walking in your sleep.”
He hurried a few steps ahead of her, then turned to walk backwards in front, keeping a steady pace.
Though her eyes were open, she did not see him. There was a strange barrenness in those bottomless pupils. It was as if she were not even present in her body. He waved a hand in front of her face. She showed no awareness of him.
Curious as to where they were heading, he followed until she began to run. He stopped for a moment and spotted the striking silhouette of a single standing stone at the crest of a hill, with the full moon behind it.
Raonaid ran faster, as if drawn to it by some invisible force. When she reached it, she fell to her knees and sat back on her heels.
Lachlan was out of breath when he caught up. He bent forward and rested his hands on his knees, watching her. He glanced at the stone, then sat down in the grass beside it.
Raonaid stared blankly at the standing stone for a full hour. Soon it became increasingly difficult for Lachlan to keep his eyes open. He wanted to sleep, his lids felt heavy, but he could not rest. Not yet.
At last, she reached out and touched the rough gray ridges of the rock, running her fingertips lightly across the surface, picking at the grooves with her thumbnail.
Sitting forward, Lachlan studied her vacant eyes more closely, then turned to the stone. Was she trying to spell a word?
She began to slap her open palm against it, as if it were a locked door and she needed to escape through it, but no one would come and open it. She smacked it hard with all her might, over and over, then sat back on her heels again and stared at it, frozen in silence like a statue, for another hour.
Lachlan did not wake her.
When the first light of dawn brightened the sky, she gathered her skirts and stood up, then made her way back to the camp. Without uttering a word, he walked beside her and stood over her as she climbed back into her bedroll and calmly went back to sleep.
* * *
Catherine woke to the smell of salt pork sizzling in a frying pan.
Groggily she sat up, and within seconds became aware of a terrible stinging sensation on the palm of her hand. She held it up in front of her face and frowned when she noticed that it was chafed and red. “Did I burn myself?”
Lachlan set the frying pan down on a rock. Without answering right away, he picked up the coffeepot and poured her a cup, walked around the fire, and handed it to her.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, squinting up at him in the bright morning sunshine. She tossed the blanket aside and accepted the hot coffee, careful not to wrap her sore hand around it. “Now you’re scaring me.”
“Well, you deserve it, lass. You gave me a bit of a scare last night.”
“How?”
He returned to the other side of the fire, but remained standing. “Do you not remember anything?”
She looked down at the coffee and searched her memory, which was usually a futile exercise. This morning, unfortunately, was no different.
“No,” she replied, “but I hope you will be able to tell me something. I cannot cope with any more mysteries about my actions or whereabouts.”
He poured a cup of coffee for himself. “You walked in your sleep. I couldn’t wake you, so I just followed you.”
A slow surge of apprehension made its way through all her nerve endings. “What did I do?”
“You walked to a standing stone on that hill”—he pointed—“and sat in front of it, staring at it for most of the night. You scratched at it with your fingers and smacked it with your whole hand, which is why you’re sore this morning.”
She stared up at him in disbelief. “That is very disturbing.” Her stomach began to roll with nausea. “To think that I was out there, wandering around in the dark, pounding on a stone…”
He grimly shook his head. “You weren’t just wandering. You knew exactly where you were going. You were drawn to that stone.”
Catherine frowned. “But how?
He hurried a few steps ahead of her, then turned to walk backwards in front, keeping a steady pace.
Though her eyes were open, she did not see him. There was a strange barrenness in those bottomless pupils. It was as if she were not even present in her body. He waved a hand in front of her face. She showed no awareness of him.
Curious as to where they were heading, he followed until she began to run. He stopped for a moment and spotted the striking silhouette of a single standing stone at the crest of a hill, with the full moon behind it.
Raonaid ran faster, as if drawn to it by some invisible force. When she reached it, she fell to her knees and sat back on her heels.
Lachlan was out of breath when he caught up. He bent forward and rested his hands on his knees, watching her. He glanced at the stone, then sat down in the grass beside it.
Raonaid stared blankly at the standing stone for a full hour. Soon it became increasingly difficult for Lachlan to keep his eyes open. He wanted to sleep, his lids felt heavy, but he could not rest. Not yet.
At last, she reached out and touched the rough gray ridges of the rock, running her fingertips lightly across the surface, picking at the grooves with her thumbnail.
Sitting forward, Lachlan studied her vacant eyes more closely, then turned to the stone. Was she trying to spell a word?
She began to slap her open palm against it, as if it were a locked door and she needed to escape through it, but no one would come and open it. She smacked it hard with all her might, over and over, then sat back on her heels again and stared at it, frozen in silence like a statue, for another hour.
Lachlan did not wake her.
When the first light of dawn brightened the sky, she gathered her skirts and stood up, then made her way back to the camp. Without uttering a word, he walked beside her and stood over her as she climbed back into her bedroll and calmly went back to sleep.
* * *
Catherine woke to the smell of salt pork sizzling in a frying pan.
Groggily she sat up, and within seconds became aware of a terrible stinging sensation on the palm of her hand. She held it up in front of her face and frowned when she noticed that it was chafed and red. “Did I burn myself?”
Lachlan set the frying pan down on a rock. Without answering right away, he picked up the coffeepot and poured her a cup, walked around the fire, and handed it to her.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, squinting up at him in the bright morning sunshine. She tossed the blanket aside and accepted the hot coffee, careful not to wrap her sore hand around it. “Now you’re scaring me.”
“Well, you deserve it, lass. You gave me a bit of a scare last night.”
“How?”
He returned to the other side of the fire, but remained standing. “Do you not remember anything?”
She looked down at the coffee and searched her memory, which was usually a futile exercise. This morning, unfortunately, was no different.
“No,” she replied, “but I hope you will be able to tell me something. I cannot cope with any more mysteries about my actions or whereabouts.”
He poured a cup of coffee for himself. “You walked in your sleep. I couldn’t wake you, so I just followed you.”
A slow surge of apprehension made its way through all her nerve endings. “What did I do?”
“You walked to a standing stone on that hill”—he pointed—“and sat in front of it, staring at it for most of the night. You scratched at it with your fingers and smacked it with your whole hand, which is why you’re sore this morning.”
She stared up at him in disbelief. “That is very disturbing.” Her stomach began to roll with nausea. “To think that I was out there, wandering around in the dark, pounding on a stone…”
He grimly shook his head. “You weren’t just wandering. You knew exactly where you were going. You were drawn to that stone.”
Catherine frowned. “But how?
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