, and brushing it clean.

Angus squinted, wandering four hundred yards to where Clan MacDonald assembled that miserable day, his eyes watering from the gusting wind over the bleak moor. Its wail carried the tone of mournful, distant pipes as it blustered along the ancient Highland paths. Rugged tracks wound where desperate Scottish clansmen had fled in terror, British troops pursuing, butchering them.

Through epitaphs chiseled in stone, it swirled, angry, imbued with sadness, and desolate. So many clans. Their spirits were captured and blown to places unknown, scattered from bodies caught up in the endless, merciless bloody battle. The tears stung.

The sky was darker as Angus returned an hour later.

“What’s the news, Bruce? Found any rusted swords or stuff?”

“Nah, damn it. Three more musket balls and a buckle pin.”

With a scratch of his chin, Tony looked around, then down to his notes.

“I’m confident the MacDonald charge ended within this circle. Come see,” Tony said, tracing his finger over a notebook sketch.

An uncertain grin broke as Angus joined the walk. The site of his clan’s destruction was only a few yards away, and his father’s stories of valor were now less idealized.

This was no place of glory. Tartans, bagpipes, and colorful Highlanders filling a tale of heroes and the immortal charge. No! Death lurked here—and its memory still reeks.

Three steps in, his left foot snagged.

“Whooo—”

Angus pitched forward, arms flailing. He fought to step, to regain his footing, but the damned boot held fast. Were they bogged? Nope, the mud was no higher than the soles. A weird blue mist snaked around his ankles as shackles chaining him to the slush. Sweat beads scurried down his furrowed brow, stinging as they ran into the corner of an eye. He winced, rubbing with a finger while listening out for the others. Their voices were distant, distorted, faded into the blue mist and smoke.

Queasiness overcame, and his eyes closed as the world set off spinning as stars darted, sparkling across his eyelids. He swayed to the barrage of pounding cannons, and a single breath drew in the caustic scent of gunpowder and fear. The ground shuddered as groups of Highlanders massed around him, screams ripped from warriors in a fury, like nothing he had heard.

Here, on these red-soaked fields, they fought the battle close up, often hand to hand. Each warrior glared into the irises of he who may kill him, unlike in Afghanistan where bullets fired from a distance. Angus’s mind flashed back to the horror that almost killed him. Over there in the dust pit, the constant stress of waiting for the inevitable attack drained the strongest. Crazy Dave, relentless, singing to drown out the noise, and Johnson spitting while Angus stared through the Humvee windows. Eyes wide, scanning for signs of disturbed soil by the roadside—for a color change that betrayed the upturned earth where an IED may lie waiting for blood.

A voice roared across the moor, drawing his thoughts back.

“Forward, Stuart! Take it to the bastards!” the commander in the red tartan of Clan Macdonald yelled, pointing with his broadsword.

“My Lord, they are too many, use it! We must use it now!” A young man, familiar somehow, pointed to a silver box hanging from a chain around the commander’s neck.

“No, Stuart!” The Lord tucked it beneath his tunic. “It’s the devil’s tool, and I won’t release his evil.”

“But Father—”

“Enough!” the Lord yelled, panting as he charged forward. “Will you lead, or must I find another to crush these English dogs? Forward, I say!”

Angus? Angus!

Familiar faint cries snapped him back to the present, an array of black dots dominating his swimming vision. He cast around for something real to brace against. An object to feel, to set him in the now. A thistle at his feet—he hoped it was from his Culloden, not the one he had just been a part of. If it pricked, would he wake up, much like pinching himself after a bad dream?

Angus!

Shivers tingled his spine. “Toooony,” he managed, leaning toward a familiar-shaped outline, rubbing his head to massage the warring clans from his brain.

More calls from Tony and Bruce pierced the din of combat. A moan, cloudiness. He tottered.

“Tony!” He reached out as his lanky, six-feet-three-inch frame tumbled, the side of his head thumping down on the frigid, matted grass. A gray beetle scurried across his sleeve above the Marine Corps insignia tattoo pride gifted him to wear. He flicked a finger along his sleeve, above the scar underneath. It tingled, even though it was a battle prize earned nine months prior.

Disorientated, he lay shivering, engulfed by a conflict from centuries past raging in his mind. A sharp pain assaulted his cheek as if a fresh strike. He gawked up at Tony’s creased brow.

“Easy with the slaps!”

“What happened, Angus?” Tony said, frowning. “It was awful seeing you twitch.”

He scanned around, refocusing on the present as Tony eased him into a sitting position.

“I just need a minute. Don’t—don’t worry.”

He wafted an arm, signaling Tony for distance. Too much fuss when disoriented wouldn’t help.

“Stay there, and take your time,” Tony said.

