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Brianna hadn’t expected to laugh quite so much with him. In the short time she’d spent getting to know Roger within the quiet sorrow of the Manse, the conversation was muted, their voices prone to whispering as if the Reverend’s spirit might take offense at too soon a return to normalcy. She found herself immediately drawn to his open face, soulful eyes that held no secrets. She thought them the very opposite of her mother’s, whose eyes always seemed to be looking through everything.
He had a boyish smile that contrasted with the sharp lines of his face, his beard aging him just enough for Bree to feel a hint of danger in her attraction to him. Where other men might concern themselves with appearing strong and confident, she had met Roger at his most vulnerable, moments after tears had stung his eyes while he tried to swallow the loss that weighed down the air in his home.
Bree had initially thought little of his offer to provide rooms for her and her mother for a few days. She was merely happy to have some time to get to know him, to explore this land that was so different from her home. Driving along the winding road with him now, curving along the edge of snow-capped mountains, she spies the rooftop of a bothy peaking through the branches of leafless oaks. She pulls her focus back to him, to his face expressively recounting his attempt to fix the boiler for the Reverend last winter. She’s entranced by the words falling from his lips, though every fourth one seems made up, some lyrical Scots word she’s left piecing together through context.
In his storytelling she sees the first signs of his true self, shining brighter the deeper into a story he gets. Brianna realizes, as he smiles at her, waiting for her reaction, that his invitation to her and her mother was his attempt to staunch the flow of his life draining away. That great home would swallow him in loneliness and mourning, so he opened his palms to them, a request for aid.
She laughs at him, at his story and his words and the leisurely speed at which he drives. “I’ve seen grannies drive faster than you.”
“Wha -! Ye ken deer could come running in front of us at any moment, making a right mess of things, stranding us out here.” He looks at her a bit shocked at her accusation and finds her biting her lip back at him, choking on a laugh.
“Is that so?” she teases.
“Hmmph. All right.” Roger presses his foot to the accelerator and the car shudders before picking up speed, at which point it begins to shake. “I canna tell if that’s the car shaking or you laughing so hard. All right, see? She doesna want to go too fast. I must abide by her rules.” He slows down and mock laughs along with Bree.
She realizes, as he pulls the car to a stop outside Fort William, that she hasn’t enjoyed herself this much in a long time. And with that realization she feels a nervous energy, her stomach knotting as she exits the car, pulling her cap down just as a gust of wind threatens to abscond with it.
Bree’s customary response to nerves is to follow her parents’ ways. She pulls herself up straight, walks quickly toward the entrance, and drapes herself in a forced confidence, a casual intellectualism that serves as a barrier to the uncertainties hiding inside her. She tries to impress Roger with her knowledge, tamping down the defensive arrogance that threatens to surface. And throughout it all she hates that she feels compelled to put on a show now. They are working backward, starting off vulnerable and real, and growing stilted and affected.
The day has been perfect, a charge sparking between the two of them as they near each other, shoulders bumping on the uneven stone within the fort. And still, something inside her wishes to push him away. A fear of rejection, of loss, of failure, that keeps a corner of her heart locked away.
The suffocating stone walls give way to open air in the center of the court. She rambles to him of her memories of visiting Fort Ticonderoga with her father pontificating on American historical heroes, only vaguely conscious of how she is mimicking him now. Roger attempts to impress her with his knowledge of American history and fails, another notch of endearment Bree stows away.
The memories of her father in a place like this stirs something deeper inside her, the empty places where her parents still remain a mystery to her. “Do you remember my father very well?”
She isn’t sure what she hopes to hear. Perhaps some secret to unlocking her father’s mask, the part of his story that seemed to follow their family like a shadow while he lived and seemed like a ghost once he was gone. To know him, she thinks, would help her understand that same part of herself that feels elusive and incomplete.
Her mother has been of no use, doling out memories of her father with measured precision, void of personal connection, the same conclusions that might be reached from paging through photo albums. Her mother has grown more and more distant since her father’s death and she knows it isn’t due to her mourning him.
Brianna cannot say there was ever a certain moment to point to, or question left unanswered, but there was more to their family’s story. That she knew.
Roger answers with vague memories of his youth and she pockets them as tiny treasures, another piece of the puzzle. Still, something about being in this place makes her uneasy, off balance. She had felt it from the moment they left the car, thinking the jitters in her stomach were caused by her attraction to Roger. Perhaps it was simply the harsh history of the place, the brutality soaked into the ground she walked upon. But no, she thinks not; there is something else.
They round the corner and stop short of the platform. It has a lower level with a thick post up the back against which is affixed a higher platform where men would be kept in stocks, exposed to the elements. Her feet freeze before it, legs leaden, and a shiver runs through her body. “This place gives me the chills.”
Brianna is not one to be spooked. She views the world with hard rationality; an explanation exists for all things. But Roger does not know this of her, how unusual it might be for her to sense something beyond the world she can perceive with eyes, ears, and fingertips. He himself is no stranger to spirits and ghosts. Scotland is crawling with them, the air shifting as the dead move through the world.
She hears Roger speaking of the blood from men long departed that had run from the platform, but his words are distant, something carried on the wind. Her nails dig into her side, the wool of her jacket snagging against a cut on her finger and she feels lost in the dark, stained wood of the raised dais. She hears a creak, as if someone had pulled a rope tightly against the wood. Another creak. A moan, as if someone has fallen, has been broken by this place. Her ribs feel like they are crushing her lungs and her wrists burn, her body revolting against the very air of this place.
Roger turns back to her and she joins him, her feet clumsily skidding over the damp stones as they return to the car.
“Are ye all right, Bree? Ye look pale,” Roger notes, concern creasing his face.
“Mmhm. I’m fine,” she answers, her voice clipped.
Roger turns the ignition and waits, resting his hands on his thighs. “The Highlands are full of stories of folk getting visions of the past in places like this. I dinna mean imagine things, but truly seeing them. To have the Sight and know the truth of something.”
Brianna does not look at him. Her throat tightens.
“Were ye born with a caul, do ye ken? Some say that might foretell yer abilities.” Roger speaks tentatively and gently, not wanting to push her.
Her gasp is confirmation enough. “How did you know?” She barely speaks the words, lets them escape her lips on a breath.
“What did ye see?” The car hums and vibrates as they sit, an occasional gust of wind rocking it.
“I don’t know. Just… Hands tied, bloody wrists. Limp fingers. Pain and loss and fear. And a spark of defiance or courage, maybe? I could feel it.” She risks a glance at him and finds him watching her intently, no hint of amusement on his face. “What is the point of me seeing that? Why show me something like that?” Her voice rises in frustration.
Roger shakes his head, thinking. “In the old wives’ tale version of the story, you were being shown the answer to a question, maybe one you’ve never dared ask aloud, maybe one ye dinna even ken yet. Like pieces to a puzzle.”
Brianna huffs an amused breath and smiles at him, eager to free herself from the weight of the vision. “Right. Well, no more puzzles for me today.”
Roger returns the smile and pulls the car onto the road, turning to look at her again. “Let’s go, then. I’m starving.”
“You say that a lot, I’ve noticed,” she laughs.
“Weel, it happens to be true a lot.”