#HistFicThursdays - The Calling of Aonghas Caledon - Free Short Story

Caledon has appeared many times. This story introduces Caledon's sixth incarnation...

The Calling of Aonghas Caledon

“There’s an evil abroad in the world,” croaked the minister from the front of the kirk.

Aonghas heard him, but thought nothing of the words. He was not a covenanter. He was more inclined toward papist tendencies, but he had been employed as a bodyguard to Thomas Geddes, the man who now occupied the seat in front of him. And Aonghas went where the money was.

He looked out the window and idly wondered what force would await them there. Surely, nothing could be as bad as Dalwhinnie. Men had lined up there, women too, with torches and farming implements to attack the small band of covenanters as they left the church. There had been a small skirmish, but no one had been killed. Aonghas and John had got Thomas Geddes to safety, and the pious man had continued northward.

But the deeper they passed into the Highlands, the more tenacious the crowds became. Dornoch had been a reprieve, strangely quiet for such a large place. But they had left Dornoch two days ago. Now they were in Golspie.

At last, the service ended. There was no blessing as Aonghas could remember from his childhood experiences of church, instead there was a warning. It was a warning against Rome and the evils which spread from there. And from London.

He walked to the door and pulled it open.

There was no one there. Birds sang in the trees. There was a calming drone of insects, and the world seemed utterly at peace.

Aonghas chewed the side of his mouth thoughtfully. Something about this harmony was more disquieting than the rows of mattocks and burning torches had been. He stepped out and looked around. For a moment he imagined he could see himself standing in the church doorway. What a confused figure he was, running away from poverty at any cost, selling his soul for the benefit of a few coins. He almost felt ashamed of himself. Almost.

Motioning for Thomas to follow, he and John walked into the endless sunshine of the late summer day. It remained quiet. John held the reins of Thomas’ horse, and Aonghas offered his hands to the older man who slotted his foot into the cupped gesture, taking to the saddle with an air of diminishing grandeur. He patted his hand against his sacred cargo and, reassured it was safely stowed, moved his horse forward. John and Aonghas flanked him on foot.

They were approaching a small ford over a burn, when Aonghas stopped. Nothing in the landscape had changed. The birds still sang, people were still absent from the road. But something was different.

Thomas turned an angry expression to his bodyguard, lashing out with the whip he carried. Aonghas gripped his shoulder and stared up at the man on horseback, mustering all his restraint to remind himself that this man paid his wage. This momentary lack of self-control turned into surprise as he heard the popping sound of a musket shot and watched in disbelief as Thomas fell from his horse. John snatched the reins while Aonghas leaned over Thomas.

Thomas made a sickening sound each time he tried to breathe through his punctured throat. Aonghas found himself trying to calm the same man who, only moments earlier, had wounded him. Thomas was reaching towards the horse, desperately trying to communicate something, but unable to speak.

“The Covenant will reach the coast,” Aonghas promised. “It will be taken to all corners of the land.”

Thomas’ mouth twitched slightly, the closest to a smile Aonghas had ever seen on that face, before he relaxed into a contented death.

“John,” Aonghas whispered.

“Is he dead?”

“Yes. Did you see who shot him?”

“They ran up the burn. I only saw a shadow.”

Aonghas rose to his feet and looked across. John returned his gaze with a glimmer of fear on his usually hardened features.

“Keep travelling north,” Aonghas commanded, feeling confused at his own sudden decisiveness. “His dying wish was for the Covenant to be made known to all corners of the land. For good or ill, he believed in it.”

“I’d say it was ill for him. What are you going to do?”

“Find who did this. They’ve robbed me.”

“For God’s sake, Aonghas,” came the frantic reply. “I’ll pay you myself if you’ll come.”

“This is your quest now, John. We both know I never believed in it anyway. Blend into the landscape, then you’ll be safe.”

Aonghas watched as John departed, crossing the burn and leading the horse towards Dunrobin castle. When his friend had faded from sight, Aonghas followed the burn upstream.