The scenes delivered to Angus as he sat on the grass didn’t change, no matter how he struggled to discard them as dreams—nightmares even. They were vivid, and he was there amongst the sounds, the smells, and the sights. The iron in blood running through these heathered fields assailed his nostrils, so potent he fought to contain vomit. And the screams and cries still filled his ears. He sought to play it down, placing a palm flat over each ear, then scratching his scalp as if to free demons from his hair.

“Unreal. MacDonald Highlanders charged right through here.” Angus’s usual drawl vanished as his voice quickened. “I watched them, poor bastards!”

“We’re on Culloden Battlefield, so that’s reasonable, but let’s leave it here,” Tony said.

“Pig’s ass. No piddling dream or dizziness compares with the stench of death in Afghanistan. I’m a U.S. Marine lieutenant for Christ’s sake. In my prime at twenty-six.”

“You were in your prime,” Tony said, grasping Angus’s elbow, “but not since the events of Kandahar and your injuries. Come on, let’s go! We’ll return in the morning if things are fine.”

Tony tugged at Angus’s sleeve as the wind stiffened and a wispy rain floated, further sinking his spirits. What have I just seen, been a part of?

He relented and slunk along after Bruce, who hurried toward the parking lot.

“Young Lord.” A voice came from behind.

Angus twisted, pointing. Nothing. Only Tony, who prodded his back to keep walking.

“What did you call me?”

“It wasn’t me.” Irritation etched Tony’s face. “Come on, please.”

Bruce neared the van. He called over his shoulder, signaling them to hurry, pointing upward. Angus waved him off, dismissing the probable drenching.

“Young Lord!” The voice came, again. This time more urgent. He spun, fists clenched, glaring at the spot where the moor had earlier trapped his boots, where he’d…

“Angus? You okay, pal?” Tony asked, and grabbed his arm.

“Young Lord MacDonald, here!” The Voice.

His eyes darted, then he whirled to face Tony, and shook his head when he saw him gazing back, unquestioning.

“You can’t hear that?” His brow furrowed.

Tony shook his head, knitted his brows, and eyed Angus with a concerned expression.

“It’s just the wind. Come on, let’s drink hot coffee.”

He reached out a hand to Angus, who withdrew. The field of Culloden was silent. He sneered, believing a practical joke in play. Still, he beat at his ears as if clapping the noises from his eardrums. Tony stared.

“What did you hear? It’s the damn wind.”

“No! Not the wind. A voice! A voice.” Angus scanned the flat field. “It called me, ‘young Lord MacDonald.’”

“I don’t care if it calls you the Lord Almighty; we’re not staying here. When you tumbled, you frightened the hell out of us. Enough already! It’ll be dark soon, rains coming, and we must get off this moor.”

He tried to hustle Angus forward, but his godson didn’t budge.

“Something’s happening out here, Tony. You might not believe me, but it is. Look, I’ll stay.”

“What do you mean by happening? You’re not making any sense, kiddo.”

“Yes. How can I explain it?” Angus drew in a deep breath. “After I fell, it was so distinct. My clan, Tony, a third wearing MacDonald of Keppoch tartans and brandishing damn huge broadswords. They charged into the English muskets, back where we stood earlier. A young guy, Stuart, led them. An older man called his name. And I was there.”

“British muskets, Angus.” Tony, the historian corrected before Tony the godfather added, “Sorry, a force of habit.”

Angus sneered at his godfather’s off-hand remark.

“Well, to the Scots, they’re English bastards.” A slight smirk breached Tony’s serious facade.

On cue, a flash of lightning lit the blackening moor. Thunder bellowed, but Angus didn’t care. His disorientation had burned off, leaving behind the ash of smoldering questions.

“What does it mean, Tony? Why these images, these voices? Lord MacDonald, I assume it was him, screamed orders to the clan and his son, Stuart. I saw them through the smoke of the guns, heard the words above the cannon fire! Why?”

“I… well… let’s just go, okay? We’ll discuss it later.” Tony stressed at him like he was a skittish horse, likely to bolt. “We can find a good Scottish pub, with a roaring fire, dry out your…”

But he didn’t get far.

“And now, voices!” Angus’s mind was running away with him. His brow furrowed, and on and on he talked. “Look, if I get disorientated, just roll with it unless I froth from the mouth or pull some other crap.”

Tony raised a finger, but Angus scowled. He was not for stopping. Not yet.

“Goddamnit! We came here for history! So, let’s take it! We can’t just pretend it’s all normal, cos’ it’s not, Tony, and this is our chance to… Let’s search that spot where my boots got stuck, where I toppled.”

The two stood facing off, as if ready for battle themselves. Meanwhile, young Bruce strode the backdrop, swinging the detector near the van, oblivious, as if nothing occurred.

“Angus!” Tony’s voice came loud and clear. “Now listen. We’re on this moor and far from help if you collapse again. Don’t forget I’m your godfather and have at least an element of duty of care toward you.”

