I’m in deadline hell for a non-fiction I have to finish, so this week I give you an excerpt from Raven’s White Hart. This story has been sitting in submissions for a while so I’m not sure where it will go but it’s done - just have to find a publisher :)
(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)
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Culloden Moor
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson
One more deep breath while she drew her shields tightly to her, then she pushed open the glass doors and walked out onto Culloden Battlefield.
Once outside, she took a moment to look around – a small thatched cottage stood nearby and a walkway led off into the distance behind it. She walked past the cottage and to the gate beyond it, where a sign indicated the start of the battlefield walk.
Sorrow - overwhelming sadness overlaid with fear and pain. Each step brought a new barrage of emotions to her. She straightened her spine and tried to let the influx pass over and around her. She knew what they were – impressions of the past, echoes of the immense energy expended and extinguished in this place. Echoes of the dead.
Her hands clenched into fists so tight her nails bit into her palms. But she forced herself forward, following several other people through the gate and out onto the battlefield proper.
The people ahead of her chattered to each other, but it barely registered. Her entire concentration was focused on her chosen goal – the completion of a single circuit of the battlefield. Just once around at a fast walk and she could consider herself the victor and leave.
Step by trembling step, the moor long considered the site of the culmination and defeat of the Scottish civil war enveloped her. Her steps grew more unsteady by the second. Her shields wavered and strained, taking all her available energy to just remain intact, no matter how thin.
Anguish.
Pain.
Sorrow.
Sadness.
Hopelessness.
The enormous power of lingering emotions hit her with the force of a gale. Over a thousand people fought and died here and even their graves were later disregarded and mistreated. No peace existed for them. Every one of their voices cried out to her and clamored to be heard. Each voice demanded solace, begged for ease.
The distinctive smell of gunpowder grew with each step. The coppery tang of blood became an underlying odor, never fully masked. The voices grew louder and louder, now mixed with the sobs and wails of women.
In the farthest corner of the battlefield she finally buckled under the unceasing onslaught of the emotional barrage. In agony, she fell to her knees. In a move of desperation, she grasped a large purple thistle she could barely see. Maybe the physical pain of the thorns and the symbolism of the plant itself would somehow help her. She panted and struggled to retain her own identity, to keep her own feelings separate from those of the slaughtered Scotsmen.
Distantly, she felt someone come up behind her. She turned her head weakly and saw Kieran, the man from the weapons exhibit.
Green eyes looked into her own for a moment then he reached out and plucked her up from the ground. Seemingly without effort, he carried her quickly around the rest of the circular walkway and back toward the visitor center.
The instant he touched her, the voices of the dead faded back to a whisper. Tears filled her eyes at the incredible sense of relief.
Kieran held her closer and began to speak quietly to her. He spoke of his home and his family, nothing of importance really, but the sound of his voice permeated her. It was like having her father use his voice Talent to soothe her.
Calm began to seep back into her.
Somehow he managed to open the door back of the visitor center with her still in his arms, maneuvered her in and carried her back toward the office area. A nod toward the volunteers and he continued on into one of the offices then kicked the door shut behind him.
He set Aislynn gently down on one of the large guest chairs then took a bottle of water from the desk. Twisting the cap off, he handed the bottle to her, careful to steady her shaky grasp.
Suddenly aware of her terrible thirst, she drank down half the water in a few quick swallows. She opened her other hand and dropped the mangled thistle to the floor, hissing at the pain. Embarrassed by her own stubborn stupidity, she snuck a glance at the handsome man across from her.
He chuckled. “If I am not mistaken, you have some psychic talents, aye?” he asked in that compelling voice. “I could feel your discomfort during my talk but thought you’d only come to see my brother’s work. I had no idea you were so foolish as to walk around on Culloden Moor.”
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