A Voice from the Past

Chapter 3: Traveling

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. . . . .

On the spur of the moment, Frank decided to turn the car around and make one final journey up the slopes of Craigh na Dun.

He trudged slowly to the top of the hill, his heart heavily burdened by the thought that this was the last place Claire had visited before she ... No, he couldn't bring himself to fathom such a thing. She had to be alive and well, somewhere, possibly with no memory of her former life.

Reaching the circle of stones, he leaned down and plucked a sprig of forget-me-nots, at the base of one. The innocent looking flower had beckoned his wife to this lonely summit, and now she was gone from his life. He fell to his knees in despair, his face in his hands. "Claire!" he cried. "Claire!"

A buzzing reverberated in his ears, and a gust of air stirred up the twigs and leaves about him. Frank inhaled deeply, as he tried to compose himself. When he lifted his head, a faint voice came to him on the wind. It was her. He would know that sound anywhere. He heard his name ghosting through the stones several times, then fading away to nothing.

Suddenly, his legs felt weak, and he grabbed at the face of the stone to buoy him up. How could this be? Was he hallucinating? Had he finally fallen over the brink, into the sea of insanity?

As his heart rate normalized, he shook off the feelings and thoughts this ghastly place had awakened in him. Down the hill he raced, got in his car, and keyed the ignition. Only when he was half way home, did his mind dismiss it all as the fanciful longings of a hungry soul.

. . . . .

While in London, Frank pondered the events of that day. Over and over he thought about the sound of her voice riding on the zephyr, floating to him as it were. Could the legends be true? Did he in actuality hear his wife calling to him?

His appetite, not nearly up to par, had lessened further, and sleep was impossible. Still ... he had a job to do, and so he soldiered on.

A few weeks passed, and not surprisingly, he fell ill. After his recovery, he decided to return to Inverness and the blasted stones. Hopeless though it seemed, he would test the hypothesis, attempt to travel through time, and bring Claire home.

It was a terribly insane idea, but as Mrs. Graham stated, what other explanation could there be?

Preparing in the event that his travels could possibly take place, he bought several gold coins from a curiosity shop, from different centuries, not knowing which era he would arrive at.

. . . . .

He emptied his pockets, except for the seal case, coins, and the car keys, on the chance that he would indeed be traveling through a time portal. If anyone stole the contents of this vehicle while he was ... elsewhere, he'd never forgive himself for leaving the precious seal behind. Feeling a fool, Frank trekked toward the grey slabs. They stood as silent sentinels, mocking him while he closed the distance.

# # # # #

My bum was sore, and my brain worse, hence the term, sorehead. While I couldn't believe the bravery—the sheer audacity of my ginger haired Scotsman—and was thankful for the daring rescue, anger still stirred my soul. The brute took a strap to me for disobeying his bloody orders, and putting him and the others at risk. It was barbaric. I didn't know if I could ever forgive him for that trespass against my person. I said I was sorry, for pity's sake, but apparently that apology, though sincere, wasn't sufficient for my lord and master. A beating was my penance. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, I'd make him pay for it as only a woman can. Sadistic Highlander!