Shoulders slumped, and Angus gazed at him. He loved this guy and had since he was a kid and old enough to trust.

“Can’t you understand that I must learn what it means? Why it’s happening…”

“It’s happening because you had a collapse, a funny turn, your brain was… Oh, I’m not a psychologist or a doctor.”

“For Christ’s sake!”

“Right. Well, whatever, Angus. You passed out and we don’t need that again. Get going!”

Tony shoved Angus, hoping to move him toward the van. He stood firm.

“Stuart pleaded with his father to use the power within a silver box. The Lord refused, saying the gift from the devil was evil, and they’d crush the English with their mettle. No way my brain could create such bullshit. It’s so explicit—I was there. And everything, their language was so right. Why would I imagine a silver box?”

Why isn’t Tony listening?

“Hmm. Okay, well, you’ll relax back in the hotel.”

Once again, Tony jerked at Angus’s jacket. This time he moved toward their van.

“And then there’s Stuart; he struggled as well! Right there, near where I bogged,” he said, turning to point. “You tell me how I’d know this stuff, how I’d picture the battle and the words, the emotions? And the silver box?”

A loud sigh emanated from Tony. His face scrunched.

“You’re repeating yourself, and we’re not sticking around to get soaked or to watch you have another fit. Now get your ass in the van.”

He raised his chin to Tony, eyeing him with stubborn resolve, but his feet slithered when Tony shoved again, then he relented, shuffling toward the vehicle and cursing a stream of expletives under his breath. The rain poured as they reached the lot, huge droplets spattering on the paintwork, torrential. The only one still looking tidy, Bruce, had stopped waving the detector near the parking lot’s edge and rushed to the van. He sat in the rear, earbuds in, fiddling with his iPhone.

Pebbles crackled beneath the van’s tires. They drove from the parking lot, windshield wipers screeching, flashing side to side as the essence of the storm broke with a vengeance. Angus scowled at Tony, and then Tony scowled at the road. Bruce still fidgeted with his phone, taking little breaths, looking like he wanted to speak, but didn’t. It remained quiet for three long miles.

Outside, inky blackness, except for the giant cracks of lightning that burst forth to illuminate the van’s cabin, sudden flashes cast a glow on irritated faces.

“Spit it out, will ya!” Angus said, snapping, as Bruce stifled another thought. He regretted it straight away. “Sorry, buddy. My emotions are screwed.”

Bruce held out his phone. An image on the screen bathed the cabin in light.

“Yeah, I’ve seen that portrait,” Angus said, squinting at the sudden brightness. Bruce swiped.

“Hmm, seen that, too. Swipe again.”

After swiping, Bruce stretched his fingers, enlarging the new image, then glared.

“What?!” Angus said, his emotions running riot.

He handed over his phone. The hairs on Angus’s neck stood. A group of men, standing proud, dressed fine as nobles in clan plaids: McIntosh, Cameron, Fraser. One, a younger man in a MacDonald tartan, familiar. Angus’s eyes and his met across the centuries.

“Where’d you find this?” Angus asked.

“The professor said you’re related to Lord MacDonald, who died in that horror, so I searched all the neighboring clan records. That group image was in Cameron’s history. There are no Lords’ names, but comparisons were easy to find online.”

Clever. Angus hadn’t thought of that. He had restricted searches to his clan. A stretch of the screen further enlarged the image of the young man wearing the MacDonald of Keppoch tartan. Auburn hair and square jaw. A fine hero’s cleft. Bright blue eyes. He was tall, wide-shouldered, and looked like he could kill bare-handed.

“Shit! It’s me,” Angus said, peering at Bruce.

“Yeah, a spitting image and they painted it long before the battle. He looks just older than you.”

The old Lord MacDonald Angus had met on the moor had aged. His once handsome face lined and hardened by ordering men—friends—away to their deaths, but this image?

I know how that looks. It stares at me from the mirror every morning.

“What?” Tony asked, peeking over his shoulder from the driver’s seat.

“The face there. It’s the old Lord, but also Stuart from my battle vision, and then, me.”

“I’ll check it out back at the hotel.”

“Check all you want, Mr. Logical Professor. There’s no doubt like you have with my stories from the moor. I tell ya! The old Lord when he was younger, his son, Stuart, and me, we look the same!”

 

CHAPTER 2

 

Guests huddled around the log fire inside the atrium of the Inverness Hotel. Tony smiled as he waited at reception. Angus’s good-natured ribbing, calling the parking lot a ‘caaah paaark,’ had lightened his spirits. With it, the tension between them evaporated.

“The receptionist told me our rental car is ready. After Culloden tomorrow, if you’re okay, Bruce will drive the van to the university in Edinburgh. How are you doing now?”

“Huh?”

