LITMIR.BIZ

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is here to see my carving, Mother.’ Gartnait’s voice was as always strong, easy to hear. ‘Where is my sister?’

      ‘She is coming. She is bringing bannocks and ale for our guest.’

      Adam could imagine their consternation, wondering what would happen if he were still there, and then their relief when they realised that he had gone.

      He had to move. At any second the mist could disappear, shredded by a morning wind or sucked up by the sun as soon as it rose over the mountains. He saw a shadow appear and then vanish again: Gartnait, leading the horses to tether them to the tree they called the look-out pine.

      Cautiously Adam rose to his feet. He took a step away from the burn onto the fine grass which grew lush in the spray from the rocks. If he could reach the shelter of the trees he could disappear up the corrie and be gone before the day came.

      He took another step. Then he froze. A voice, strong, deep, sounded so close to him he thought the man was standing next to him.

      ‘The king still entertains the Christians at Craig Phádraig. He has commanded that we put up the cross throughout his kingdom to appease the Jesus God. He believes Columcille has power to defeat mine!’

      ‘Then surely, Uncle, he is very wrong.’ Gartnait’s voice came in snatches. There was a shift in the whiteness and for an instant Adam could see the two men standing before the cottage. He tried to wish himself invisible as he saw Broichan’s back turned towards him.

      ‘Indeed, he is wrong. I have raised storms to splinter trees at his feet, to sink his boat, to kill his horse.’ Broichan sucked his breath in through his teeth. ‘He calls on his own god to compete with mine and the king, to appease him in the name of hospitality, bids me stay my hand. So be it. For now. Once he is no longer beneath the king’s roof tree, I shall swat him like a fly.’ He smote his thigh with the flat of his hand and Adam jumped. The man had only to move a fraction of an inch and he would see him.

      A drift of mist strayed near them, barely more than a haze in the growing light. It was enough. Adam took two and then three swift steps towards the trees, holding his breath. There was a clump of whin near him. He reached it and crouched down in relief as the voices floated towards him again.

      ‘You must cut the cross on the reverse of the sacred stone, Gartnait. Show me your designs and I will choose. It will do no harm and it will please the king and his visitors. Later we will serve our gods and show that they are stronger when I split the mountains with the force of my anger! And little Brid here shall help me.’ He held out his hand to touch Brid’s cheek.

      From his hiding place Adam could see her now. He held his breath, his skin crawling as he saw the man’s hand linger on her face with long clawed fingers. She had one of the silver plates Gartnait had engraved for his mother and was offering their visitor something from it. He accepted and Adam saw him bring it to his mouth. For a moment he stood staring at the silent tableau in front of him, then the mist drifted back and he could see no more. Without hesitating, he sprinted silently for the trees, dived amongst them, and set off as fast as he could up the hill.

      The stone was touched with the first rays of the sun. Breathless as he reached it, Adam realised suddenly that he had left behind his knapsack with his precious books and binoculars. He cursed himself, but he knew it would have to wait. Brid would take care of them. Walking slowly round the stone he could feel the sunlight warm on his shoulders as for a moment he stopped to finger the intricate carvings. This was his stone. On one side were the strange symbols and figures of the ancient Picts, on the other the lattice and lace of the Celtic cross. Of Gartnait’s newly carved stone without the cross there was no trace.

      Brid had hidden the knapsack under the bed coverings as soon as she had spotted it. Calmly she had scanned the interior of the hut for tell-tale signs of Adam. If there were any her uncle would see them. He had sight beyond the sight of normal men. She was praying as hard as she could that Adam had gone; not just into the mist but from their land altogether.

      She knew her uncle was suspicious. He did not yet trust Gartnait and showed it by his constant visits. Gartnait was too young. The role of stone carver and keeper of the gate was a sacred one, a calling as special in its way as that of priest or bard. It was a family trust Gartnait had inherited from their father when he had died two years before. It went with the knowledge bred in the blood, of how to travel to the realms of the ever young if only one should dare. To go there was forbidden to all but the initiated, but sometimes people slipped without realising it through the gate – like Adam.

      She had known the first time she saw him that Adam came from beyond the stone. His strange clothes and speech set him apart. She had watched carefully to see how he travelled the road which was supposed to bring death to all but the very few who knew the way. That he was a proper man and not a spirit or a ghost she had proved to her own satisfaction. But he was young to be an initiate. He had fascinated her from the first moment she set eyes on him. And now she had made him hers. A secret smile touched her lips briefly and then disappeared. Whatever his power was, she was going to have it.

      ‘Brid!’ The impatient call from outside made her jump. With another hasty glance round she stepped outside into the mist to confront the steady gaze of her uncle.

      ‘You look frightened, child.’ He had caught her hand and pulled her to him. ‘There is no need.’ Putting his hand under her chin he tilted her head up so he could study her face. Meeting his eyes she looked away quickly, afraid that he could see the new woman-power which was still coursing through her veins, the power which had come from the touch of a man. She could feel his eyes probing her very soul, but after a moment he looked away from her face and turned to his sister. ‘She runs wild here, Gemma.’ He spoke sternly. ‘She should be at her studies. There is much for her to learn if she is to serve in the holy places.’ He ran his hand slowly, almost seductively, down Brid’s cheek.

      She took a step back out of his reach and straightened her shoulders. ‘I wish to follow the way of the word, Uncle.’ She looked at him steadily. Her fear had vanished, to be replaced by cool determination. ‘I have already learned much from Drust, the bard at Abernethy. He has agreed to teach me all he knows.’

      She saw her uncle’s face suffuse with blood and instantly regretted her brave speech. ‘You presume to arrange your own life!’ he thundered at her.

      She stood her ground. ‘It is my right, Uncle, if I have the gift of memory and words.’ It was her right as daughter of two ancient bardic families, one, her mother’s, of royal descent, for Broichan, her uncle, was the king’s foster father and his chief Druid.

      There was a long silence. Gemma was nearby, jug in hand, in the doorway. She had been about to replenish her brother’s ale but she, like her two children, was standing, eyes fixed on his face. She held her breath.

      ‘Have you encouraged her in this?’ Broichan looked first at Gemma and then at Gartnait.

      It was the latter who spoke first. ‘If it is her calling, Uncle, surely it is the gods who have encouraged her? Without their inspiration she would not have the talent to learn from Drust.’ Gartnait spoke with pride and dignity.

      Brid bit back a triumphant smile. She wanted to hug him but she didn’t move.

      Abruptly her uncle turned away. Striding to one of the logs positioned near the fire as a seat he pulled his cloak tightly around him and sat down. ‘Recite,’ he commanded.

      Brid caught her breath and glanced at Gartnait. He nodded gravely. His sister’s waywardness, the stubborn furies which frightened him, the wild, in-born power, would be contained and safely harnessed by their uncle.

      She moved forward. At first she was too nervous to speak, then almost miraculously her nerves vanished. Straightening her back she raised her head and began.

      Her teacher had been thorough. On the long winter evenings, by the fire, he had noticed Brid in his audience, aware of her breeding and her brain, and had painstakingly repeated the long poems and stories which were their heritage until she could recite them faultlessly. Brid’s memory, as Adam had discovered,

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