Glenfinnan: 25th August 1997
It had been some time since Connor MacLeod had set foot in his homeland. He tried to make a pilgrimage every decade or so these days. Visiting Heather's grave was always priority number one. Glenfinnan was a bonus to be fitted in if at all possible - and this time he had an extra venue in mind. Dunvegan Castle, Isle of Skye - the ancestral seat of Leod's clan - a large clan, split and spread and still growing larger, with members living in every corner of the globe. What drew him to Dunvegan in particular was the talk he had heard in the States and here on the mainland concerning two things. Firstly the new exhibition of Clan history at the Castle had received much praise from those who were of the clan itself and from visiting historians and the general public. Secondly he had overheard various bits of gossip in Glenfinnan concerning the exhibition's organiser. The gossip both intrigued and disturbed him and made it seem inevitable that he would seek out not only the exhibition but also more information about Catriona MacLeod - it was this as much as anything that had made him accept an invitation to visit a conference at Dunvegan.
As he walked east along the one real street in Glenfinnan toward the monument and visitors centre, next to the cemetery, he turned to the south and gazed down the long stretch of Loch Shiel. Over twenty one miles long and just barely half a mile wide - with the small island he had once hidden on for months after he was first cast out from the clan nestling near the northern edge. It still stirred something deep within his soul. There would never be anywhere in the world that meant so much to him as here - except for Heather's grave. Wherever he went and however long he lived it would remain in his heart always. The wild beauty if the place, the rugged landscape and independent spirit of the people who lived there were still a large part of Connor MacLeod.
Taking a large breath of the highland air he began to walk among the graves, reading the inscriptions on the headstones as he passed. He was not surprised to see many bearing the MacLeod name. He stopped by one fairly recent plot and read the words on the stone.
It was not the simple wording, nor the newness of the grave compared to the others, that drew his eye however. Rather it was the graffiti that adorned the headstone and the simple folk charm that was hung around the stone. The name 'Catriona' had been painted over in an unsuccessful attempt to obscure it. The charm was an old one he recognised from his own childhood - it was meant to ward off the evil eye. Someone, somewhere, obviously had a little problem with Ms Catriona MacLeod and Connor was very interested in discovering what that problem might be. The graffiti ,in Gaelic, translated roughly as "God protect us from Satan's messengers and guard the righteous."
A cough behind him made Connor turn.
"I see you are interested in the wording. Are ye a relative by chance?"
"Oh a very distant one, on my mother's side," Connor acknowledged, "and you?"
The wizened old man who had addressed him spat on the ground and crossed himself.
"Not me, though I dare say most MacLeod's are decent enough God fearing folk you'll not find many round here as have much time for yon lassie."
"Mrs. MacLeod?" Connor queried.
"Nay lad, not she, her daughter Catriona."
He made the name sound like a curse.
"There's few enough here in Glenfinnan will admit to speaking with her or ever having been her friend."
"Does she live here?"
"Aye, off and on she does, her family still own Slatach House over yonder, see where the jetty at the edge of the Loch is?"
"Aye, I see it. So is she there now?"
"Och no man, she cleared out and went to stay in America not long since. Tis a blessing in disguise if you ask me since young Calum Kennedy came home from the seminary just after she left."
"And why is that significant?"
"Why man, because of the terrible things she had accused him of, and he the minister's son too! It was the talk of Glenfinnan for months. Such a wicked tongue she has, quite the shrew she is. Though I suppose - given her allegiance to the dark one - 'tis not surprising."
"The dark one?" Connor asked. "What do you mean?"
"Why she's always ranting about the spirits and worshipping according to her pagan beliefs and rituals. It's not natural I say, it's devil worship I am thinking, and so do most others around here. No, you'll not find many hereabouts who take kindly to that sort of thing."
"I see," said Connor,' I'm sorry any kinfolk of mine should be involved in such things,but just what did Miss MacLeod accuse Calum Kennedy of?"
"Fornication. Of being the father of her child and of being the one who stole her virginity. The hussy!"
"Strong words." Connor said.
"Aye," said the old man, misunderstanding the meaning, "awfy strong and I'm pleased to say that there's none here would believe her. She had to go away in disgrace, what happened to the child no one knows. Since then she's rarely been seen but once a year and she keeps herself to herself when she comes."
"Does she not visit her mother's grave?"
"Och laddie..with all yon paraphanalia to keep her at bay, and the minister having banned her from consecrated ground? Now why would she put herself in danger ? No she knows how to keep out of harm's way that one."
The man's face had a vicious expression as he contemplated the possible outcome if 'the hussy' should dare to set foot on the precious soil near her mother's grave. He drew a deep breath of satisfaction as his imagination supplied the vision of her downfall.
"Now she's gone though and folk round here are pleased tae see the back of her. The Kennedy's are well liked hereabouts and such slander against the son made folk close ranks against her. Will ye be staying long?