The cell phone’s images had engrossed Angus and Bruce the second they escaped the rain.

“I said, tomorrow, Bruce will drive the van to the uni’ in Edinburgh. How are you doing now?”

“I’m okay, I guess,” Angus said. “Need a shower and hot dinner.”

In the elevator, Tony glanced as Angus’s focus didn’t leave the phone’s image. Frowns, head shaking, and all the signs of a conflicted soul signaled worries, but Tony let him be and they headed to their suite. After showering, Tony dressed and walked into the suite’s living room. There, he found Angus pacing and muttering.

“Are you talking to yourself or replying to the voices?” Tony asked.

“Just to myself, now.”

“So, voices even spoke after the battlefield?”

“Yeah. The Culloden parking lot, and in the van.”

“You didn’t say.” Tony sat on the sofa, hoping Angus would follow suit, but only a shrug in reply. Tony was hamstrung, he couldn’t hear the voices and was unable to offer worthwhile opinions.

“Wasn’t sure you’d believe me,” Angus said. “I mean, who would? Anyway, you weren’t interested earlier.”

“Sorry. I want to trust you. But I only respect the evidence of what I see and hear; it’s the academic in me. Actual hard facts.”

“You’re a history professor. No offense, but you know nothing based on what you’ve experienced. You rely on sources who did. Or who says they did. My visions today I’d have no clue how to make up. And I’ll wager your books never reported the battle as my eyes saw it.”

Tony had readied a by-heart speech about the reliability of eyewitness testimony and how life experiences affected and skewed it, but Angus stopped him with a raised hand.

“You guess my tours of Kandahar broke me, and I’m not seeing straight. Maybe you wonder if I forgot my meds. Well, fuck that. You’ve known me all my life, godfather. So, right now, you say it. Am I, Angus MacDonald, your best friend’s son, Marine veteran, and your friend, a reliable source?”

“Angus, it’s not that simple.”

“No debate, no bullshit. I’m not pissed, but I am serious. Tony, am I a reliable source?”

How will he respond to that? It must be quick. A delay now is fraught. Honest words. He sighed and hoped they were the way forward.

“Of course, you aren’t. Because of the horrors faced in your young life. What you’ve been through and suffered.”

Tony had stayed quiet for too long. Angus, the confident marine, had leaked away. The lost boy remained. A sad smile from Angus, and Tony couldn’t swallow past the lump in his throat. He wondered what Angus’s father, Connor, his dearest friend, would say if he saw this. It seemed to be madness.

“Wait, Angus. I’m sorry. I think too much, an occupational hazard. I couldn’t hope for a more reliable source.”

Tony’s gut and his conscience competing made him nauseous. He hoped Angus couldn’t detect the words’ lies. “Tell me everything, but I’ll ask questions. Remember, it’s what I do.”

Angus nodded and gripped Tony in an unexpected hug. The entire story spilled, and Tony didn’t interrupt, knowing the kid needed to get it out, true or false; he saw it chewing at Angus from the inside.

“So, the mist, the battle, the silver box,” Angus said. “What does it mean? Why do Stuart MacDonald and I look alike?”

Angus flushed, fidgeting.

Tony had listened, advised, and they had calmed. Godfather wrapped an arm around godson. Grins, contentment, the relationship back in its rightful place.

“Let me think while we grab a bite, okay?” said Tony.

Bruce waited in the foyer, and they entered the dining room together. Roast lamb followed by plum pudding and custard. Tony and Bruce tucked in while Angus prodded food around his plate, drumming the table between sips of whiskey.

“Assuming decent weather, what time do we head for the battlefield?” Angus asked.

“Nine, straight after breakfast, if you’re feeling okay,” Tony said.

“Right. I’ll read and have an early night. Catch ya, Bruce.”

He rose to leave.

“Wonderful idea. Check on you when I come up,” Tony said.

The moment Angus disappeared through the door, Bruce leaned forward.

“Professor, he served in Afghanistan. It’s a tough gig, right? Does he have, um, have PTSD, or whatever? Is he, ya know, okay up top?”

“He’s a decorated marine who suffered things we can’t imagine, and not only bullet wounds.” A blunt reply accompanying a frown. “The story’s not mine for telling.”

“Something weird happened today, though, didn’t it? He said crazy stuff, the blue mist grabbing his boots, and stuff. Battlefield trauma, memories, ancestry, a volatile mix in a damaged casing, isn’t it? I mean, it’d explain a wee bit of a reaction. Yes? Maybe you shouldn’t take him to battlefields, ya know what I’m saying?”

“He’s fine.” Tony lied again. “Don’t worry, he just needs a night’s sleep. I’m heading to the lounge for a nightcap.” A groan, stiff muscles as he stood and pushed his chair under the table.

“Night then, Bruce.”

“G’night, Professor. I’ll head out, see ya at midnight.”