John had pointed in this direction when he spoke of the assailant but, the further Aonghas went, the more he became convinced John was mistaken. There was a quality to the air, fragrant, rich, almost too pure to withstand. Something was happening here; or had happened; or, which frightened him to consider, was going to happen. He eased his dirk from its sheath and peered around the corner of the gorge. The burn was quicker here, as he traced it back towards its source, and there was a different sound now. It was continuous and forceful, yet somehow light and vibrant, too. He glanced over his shoulder, unsure whether this new sound was hiding an assailant. But he was alone.

The further he walked, the greater the sound became, until he began to imagine it was his blood racing through his body. He felt exhilarated, giddy even, and struggled to maintain his usual cautious gait. He paused at another bend in the gorge and leaned against the rock wall. He listened, trying to capture anything but the driving sound, which he was now sure were rapids. The gorge seemed dark, but rainbow lights were beckoning him around the corner. Clutching the dirk and exhaling to steady his racing mind, Aonghas peered around the wall of the ravine.

The weapon fell to the ground and, in abject terror and awe, so did Aonghas.

Before him was a pool whose waters were frothy and bubbled. It reflected the beautiful blue sky above, slightly browned with the peaty water. Trees overhung it and sheltered the banks of the burn, their verdant leaves lush and resplendent. But it was not this which had caused Aonghas to fall to his knees.

At the opposite side of the pool, stretching the full height of the ravine, ran a cascade which was more than a waterfall. As Aonghas watched, horrified yet spellbound by the apparition, it tensed its watery fingers and seamlessly moved away from the rocks. Two cavernous eyes opened in the continuous stream. Aonghas realised he was trying to speak, endeavouring to form words which would express his fear and disbelief, but the sounds were garbled and senseless.

“Rise, Aonghas Caledon. Why do you kneel before your destiny?”

“Destiny?” Aonghas repeated, the word strange upon his tongue. “I came searching for a murderer.”

“Then look in the pool, and you shall find one.”

Aonghas looked around him, trying to convince himself it was not the waterfall who had spoken. But he was alone. He crawled forward to the pool and stared into it. For a moment, the movement of the water obscured his vision, and he felt dizzy as he beheld the faintest echo of his own appearance.

“I’m not a murderer,” Aonghas protested, pushing himself to his feet and glaring across at the waterfall.

“Open your eyes,” the waterfall’s voice commanded. It spoke directly into his head, as though a telepathy existed between them. “You are no longer Aonghas Rothach. You must become Aonghas Caledon. Open your eyes,” it repeated.

As though intentionally, although Aonghas tried to remind himself that waterfalls could not have intentions, water splashed into his face. He screwed his eyes closed, and rubbed his hands over them.

He gasped, holding his hand out before him, searching for anything to support him. His vision was no longer on the waterfall. Somehow, he was on the banks of the sea. A huge castle rose from a rocky outcrop. It looked deserted and quiet, except for one woman. She stood at the door, pounding upon it. Her fiery hair rippled over her otherwise naked form. If there was anyone in the castle, they ignored her. Another woman walked towards her, wrapping a blanket about her shoulders and guiding her away.

Aonghas moved through the grasses, which seemed taller than any he had ever known, hoping to gain a better view. He shook his head quickly, opening his eyes to find himself, once more, at the pool.

“What was that?” he stammered. “Where was I?”

“That is your enemy. You see them because your Eile watches them.”

“My Eile?” Aonghas demanded.

“That tongue you have long forsaken is evergreen in the memory of Caledon.”

“My other?” Aonghas breathed, recalling the time and distance which had passed since he had last used his native language.

“He will protect you, as you must protect him. The very spirit of Caledon is within those beasts.”

Aonghas watched as a marten skulked down a tree at the side of the ravine. It stopped before him, and Aonghas found himself once again experiencing the strange sensation of watching himself. It was as though the marten truly did share his gaze. It padded forward and rose to stand on its hind legs, studying him thoughtfully.

“This is madness,” Aonghas laughed, stepping away and facing the waterfall which was now returning to the rocks.