"I'm at the Prince's Hotel until tomorrow night then off to Skye." Connor replied.
The man considered this information, then as if afraid that he had overstepped the mark with a Macleod kinsman he said "Ye'll not repeat any of what I just telled ye to the MacLeod himself?"
"I doubt I'll get the chance." Connor said, carefully not promising anything. "Thank you for explaining the case to me. To whom do I owe the pleasure?"
A little uncertain the man appeared to consider not replying, but eventually he held out his hand to shake Connor's. "Robert MacDonald and ye're welcome Mr...?"
"Russell Nash from New York." Said Connor over his shoulder as hew turned away, ignoring the man's outstretched hand. He left the little cemetery at the edge of the loch and walked back to the hotel through the length of the village of his birth, lost in thought.
Dunvegan Castle: Isle of Skye, 25th August 1997
John MacLeod was a satisfied man. Tourism,often a double edged sword in the past, was proving to be profitable as never before and those flocking to visit the Castle were showing a real interest in the history of the Clan and the Castle. Catriona's exhibits, the audio and video tapes, the booklets and the plaques around the walls all served to tell the story in a most entertaining and informative way. The result was that visitors were becoming more knowledgeable and more interested. Some of them returned for second and third visits.
The subtle weaving of traditional archive material with data accessible via various forms of new technology gave the whole exhibition a professional feel which it had hitherto lacked. Added to the numbers of casual visitors there were now many scholars and historians from all around the globe who made special journeys to come and view the archives for their research. Dunvegan was fast gaining an international reputation and it pleased John MacLeod greatly that it should be so. His only regret was that Catriona was not there to see her excellent work bear fruit. However, he was pleased that her work, both here and in Cambridge, had earned her recognition and a professor's post in Seacouver.
He knew that she had needed to make a fresh start and perhaps America was the place for her to be. If only he didn't feel that she had been driven away from home he could just relax and enjoy her success to the full. But it didn't do to dwell on the unpleasantness of the past he supposed. Indeed, he was busy looking forward to a small convention of Art Historians which was to take place in the Castle over the next few days and he knew he'd better focus his attention on that rather than on his niece's past trauma. Glancing through the list of his guests, he was pleased to see that Russell Nash would be joining them after all. The man had a reputation in the world of antiquities and art that was second to none. It would add greatly to the prestige of Dunvegan as a centre for such gatherings that he had chosen to accept the invitation to attend.
Eschewing the new road bridge, an unsightly and unloved addition to the landscape of the highlands and islands, Connor chose to take the ferry from Mallaig to Skye and a cab from Armadale to Dunvegan - thus allowing him sight of the entire length of the island. The landscape had not altered. In parts of the island many of the houses he passed had remained unchanged for the past tow or three centuries. This was what he missed more than anything except Heather. Certainly he had made a home for himself in New York but he longed for his homeland as much now as he ever had.
He wondered briefly about the wisdom of spending time in a place that drew him so irrevocably and yet which he knew he could no longer make his home. He put these concerns aside by reminding himself that people generally took holidays in places they felt drawn to but were unable to live in full time. The wisdom of agreeing to attend the convention at Dunvegan was another matter.
He could put it down to idle curiosity, or stupidity, but he could not in all truth quite decide which of these was the culprit - all he knew was it was good to be back in the bosom of his native land again.
By the time the cab drew up at Dunvegan Castle itself, Connor had decided to relax and enjoy the time he had left here before returning to New York. 'After all,' he thought, 'it's not as though anyone here will recognise me for who and what I am.'
John MacLeod, having welcomed his guests and ensured that each was adequately catered for , had retired to his office. He was tidying up a few last details before preparing to host a dinner for his visitors. As he was about to call it a day his secretary came in carrying a bundle of journals and papers.
"These are the final pieces to go in the last showcase Miss Catriona asked for." She said.
"Ah, well then, we'd best go and put them in place." He said, rising and taking some of the precious papers from her.
As they put the final journal into the case John MacLeod opened it to a page depicting one of the more recent clan legends. It was liberally illustrated, showing a fair haired, grey eyed man in the MacLeod tartan holding a claymore in the air. The illustration was startling in the vividness of the colour and in the detail, even after five hundred odd years. As an added curiosity the figure was surrounded by forks of lightening. It looked for all the world as if the elements were claiming the man or perhaps as if he were drawing the lightening to him. Such a fine example of art to accompany the legend of one Connor MacLeod of the Glenfinnan branch of the clan.
He recalled the early interest Catriona had shown in this legend and in that of Duncan MacLeod, one time heir to the Glenfinnan lairdship. 'How pleased she would be to share her passion for this aspect of clan 'history' with the rest of the world.' He thought. Having thus decided on the page which would be displayed he placed this last journal in the case, locked it, set the alarm and went to dress for dinner.