The lounge, a world of beige. Beige carpets matched to beige walls, as though the room itself lacked ideas. Only the sofas dared offer more, but even they mustered only an uninspired floral design on a beige background. Tony headed for a two-seater with red cushions under the warming gilt floor lamp. If an original thought were possible, he decided the least beige corner was probable. With a gin gripped, he flopped, sinking into the sofa.

That blue misty stuff on the battlefield Angus saw…

He took a sip and another.

Thirty minutes later, relaxed, he wandered for a circuit of the foyer. After checking half a dozen shops, he entered one selling tourist memorabilia. An adorable boy doll dressed in tartan with a larger-than-life feather in its beret smiled up at him from a shelf. Its wide eyes and mischievous arch to the brows grabbed his attention. He purchased the cute figure before heading up to his suite.

An ear flat against Angus’s bedroom door; he heard nothing but music. In the kitchen, he flicked on the kettle’s switch, rubbed gritty eyes, and yawned. Nine o’clock; tiredness said much later. The hot chocolate finished him. The radio display read 22:37 when Tony waved the white flag and headed for bed. Late enough for Angus as well. Now, no music or lights. He sank into feathered depths, the duvet warming while he nuzzled into the pillow.

Then he lurched up, damn it, unsure if he had slept before the noise. Unaware if it was real. Moaning now. Poor kid. He sat and listened for five, seven minutes maybe, almost got up twice. Should he intervene? No. Yes. No. Yes. The sounds stopped. It was worse wondering if, when, they might restart.

Okay, think. He was a veteran; he had nightmares; it was normal, not normal, but common for him. Tony kicked off the sheets. Too warm. He couldn’t find a comfortable spot, and sleep avoided his search. His feet poked from the duvet, seeking the cooling night air.

Moans from Angus’s room startled him awake. The noises fluctuated before fading into a charged, expectant silence. He lay on edge, the sheets warm, though no longer welcoming. He wished hard for the morning, which would be slow in arriving.

“Stop! Just stop!”

Stressed and gasping, Tony jumped up and hurtled next door, testing the doorknob. It opened, and he fumbled for the light switch.

“I’m not the young Lord, not Stuart. Leave me alone!”

“It’s okay, Angus, it’s me, Tony. Tony. We’re in the Inverness Hotel. This is our suite. You, Bruce, and I are the only ones here.”

“Tony?” Angus turned to him with wild eyes. “Make them stop, please! Tell them… tell them I’m not Stuart.” Sweat flowing. “I’m not. Am I?”

Words failed Tony. He waited for Angus to calm, gazing at his tormented godson before Angus sprang up. Tony stiffened, agape, as Angus stared, wide-eyed, fearful, tormented.

“Stuart told his father to use the energy in a box to save Scotland.” Angus’s eyes were white, staring at nothing in particular. “The Lord pulled a chain from around his neck, and a silver box hung on the end, but he replaced it under his tunic. Behind the front flap, you know. In a pocket, I guess. But shit! A musket ball tore through his arm, another through his chest.”

His head dropped. Tony stared, dumbstruck, Angus’s face drawn, his story so vivid, the descriptions and detail. Doubts sprung into his logical mind, not Angus’s tale, but in his own beliefs. He sighed, half rose, then sat again, boggled by Angus’s ongoing narrative.

“Blood everywhere, killing him. I stood—no, Stuart, just stood there. He couldn’t believe his father was dead, but he stooped and took the silver box. The chain broke; he fumbled with its latch as the Highlanders fled.”

With a palm on his godson’s brow, he exhaled. No… no high temperature. He dampened a towel and returned to wipe Angus’s forehead.

Five minutes more of this and I’m calling a doctor.

At the first touch, Angus snapped his head to Tony.

“An English prick smashed his musket butt between Stuart’s shoulder blades. The bastard bayoneted him! He crashed forward, and the box jolted from his grip! Stuart screamed. His gaze shifted, and mine followed. We stared as Highlanders trampled the box into the mud. Stuart tried to crawl, reaching for it, but couldn’t make it. And I didn’t see him move after his head hit the ground. I’m sure he died.”

He sank, nestled on the pillow, shivering, stuttering a sigh as if the words lightened his anxiety. Tony kept dabbing his brow with the towel, hands shaking.

“You okay, Angus?”

He didn’t answer, but his breaths became regular, returning to normal.

“You sleep, we can talk again in the morning.”

Tony tucked the covers over his godson and pulled up a chair. He would sit, keep watch. While Angus drifted off, Tony sat rubbing his chin. It reduced to one thing: Lord MacDonald and his son believed a power associated with the silver box promised Scotland a victory at Culloden. His worrying helped nobody, nor aid him in understanding the hallucinations, visions, whatever. And he had seen no blue mist and struggled to trust Angus. What if his words were true, though? What was ‘history’ if not a set of tales regurgitated through generations? How accurate was any of it, and where was the proof he sought?