“Madness?” its voice echoed. Was there a hint of anger to its otherwise detached tone? “Madness is what the people of Caledon are subjecting themselves to. What is the Covenant to a son of Caledon? Your fight is not of papist or covenanter. Your fight is for the sons and daughters of Caledon. There is an evil abroad in the world.”

“I’ve heard those words already today.”

“I do not speak of a side in a battle of opinion. I speak of a side in a battle for Caledon’s survival. Your first quest is upon you, Aonghas Caledon. Drink from the waters of the Healing Spring, and take a phial that you may use it when it is needed. They shall find you. They shall be drawn to you, as you were drawn here. Your quest beckons, Caledon.”

It did not matter how much Aonghas begged for some great explanation, the waterfall had returned to its dormant form. The marten had gone and Aonghas was alone. The world seemed darker now. Was it just the passage of the sun in the sky? Or was it the promised threat of the women he had seen through the marten’s eyes? He picked up the dirk and pushed it back into its sheath.

The man who stepped out of the gorge may have looked the same as the man who, only an hour earlier, had entered, but Aonghas knew he was not the same person. He returned to where he had left his employer’s body, but it was to find someone had already removed the corpse. Aonghas looked around him nervously. He could hear the steady beat of men’s feet coming towards him, and he froze as someone called out.

“There he is! The murderer!”

Aonghas ran. He sped along the road, faster than the militia behind him could move. How foolish to be shot for a crime he was only guilty of trying to solve. He stumbled to a halt as the track opened onto a rocky beach. There was nowhere to hide. He moved back to the treeline, but his pursuers were almost upon him. He had no time to hide.

“Take the rope!” hissed a voice from above him. He looked up in confusion. “Just take it!”

Aonghas snatched the tail of rope which was dangling beside him, and he was hoisted from the ground. He had barely reached the wide branch, when the first of the militia rushed into view below him. As soon as he was safely on the tree’s limb, his rescuer placed a finger over his lips. Aonghas followed his advice and peered down as the soldiers rushed along the path, down to the coast, and towards Dunrobin. Aonghas counted eighteen men and, only when all eighteen had disappeared from view, did the man before him speak.

“What are you doing in Golspie?” he demanded. “You’re not welcome here.”

“Show me the road away and I’ll go,” Aonghas retorted. “But first: thank you.”

“You’re not like your master.”

“My master?”

“The man who was shot.”

“He wasn’t my master,” Aonghas replied, determined to correct this mistake. “He was my employer. How do you know I’m not like him?”

“Intuition,” came the amused reply. The man placed the rope around the branch and lowered himself down. Aonghas followed his example, but felt his face crease in concern as his rescuer picked up a musket and began walking away.

“Did you shoot him?”

“Yes,” came the honest reply, one Aonghas was unprepared for. He was surprised to find he no longer wanted retribution for the death, just explanation.

“Why? You didn’t know him.”

“That would take too long to explain.” The man’s broad shoulders hunched, and he looked ashamed. “And they’d have me burnt in a tarred barrel before daybreak.”

“Witchcraft?” Aonghas hissed, recognising the sentence. “You don’t look like a witch.”

“I’m not. Though-” The man paused and studied him. “You’re a fugitive now. If you help me, I’ll help clear your name.”

“How so?”

“I was the one who shot him. But no,” he sighed, continuing along the path. “This is my quest.”

“No, this is madness,” Aonghas laughed, bringing an angry look from the other man. “My quest beckons? That’s who those women were: Witches?”

“You’ve seen them?” He took Aonghas’ shoulders and stared down. “They have my daughter. They have Janet. They were set to kill her if I didn’t strike down the man named Caledon.”

“What?” Aonghas snapped.

“One of them, Black Maggie she’s known as, said Caledon would rise if he was not stopped by the ford. She had seen his future, that’s her gift. And she said she’d burn Janet and scatter her ashes to the four winds if I failed. What does that even mean?”

