It was almost midday by the time she had skirted the wall and walked back around to the grave of Alexhander McDonald. The place was deserted and the air seemed quieter than usual, if that could have been possible. It was as if someone had muffled the air, like the effect of thick snow in winter.
Kneeling by the side of the grave, she pulled out the stone and started to dig it into the earth with her fingers, just as the old Abbey bell began to toll noon. The sound of the ringing made her look up, and she saw that the clouds had started to gather. The sun was almost covered by a thick white cloud that seemed to be descending like a fog all around her. The air felt suddenly chill and she shivered, wrapping her arms about her body as a defense against the sudden cold.
The mist dampened the air and she could feel stray strands of hair start to stick to the nape of her neck with the moisture. As the air thickened, she started to panic, robbed of all visual reference to the world around her. It was funny how the loss of just one of the senses could bring about a sense of panic. Andrea breathed deeply to calm herself. She was just being silly and needed to stand her ground until the fog lifted, which it surely must.
Scotch mist, she laughed inwardly at the thought. In New York it was a whisky-based cocktail, quite different to the real thing. Something to tell her buddies back home, anyway.
After a few minutes, the clouds began to clear, the white fog swirling into phantom shapes before her eyes. As the looming shape of the abbey started to appear once more to her left, she thought she could hear the muffled toll of the noon bell again. It must be an auditory allusion brought on by the freak weather—or even the toll of the all clear?
Although she was certain that she had stood quite still, when the air cleared Andrea was disorientated. The little chapel was still in front of her, yet the grave she had been kneeling at only a few moments ago looked fresh and without a headstone, a hand-hewn wooden cross marking the spot. She was crying too, and the tears fell down her cheeks for the loss of something she could not quite grasp. Something was different; even the air had changed. Turning quickly, Andrea looked back towards the road. A few rocks and an expanse of wild gorse occupied the site of the St. Columba hotel. Turning all the way around, her eyes widened. Gone were the simple white houses and the road. Even the Abbey had changed. It wasn't as grand, and she didn't know much about architecture, but it seemed from a much earlier period, almost medieval. The only building she could see was the old nunnery in the near distance, now no longer a ruin but a fully functioning building. Andrea shook her head as she saw two black-draped nuns walk across the little garden to the front of the building. It was all utter madness. Maybe she had fallen and received a blow to the head, or fallen asleep and was in the middle of a most vivid dream? Incredulous, she looked down. Gone were her jeans and fleece, and in their place a long garment, some sort of smock with the arms covered. Her feet were bare and her hair fell in loose curls around her neck. Her hand was still tightly grasped around the rune, but she had no time to wonder.
At the sound of voices drifting from the chapel, Andrea started to panic. Confused and disoriented, she did the only thing she could think of and quickly ran to the far wall of the chapel and hid from view. Several men appeared, all wearing long tunics strung with belts and woolen wrappings. Some wore small black caps while others carried swords. The accents were thick and she strained her ears to hear the conversation, closing her eyes to concentrate on the foreign sounds.
"Andra?" a thick accent called out, and as Andrea opened her eyes, she was shocked to see a tall, dark man approaching her. With a sword by his side, he looked fierce as he strode towards her, and she moved closer to the wall in alarm. His face was one of both amazement and sheer joy as he took her in his arms. She felt too weak and tired to resist.
"Andra, I have just been praying for you. It is a miracle. I sat with you all last night and hoped to God that you would live and now here you are. But what are you doing out here? You have no slippers on yer feet and you are cold. We must get you back to the nunnery.”
Andrea could only look back open mouthed. She had never had so little to say.
"Come with me, you'll be catching yer death. I almost lost you once and I don’t want that to happen again. I have a little time before we join Alasdair Macolla MacDonald at Inverlochy to meet that bloody Campbell Clan.”
"Alexhander!" a voice called across to them.
He looked around in response.
"Don't forget the meeting tonight," the man smiled and nodded at Andrea as he walked past them.
Taking her gently by the arm, Alexhander led her down the small path to the gate in the wall. She walked the short way to the nunnery in a daze, convinced that at any moment she would wake up and return to reality. Her best bet for the moment was to remain silent. The name Alexhander was the same name as on the grave and in her Grandma's diary. Maybe the strain of the last few weeks had been too much, after all?
They approached a great oak wooden door in a large square building attached to the chapel of the nunnery. After banging loudly for admittance, Alexhander attempted to pull her close and she froze in his arms, eyes wide in alarm.