When Angus’s breathing deepened with sleep, Tony rose, careful the chair didn’t creak. He neared the door and switched off the light.

Angus cried out. “A deep voice. I don’t know whose, but Stuart heard it before he died. ‘Fear not, Stuart. We’ve planted a seed. The MacDonalds will rise again.’”

If that’s over, thank God. A sigh as Tony’s head bobbed.

 

* * *

 

When Angus settled, his breathing deep and unlabored, Tony returned to his room. The disturbing dramas of Angus’s visions gestated in his gut, but sleep found him. Not for long, though. A ringing phone jolted his rest.

“Oh, Professor Baker, it’s the night manager, Alex. I’m sorry to wake you, but we’re concerned. Your van left fifteen minutes ago, and the cameras showed you weren’t in the driver’s seat. We just wanted to check—”

What the…?

Nerves stretched from the shrill 4:00 A.M. ring, and with the earlier drama, Tony rubbed his eyes.

“Thank you, Alex. Could you please make up a flask of coffee, and provide a blanket as well. I will head out in my rental, ten minutes, so I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Christ. What’s he done now?

The thought pained him as he hurried and bolted into Angus’s room. The sheets lay scattered and rumpled. As expected, no sign of him. Unease rising, he raced, yanked on his clothes, and belted along the corridor to knock on Bruce’s door.

“Bruce! Bruce, hurry. Get dressed. Angus has left the hotel. We need to go find him.”

A scruffy Bruce scampered behind Tony, who didn’t wait for the elevator, jumping down steps two at once. They met Alex, collecting the blanket and coffee flask.

“Come on!” he said, Bruce lagging.

In the puddled parking lot, Tony, puffing, inserted the rental’s ignition key, and they raced off into the predawn darkness.

Eager to the point of panic, he screeched the tires on the lot’s smooth, painted surface. Too fast. Wet, a sharp bend, and the rear skidded. He sighed, slowed, and saw Bruce’s fingers gripping the upholstery, white-knuckled.

He suppressed his emotions and explained Angus’s dramas to Bruce. Their headlights swept the desolate moor while he maneuvered to park. Vision tested, searching into the darkness. Bleak and recent memories added a surreal sense of apprehension. This place of past anguish ruffled his calm. His normal, dour manner twisted to fear.

Did it look like a death trap to the petrified, gallant Highlanders? It was dark and wet the night before they charged as well. They were facing muskets; what I’m confronting is an unknown. Either my godson’s crazy, or spirits walk this field. Spirits? Goodness, listen to me.

“Shit, there’s our van! The doors are wide open.”

He stood staring over his shoulder at the miserable field.

“Professor!” Bruce said, snapping Tony’s mind off rampant worries.

“Grab the rubber boots, two flashlights, and… um…” Tony said.

“Yes. You carry the coffee and the blanket. I’ll bring the backpack, flashlights, and plastics.”

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

The air had chilled Angus when he shuffled on the cold floor to his hotel window. He stared toward Culloden, muttering, caught in that uncanny twilight between here and there, between present and past, between Angus and Stuart. Staccato, broken phrases nagged at his soul, and he craved a scream, a scratch to make his skin raw, anything to stop the pain. And then the voice… it whispered always. Never letting up.

Dressed in warm clothes, he had snatched Tony’s van keys from the living area as he left. The drive would be quiet, calming. He could get by on little sleep. Stuart would have. Men had done so for centuries past, in times of conflict and hardship. How much rest could he have enjoyed on the damp moss under brushes? Perhaps folded in his plaid, bitten by cold, and anguished by the first new dawn light, the battle day.

No cars traveled the road, and eerie, shining red eyes reflected. Foxes, deer, it didn’t matter, the undergrowth parting to allow their flight. The battlefield parking lot was a short twenty minutes.

Focused on the moor and voices, he pulled into the park. Emotions shattered, hurrying from his van. It was a struggle walking to where his feet snagged yesterday. Grasses and plants ensnared his legs, and he cussed from leaving the walkway too soon. Several times his boots stuck, but a firm tug freed them.

Voices were driving him onward, teeth gritted as the dampness and a fresh breeze caused shivers. He struggled as the small flashlight strained to project anything beneficial. Wet ferns soaked his trousers, but he smiled when he arrived; the voices chatted without stress, which was a respite.

Two water-filled footprints, embedded in the damp soil, stood out from yesterday’s trials. He kneeled, head pounding, and collapsed forward onto his outstretched hands, groaning. Crazy figures wearing tartans danced around to the beat of a kettledrum. He lay still, rigid, trying to sink into the bare earth until the pain and visions ceased.