The man before him was becoming almost hysterical, and Aonghas nodded slowly. “I’ll help you defeat them, and free your daughter. But I want something more than a pardon in return.”

“What do you want?”

“In time,” Aonghas said with a smile. “I need to know whether I’m right, first.”

The pair journeyed inland. Aonghas’ new companion introduced himself as Neil, a farmer of his own land. He told Aonghas that the witches had arrived in the early summer. At first, Neil had simply avoided them, but when the crops had failed and the livestock become sick, he had confronted them. This had been a mistake. They had come in the night and stolen his daughter from her bed. They had demanded he kill the man who travelled from the south, or they would kill Janet.

 They camped on the side of the ben, sleeping in the open air, and staring up at the stars. But it was far from idyllic as the midges gathered. Aonghas pulled his thin coat over his head and tried to hide from Neil’s snores and the biting insects.

The moment he opened his eyes, he knew he was dreaming. He was standing in a huge banqueting hall. Dancers spun and candlelight filled the air. He heard running water and found that, instead of a fire, the waterfall filled the hearth.

“Tread carefully, Caledon,” its disinterested voice began. “Beware Providence. She is the first of many and she will know you when she sees you. Only fire or mirrors can destroy her. You must act quickly.”

“Providence? What does that mean?” Aonghas watched as the world splintered, and realised he had been staring in an enormous mirror. All he had believed to be true was only a reflection.

“Take a shard, Caledon, and use it.”

Aonghas stepped forward and pulled out a fragment of the shattered glass. He turned to look at the room, but it was drab, dark and lifeless. All the beauty of the reflection had been a lie.

He jumped awake as he felt something brush past his head. A chattering laugh, entirely inhuman, mocked him as he watched the marten. With its curved back lunging it forward, it leapt towards Neil, but turned to Aonghas as he hissed across at it.

“Wait!” he began, only pausing for a moment to question why he was addressing a mustelid. “He can’t know yet, or he’ll kill me!”

“What?” Neil asked sleepily, rolling on his shoulder so his waking eyes met Aonghas’. The marten had vanished. “What happened to your hand?” Neil added, stifling a yawn.

Aonghas looked down at the trickle of blood which ran from his clenched fist. Opening out his palm, he faltered as his eyes rested on his own reflection in a shard of mirror. He shook his head in disbelief, wiping the blood down his coat, before he tucked the sharp mirror safely into the pocket on his belt. What was the meaning of a waking dream?

They continued their journey and, by midday, reached Neil’s farm. It stood in a wide valley, whose walls enclosed it on all sides. There was only a thin pass by which they could enter without climbing high up the ben.

“It’s all ours,” Neil said, a proud smile catching his features.

“We’ve passed dozens of crops,” Aonghas pointed out as they walked towards the mains in the centre of the valley. “All were healthy.”

“Which is why I know this is witchcraft,” Neil agreed, crumbling an empty ear beneath his fingers. “Black Maggie is known here. She comes down through the valleys when she is looking to recruit new women for her coven. I’m afraid that’s why she’s taken Janet.”

“I’ll get your daughter back,” Aonghas promised, the words falling from his mouth before he had a chance to check them.

Neil looked across at him in genuine surprise.

“You’re a mystery to me, Aonghas. You don’t know me. Why are you so willing to help me?”

“I know it’s right.”

Neil offered him half a smile and walked towards the mains once more.

The farmhouse was large, with a parlour and a kitchen, as well as the living area. It was in the parlour that Aonghas waited, while Neil looked though the house, searching desperately for his daughter. Eventually, he returned to Aonghas, his confused expression full of pain.

“I don’t understand it. I killed the man. I did what she wanted. I’ve risked everything. Why is Janet not here?”

“You cannot make deals with them,” Aonghas said softly. He suspected his presence, indeed his very life, was the reason Neil could not find his daughter. But if he told the man that, Aonghas was unsure Neil would allow him to remain alive.

“Who is Caledon?” Aonghas asked. “I knew the man you killed as Thomas.”

