There was evidently a back door, and Jonnie heard it open and close several times. The murmuring in the inner room intensified; more people were coming into it from the back.
At length the old man came to Jonnie. “He'll see you noo," he said and pointed to the inner chamber.
Jonnie went in. About eight men had assembled and taken seats along the walls. They had spears and clubs beside them or in their hands.
Seated on a large chair against the back wall was a big black-haired, black-bearded power of a man. He had a short skirt that showed the bony knees of strong legs. He wore a pair of white crossbelts, pinned together at the center of the X with a large silver badge. A bonnet sat squarely on his head and he held a large, ancient sword across his knees. Jonnie knew he must be looking at Chief of the Clan, Fearghus.
Fearghus looked about at his council to see that they were all there and alert. He stared at the newcomer.
“A messenger,” said Fearghus, “from whom?”
“Have you had any trouble with the monsters?” said Jonnie.
A shock went through the group.
“I take it you mean the demons,” said Fearghus.
“Would you mind telling me any trouble you have had?” said Jonnie.
This threw them into an uproar. Fearghus held up an imperious hand.
Quiet fell.
“Young man,” said Fearghus, “since you give us no name, as you claim to be a messenger, although you have not said from whom– though I suppose you will tell us in good time-l will do you the courtesy of answering your question.” Jonnie was getting the notes of the accent and followed easily. The Chief talked in his throat and clipped off the words.
“Since the days of the myths,” said Fearghus, “we have had nothing but trouble with the demons. The myths tell us they raised a cloud across the land and all peoples died except a very few. I am sure you know these myths since they are religious and you appear to be a properly, politely, religious man.
“All to the south of us, no men dare live. There is a fortress of the demons five hundred miles to the south and west. And from time to time, they foray out and hunt men. They kill them without reason or compunction.
“At this moment you find us in the fishing village, for the fish are running. We sit here and work at risk. As soon as we have a little food, we will retire further into the Highlands. We have always been a proud people, we of the Clanfearghus. But no one can fight the demons. Now that I have answered you, please continue.”
“I am here,” said Jonnie, “to recruit fifty young, valiant men. They will be taught certain skills and will perform certain tasks. It will be dangerous. Many of them may die. But in the end, should God grant us fortune and we are true to our task, we may defeat the demons and drive them from this world.”
It caused an explosion. The council had withdrawn into themselves at their Chief's recitation of ancient history and they had been made fearful. But the idea of someone combating the demons was so outrageous they exploded.
Jonnie sat quietly until the Chief thumped the chair arm with his sword hilt. The Chief looked at a council member. “You wished to speak, Angus?”
“Aye. There is another myth, that once long ago when Scots were thousands, a great crusade went south and they were crushed.”
“That was before the demons,” shouted another council member.
“Nobody has ever fought the demons!” yelled another.
A grizzled council member stood forward and the Chief recognized him as Robert the Fox. “I do not deny,” he said, “that it would be worthy cause. We starve in the Highlands. There is little grazing for sheep. We dare not plow and plant crops as our ancestors once did in these rocky glens, for the myths tell us demons fly through the air and have eyes, and some say that the strange metal cylinder that passes overhead on some days is itself a demon.
“But I also tell you,” he continued, “that this stranger, clothed in what I take to be buckskin, signifying a hunter, speaking a strangely accented speech, smiling and courteous and no Argyll, has voiced an idea that in all my long life, I have never heard before. His words cause the mind to flare with sudden vision. That he can propose such a vision of daring and boldness proves that in some way he must be a Scot! I recommend we listen.” He sat down.
Fearghus was musing. “We could not let all our young men go. Some would have to be from the Campbells, some from the Glencannons. But never mind. Stranger, you have not told us either your name or from whom you are a messenger.”
Jonnie braced himself. “I am Jonnie Goodboy Tyler. I am from America.”
There was chatter. Then Robert the Fox said, “Legends say it was a land of the ancients where many Scots went.”
“Then he is a Scot,” said another council member.
The Chief held up his hand to quiet them. “That doesn't tell us from whom you are a messenger.”
Jonnie looked calm. He didn't feel calm. “I am a messenger from mankind– before we become extinct forever.”
He saw a flicker of awe in some, a flicker of wonder in others.
The Chief leaned forward again. “But how did you get here?”
“I flew here.”
The Chief and the others digested this. The Chief frowned then. "In these times only the demons can fly. How did you get here from America?”
“I own a demon,” said Jonnie.
Chapter 10
He had to get to Terl before the monster took off and blasted the village. The sun was arcing up perilously close to the deadline: noon.
Jonnie ran uphill on the trail, his heart overworked. Bushes whipped by. Stones rolled under his pounding feet.
It had been a wild night and a hard-worked morning.
The clan Chief had sent runners and riders thundering across the Highlands to summon other Chiefs. They came from far glens and hidden caves of the mountains, bearded, kilted, cautious, and suspicious– enemies, many of them, one to another.
The Chiefs of the MacDougals, Glencannons, Campbells, and many others had come. Even the Chief of the Argylls. A subdued English lord from a group in the lower hills had come. The King of a tiny Norse colony on the east coast had strode in late. It was after midnight when Jonnie could talk to them all.
He leveled with them. He explained that Terl had personal plans of his own, independent of the company, and was using his power to further his own ambitions. He told them that Terl conceived himself to be using Jonnie, and through Jonnie, men, to carry out his project, and that quite possibly
Terl would slaughter the lot of them when he had finished with them.
Jonnie began to realize, as he spoke to the intent faces around the flickering council fire, that he must be dealing with some Scot love of guile. For when he told them he had an outside chance of turning the tables and using Terl, only then did the Chiefs begin to nod and smile and hope.
But when he told them about Chrissie, held as a hostage against his good behavior, and that part of his own plan was to rescue her, he had them. A streak of romanticism, which had survived all their defeats and humblings, welled up in them. While they could agree to a long-shot objective with their minds, they rose to the rescue of Chrissie with their hearts. What does she look like? Black eyes and corn-silk hair. How was she formed? Beautiful and comely. How did she feel? Crushed with despair, hardly daring to hope for rescue. They were angered by the collar, disgusted with the leash, violent about the cage. They shook their chiefly weapons in the flashing firelight and made speeches and quoted legends.
Beacon fires had been set flaming in the hills, their Chiefs signaling a gathering of the clans. They sent their warlike messages until the dawn.