Then, he took a small trowel from his pack and dug. The voices were silent. Head raised to check around, asking if those who spoke were pleased. Even with numb hands, the thick grass still pulled with ease, but not so the shrubs and roots that grabbed onto centuries gone, unwilling to lose them.

Soil loosened as he scraped. He grinned, gaining depth, but then a hitch. At six inches deep, water flowed back into his dig, bringing with it the dirt he had earlier removed. With no container, he bailed the sludge with stiffened fingers, and tiny scratches stung. Anguish: his head dropped as oozing dirt and water recouped half his dig’s depth.

 

* * *

 

Tony panted from sprinting one hundred and fifty yards in the heavy, sweaty rubber boots. A further hundred and he raised a hand; his legs ached, begging for mercy.

“Professor, you okay?” Bruce asked.

“We’ll walk and keep your flashlight low. We mustn’t scare him.”

A yell. Angus’s cry wailed across the moor. Tony’s legs strove not to buckle as, with little other than Angus’s weak torchlight as a guide, he squinted through the darkness. A form, low on its knees, dug and clawed at the ground.

“God. What do we do now?” Tony said, a whisper.

“We go get him.”

“It’s not so easy. Snap him from a trance and may God protect us if he reacts in surprise.”

Bruce stepped back, mumbling.

“Thought you said he didn’t have problems. I asked you at dinner last night.”

“I believed he was over it. This is new to me. Anyway, we have to act now, but he’s ex-Special Forces. My worry is he’ll overreact through stress and confusion; we won’t stand a chance if he assumes we’re a threat. Or even worse, an English threat.”

“He’s your godson; we need to get to him.”

The logic of Bruce’s remark surprised Tony.

“Let’s backtrack,” Bruce went on. “Walk along the path with our flashlights flickering toward him, talking as normal. He’ll hear us first, be aware of our presence, and I’ll stay several steps behind so he sees your familiar face.”

A smile lifted the corners of Tony’s mouth but a fraction. “Yes, that may work. It’s a safer option than diving in and grabbing him.”

Their steady pace on the walkway proved easy, and Tony’s recovered legs twitched, demanding to run. He forced them to amble until he and Bruce reached boggy puddles. They slowed, chatting as planned. The beam from their lights showed Angus twenty yards away, and Tony exhaled. His mood collapsed. Angus didn’t acknowledge their presence and kept digging. Thirty feet farther on, Tony paused. Angus’s hands bailed from a hole, unceasing.

Bruce gave Tony a push. The slight movement caught Angus’s eye, and he fixed his gaze straight at them, eyes flaring but resumed his task before slumping to the ground as if exhausted, or a spell broken by their presence, or who knew what else.

Tony ran, risks ignored, throwing the blanket over Angus’s soaked body, wrapping him tight. Bruce poured coffee into the flask cup lid and handed it down.

“I know you think I’ve lost it, Tony, the plot.” Angus’s voice was plaintive, whimpering. “I haven’t. The voices. They forced me to dig. There’s a silver box here, but I can’t find it.”

Tony’s eyes moistened, and his heart sank at the childlike behavior.

“It’s okay. Here, drink this for warmth.”

Bruce and Tony glared at an eighteen-inch-deep circular hole, three feet in diameter. Angus’s knee prints molded in the grass. The task was impossible, as muddy water gravitated back faster than he could bail. Tony sighed in despair. Angus rubbed at his dirty cheeks, sipping coffee as Bruce shone his light around. Hands wrapping around the cup warmed Angus while he blew on his fingers. With a forced smile, he lifted the empty mug and nodded.

“Come on, buddy. Let’s get you up.” An intentional calmness in Tony’s voice as he patted Angus’s shoulder. He must sound assertive yet reassuring, and firm.

The eyes peering up, piteous, a tear formed. Tony’s gut tightened, he reached, but Angus drew away.

“No! No, you don’t understand. The voice won’t let me.”

Quick, saddened thoughts provided no solutions as Tony shuffled, striving for a way forward. His sleeve was tugged by Bruce, who pointed to a spot two inches above the dig’s waterline. A reflection in his flashlight was exposed and metallic. Tony signaled for him to check it out.

Bruce poked wet dirt from beneath the glimpse of metal. Water trickled, and a lump plopped into the puddle. A second object followed; another slight splash. Eyes wide, Angus examined the dig. “I’ll find you!” He leaned over, plunged a hand into the frigid slush, and groped, mumbling.

“Who’s he talking to, Bruce?” Tony asked, checking the eerie moor, not a soul or a whisper except the wind.

Darkness covered the battlefield, but not as much as it clouded Tony’s soul. Neither his experience of teaching nor of handling people and their emotions provided a clue to this sorry charade. He couldn’t leave Angus or drag him away by force. He peeked through fingers covering his face and peered at Bruce. No voice of wisdom responded as Bruce stared, impotent.