Neil shrugged his shoulders and turned as a painfully slow knock sounded on the front door. Aonghas watched as all colour bled from Neil’s face and the older man rushed to the front of the house. He heard him pull open the door, and Neil’s voice cracked as he spoke to the person who stood there.

“Where’s my daughter?”

“May I come in?” The voice which spoke these words was young and sweet, as unlike a witch as Aonghas could imagine. “I set you a challenge, did I not?”

The voice came closer, and Aonghas realised she had entered the house.

“I shot that man,” Neil snapped back. “The militia can tell you. Caledon is dead.”

“You shot an innocent man. For, last night, I saw the hall of Caledon fill once more with light.”

“What?”

“You failed me.” She detached the words with such ferocity, Aonghas peered through the crack in the door to ensure his companion was unharmed. “And I have spoken already to Sutherland’s men. They know you are guilty.”

“What?” Neil repeated. “Where’s Janet?”

“I’ll make sure she is there to see you hang. Caledon lives,” she muttered, turning to look out the window. “And since you failed to kill him, your life will be forfeit.”

“Let me see my daughter,” Neil pleaded, catching her hand and kneeling before her.

Aonghas felt his hand tighten on the shard of mirror and quietly cursed as it drew blood from his fingertip. He had hardly made a sound, but Black Maggie turned towards the parlour. She lashed out at Neil but never looked at him. Instead she walked towards the parlour door.

“There is only one can deceive providence.”

Aonghas turned as he heard a scratching above his head and found the marten. It was on one of the beams but, as soon as its eyes met his, it raced to a pile of grain sacks in the corner of the room. Aonghas rushed over, burying himself within them as Black Maggie stepped into the parlour. Through the hessian, he could see her purse her lips, while her eyes scanned the room.

“Stealth,” she whispered, hissing out the word. “Caledon’s stealth alone could blind providence.”

She turned back to Neil, who had followed her into the room.

“There’s no one here,” he muttered, trying to hide his surprise.

“I am Providence,” she snarled in reply. “My foresight does not lie.”

Aonghas tried to steady his heart as it pounded. This was Providence? The providence he had been warned to beware? Surely it had not been coincidence that the mirror had come into his grasp when he beheld her.

He watched as Black Maggie turned to Neil, raising her hand. Aonghas did not know what was going to happen. He had never met a witch before. Afraid of what she was about to do to this man, who Aonghas had blindly sworn to help, he pushed aside the sacking.

“Even Caledon cannot be worth Janet’s death.” Neil backed away from her hand.

“All who honour Caledon before my sisters deserve death. Caledon must never rise again. If you had listened, you might have granted your daughter her life.”

Neil’s eyes locked on Aonghas’ own. Seeing this, the witch turned to face this new assailant. To Aonghas’ great surprise, her primary expression was one of fear, causing his hand to falter as he pulled back the shard. At this delay, her expression lifted in a smile.

“You cannot be him. You have not the stealth to defeat me.” She held out her other hand and Aonghas realise he could no longer move his arm. The mirror, the one weapon he had against the woman before him, was pinned in place by her magic. She smiled cruelly at the two men, both captives of her witchcraft.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she laughed. “You shall watch your daughter die the death you tried to inflict on me.”

She turned to the door where three women entered. Neil gave a sob as his eyes rested on his daughter. From Neil’s words, Aonghas had expected Janet to be a child, but he felt his jaw drop at the beautiful young woman who was being held tightly by the other two newcomers. Neil demanded, begged and fought for her release. Ignoring him, Black Maggie walked forward and plucked the mirror from Aonghas’ helpless hand. She moved over to Janet, who stubbornly willed herself not to cry.

Aonghas shook himself back to his senses. Black Maggie had removed her spell, but Aonghas was unsure he could get to her in time to stop what was about to happen. He rushed forward, grabbing the witch’s hand, but it only delayed the inevitable as he felt one of the other women grip his wrist. A cold numbness seeped up his arm. He watched the mirror move towards Janet’s chest.