"Andra, I realize you have been weak and it is a sorrow that the child did not live, but there is time, and we shall have our son. There has not been one day that has gone by when I have been out with the men that I have not thought about you and what we have lost. It is not only your heart that has been broken."
Pulling her closely, Alexhander brought his face to hers. She could smell his masculinity, sweat, and long days spent amongst men and horses. Turning, she lowered her head just as the door opened before them. A woman clothed from head to foot in black stood before them and looked as shocked as Alex to see the girl, her face turning white and her eyes widening.
"Andra, my sweet child, where on earth have you been? Alex, I’m so sorry–I did not know that she had crept out. I only left her for a moment. I thought she was still unconscious. Now leave her to me and I will take care of her."
For a moment he stood there, quietly looking at her as if thinking of something more to say. For all of his strength and weaponry, he looked like a broken man.
"Go now, Alex. You can come to her later."
With a nod of his head and a final look at Andrea, he turned around and walked back in the direction of the chapel.
Abbess Helena looked quizzically at the girl. In the black cloak and wimple, she could have been any age but Andrea guessed she must be in her mid 50s. She smiled down at Andrea, but the warmth did not extend to her eyes.
The two women walked down a small and dark corridor to another room that was sparsely furnished yet comfortable with a bed and a small table and chair. There was a grate within the fireplace that contained the remnants of an old fire, grey ash and soot. Combs and ribbons were strewn around the room and a small mirror rested on an old chest. The bed linen was exquisitely embroidered with pictures of birds and flowers and red velvet curtains hung around the bed posts, giving the impression of luxury among the plain fitments.
Andrea sat down on the bed and put her head in her hands. The room seemed almost familiar. Not that she had seen anything like it before, but her skin tingled with a feeling of déjà vu. The Abbess reached out and placed her hand on the younger girl’s shoulder. The touch of her hand caused Andrea to finally buckle, and she started to weep.
"There, there, my girl. You have been through so much and you still need to rest. It is a pity that Alexhander has to go away to fight, but your husband is a good man, and he has suffered too. Perhaps you both need some time."
Her husband! Andrea stared open mouthed at the woman before her.
"I should know. I love my brother dearly."
Andrea found her voice at last. "I don't know what's happened to me."
Helena smiled sadly. "You have been very ill, my child. You lost your first born, a son, over a week ago, and we almost lost you too. Until last night, we thought that you would not recover. You had developed a terrible fever, and the physician said there was nothing else that we could do, except pray. Your recovery is truly a miracle. Now, with our care you will grow stronger each day and soon you will be able to go home."
Home! Andrea's thoughts shifted to New York and Steve. She would have surely missed her flight back home by now?
"Where is home?"
“Why Dounarwyse Castle, of course, over the waters in Mull.”
Andrea started to stand, and she could feel herself shaking. She grasped at the Abbess’ cloak. "You don't understand, I'm not who you think I am. Something has happened to me this morning. I was by the chapel, taking this to one of the graves."
Holding up the stone, her hand started to visibly shake. Everything she said or thought seemed ludicrous, and she could feel herself start to shout.
"All of this is ridiculous! This morning I woke and it was the year 2015. Now I seem to be in some BBC drama from the dark ages. What year is this, for God’s sake?" Andrea’s cheeks flushed as she became almost hysterical.
The Abbess stood watching her with a growing look of concern on her face. She had seen this all before and something was wrong. Moving slowly to the table, she picked up a small flask and poured a quantity into a silver goblet.
"It's the year of our Lord 1644, Andra."
Sitting back on the bed, she started to weep once more. "I just want to go home."
"You will be home soon, I promise. Now drink this, it will make you feel better.”
Reluctantly taking the goblet in her shaking hands, Andrea sniffed suspiciously at the liquid. It smelled bitter, of herbs and fruit.
"It will help you sleep. It will not harm you, I promise."
Putting the rim of the beaker to her lips, she paused. This was all just a strange dream, of that she was certain. What else could explain this? She was tired too, and maybe the next time she woke, she would be back in the hotel room. Knocking back the draft in one, she handed back the goblet.
The liquid, though slightly acrid, was warming with a hint of alcohol, and she felt a soft glow around her. The woman in front of her was speaking, but she could not understand the words, the face of the speaker growing hazier as her eyes grew heavier. Settling herself back on the bed, she was soon in a deep and dreamless sleep. The Abbess picked out a woven blanket from the chest and placed it over the girl to keep her warm. The small stone had fallen from her hand onto the floor. Helena picked up the small object and inspected it carefully. Then, slipping it into her pocket, she silently left the room, closing the door behind the sleeping girl.