Things changed, Tony agog in disbelief. Angus jumped up, hollered, lifted a shiny object. More mud fell, splattered on his forehead, dribbling down his cheeks. His smile gushed, lighting the night, and Tony gaped in bemused silence. Not knowing whether to grin or cry, he took a handkerchief from his pocket.

“I have it, Stuart! I have it, I have it.” Angus said, hollering.

His scream was monotonous, the same words over and over, and he was hugging the box to his chest. A wide grin and he lifted it again before clutching it back against his torso.

What the hell? The damn silver box is real? Tony, astonished.

“Is that Stuart from the battle, Professor?” Bruce asked, his bottom lip quivering. “The guy who died in Angus’s dream?”

“I’m crazy for saying this, but I suspect so, and now we know it wasn’t a dream. What other explanations? Check to see what caused the second splash.”

Angus stayed fixed on the spot, holding the box tight, facing Bruce, who swished his hand in the puddle. He lifted a mud-covered clump, handing it to Tony. Slush dripped through his fingers, while a hint of gold glistened. After cleaning it in the water, with Bruce directing the flashlight, Tony studied the object with a glass.

“You’re a lucky man, Angus. This is the MacDonald of Keppoch golden clan brooch. There’s a motto written below an etching. By land and by sea.”

They forgot the cold and night dampness, gripped by excitement. Still clutching the box, Angus offered a weak smile. He turned from the clan brooch and held the silver box high, then brought it to his lips.

Tony signaled to Bruce, and with their hands placed under Angus’s armpits, they lifted him clear of the hole. The walk to the parking lot was slow, a stumble even, but Angus didn’t resist. A permanent frown as Tony struggled with his emotions; his godson’s sorry, drenched appearance, and concentrated to get him off the moor.

The sparse parking lot lights lifted the darkness, and he sighed. Such a drama. I suspected him besotted, but no; he was correct all this time. A story is unfolding. Goodness me, what professor would accept this mystic bullshit, but…?

He opened the van, pushed Angus in, and sat down next to him before slamming the sliding door shut. After placing the equipment into the van’s rear, Bruce walked to the driver’s seat.

The engine fired, Angus jumped upright, a hand over his jacket pocket.

“The box!”

Stress returning, Tony instructed Bruce to drive while he studied Angus, whose arms crossed his chest, covering the pockets.

“Tony, feel here, in my pocket!” Angus said.

“So?” he said, after sensing nothing.

“Wait.”

In a flash, Tony snatched his hand away and recoiled. “What the blazes!”

“It vibrated at the dig site; now, it’s more powerful.”

“Crikey!” Tony said, his wide stare glued to the jacket pocket. “Bit disconcerting. Put it on the floor until we reach the hotel.”

“No way!” As they drew from the lot, Angus snarled.

Tony glimpsed his drooping eyelids. His day was enough to stretch any human’s resolve. He slept, an arm or hand covering his pockets.

The hotel was near, the time granted Tony space to reflect. The light of Inverness grew brighter, and his shoulders lowered as pressure released. The gentle lull of the van helped him to unwind. Angus sleeping was godsent. Tony’s head bobbed, jerking him awake. He tired from walking this tightrope of mysteries but was relieved to see Angus had not lost his faculties.

Bruce sensed his musings. “He’ll be okay, Professor.”

“I hope so, but I sense a tiring day.”

“What’ll we do?”

“He’ll sleep for hours. You and I must examine the relics and get to googling. Edinburgh University needs the van by lunchtime, so I’ll make a call. The hotel folk will go out to collect the rental.”

Not much detail, Tony deep in thought about the specifics of their coming investigation. Bruce stared.

“Okay, and reporting the finds?” he asked.

“Let’s not, for now, Bruce. We’ll research first, then prepare reports and hand them to the university.”

“The dreams and supernatural stuff, though?”

The question had been looming, and Tony sighed. “That isn’t for open discussion. The professors at the uni will no doubt laugh at us.”

“Yeah, stiff-necks,” Bruce said. “We have to act, though. We discovered relics, and not by chance.”

“Until we work on it, we don’t know, do we?” Tony said.

“Oh. Right. We know enough to be shit scared though, don’t we?”

 

About the Author

Rob James is a student of history and geopolitics and writing novels with
historical themes is his passion. Dramatic events and tales from history
help to create thrills and suspense. They also color flawed but compelling
protagonists.

Since childhood, stories of Rob Roy MacGregor, and the ancient Greek heroes
heightened Rob’s passion for reading. He knows them and the history of their
times intimately, lighting the richly layered backstory of his novels.

When referencing ancient characters, tradition can become repetitive so Rob
takes care to provide unique takes on the often-repeated tales. As his plots
are set in the present day, intertwining the old with the new demands
respect for the old, while giving them a modern punch; a lift to provide
relevance and resonate with readers.

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