As the second spilt into a thousand moments, he questioned why he should be so interested in the outcome of this fight, and sought for anything he could do to save Janet. His vision faded, but he was not succumbing to darkness, only swapping to the eyes of the marten as it leapt upon the witch who held him. In the brief moment of panic which ensued, Aonghas grabbed Black Maggie’s hand and pushed the mirror into the witch’s throat.

“I am Caledon,” he hissed, staring vehemently into the eyes of the woman. “And I will destroy your sisters.”

There was a cry then. A shriek so ear-piercingly inhuman that Aonghas covered his ears and the marten chattered in a displeased way. When Aonghas lowered his hands, it was to find the other two women had disappeared. Black Maggie’s wide eyes, frozen in the horror of death, stared up at him.

“It worked,” he laughed, looking down at the marten and, through its eyes, remembering that he was not alone in the room.

Neil stared across, his eyes full of wonder. He was gripping Janet to him, and she stared at Aonghas with the same expression as her father.

“I am Caledon,” Aonghas whispered, feeling slightly embarrassed.

“Caledon?” Neil opened his mouth to say more but stopped as he heard a pounding on the door. “The militia,” he breathed. “I will take the consequence for my crime. But to have laid eyes upon you, Caledon, I have a hope for the future. Protect Janet, I beg you.”

Neil walked from the parlour.

All the tears Janet had manged to withhold against the witch, fell as she gripped Aonghas’ hand and knelt before him.

“Caledon, please. My father’s crime was not of his own doing. She made him. Can’t you see?”

Aonghas nodded quickly, placing a hand on her hair and smiling.

“Wait!” he called out, rushing after the departing men who were already marching Neil away. “This was the most malign witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft?” repeated one of the men, turning to face Aonghas.

“He did shoot Thomas Geddes,” Aonghas continued. “But he was possessed by a witch, whose body is now in the house. Black Maggie.”

“Black Maggie?” someone hissed, while another muttered, “She will kill us all.”

“No,” Aonghas said frantically, watching as they readied the muskets they carried. He turned back to the house to see Janet staring with disbelief at the guns, which were all pointed at her. Without considering his actions, Aonghas rushed to stand in front of her, holding his hands out to try and block the shots.

Gunfire echoed from the high hills around the valley.

Aonghas blinked. He looked doubtfully down at himself, wondering if any of the balls had found their target. He was unscathed. He looked towards the men as they lowered their weapons. Between him and the militia lay the gasping figure of Neil. Aonghas rushed forward, and Janet did the same.

“She’s inside, you fools,” Aonghas snarled at the men. “This is his daughter.”

Two of the soldiers walked into the house to corroborate his words, but Aonghas hardly noticed. He held Neil’s head as Janet clutched her father’s hand, kissing it repeatedly.

“What did you do that for?” Aonghas muttered.

“You have a duty to fulfil,” Neil replied, each word taking several seconds to form. “Caledon.”

“And you must live to help me.”

Aonghas turned as he realised he was being watched, expecting to find the marten beside him. Instead, beyond the corner of the house so only he could see it, stood a stag. Its eyes weighed heavy on his shoulders and, feeling as though it was too much to bear, he dropped his hand to his side. It fell into the pocket on his belt, and his fingers drew out the small phial which contained the water of the Healing Spring.

“It’s true, sir,” began one of the soldiers, returning from their search of the house. “Black Maggie is there.”

Aonghas heard these words but never took his eyes from the man before him. He opened the phial and gently tipped the contents into Neil’s mouth, willing himself to have correctly understood its power. The stag tipped back its head and bellowed, deep and resonate, but no one else seemed to hear it. Or perhaps Neil did, for his eyes opened slightly, and Aonghas gave a mystified smile.

As the leader of the militia walked to stand before him, Aonghas rose to his feet.

“Who are you, sir? To kill the witch who has tortured our lives these fifteen years? What reward would you seek?”

“Reward?” Aonghas laughed slightly. “None but a pardon for this man. And my name is Caledon.”