"Yes, sir." Hamish grinned, but briefly. He was understandably more depressed than any of them by this first sight of his new home. "What about food, and fires, and dry clothes?"
"Ha! What do you think? Pilgrims are supposed to bring their own. You've never met your esteemed cousin?"
"No, sir."
"Ah! Well, Murray can be awkward. He's more or less a hermit. He hates men, and women terrify him. I'm not sure how he reacts to boys. Take that feather out of your cap before he sees it." The rebel had become ominously sympathetic all of a sudden.
"Do I call him 'Father'?"
"If you want. He's not a full acolyte, so you'll be flattering him. You can call the spirit a tutelary, too. Again, that's just a courtesy."
Toby had removed his sword and was stretching his shoulders luxuriously. "What's the difference between a spirit and a tutelary? Strength?"
Rory hesitated. "Strength? No, not at all. Talk with Father Lachlan if you want to discuss theological niceties. You will not go too far wrong if you think of a hob as a child, a spirit as an adolescent, and a tutelary as an adult. It has nothing to do with age, because they are all immortal. Just… experience." There was warning in his eyes.
"Oh — thanks!" Being familiar with the Fillan hob's tantrums, Toby should not have asked such a question here in the precincts of the shrine. Hobs could be touchy and unpredictable, even dangerous. So could adolescents.
Rory turned his attention back to Hamish, who was looking more apprehensive than ever.
"Did you bring any money, laddie?"
"Pa gave me some."
"Hang on to it! Murray has never learned that the stuff can be spent, too. Go and see if any of the other cottages are any more habitable. Brawny laddie, you go find some firewood."
Toby shrugged and followed Hamish out into the rain. He strode over to the cottage that had been named as the keeper's. Finding a miserably small woodpile there, he began stacking logs on his arm.
The door opened and Father Lachlan emerged. He said, "Oh!" Then he said, "No one there, I'm afraid." He had taken a surprisingly long time to hunt for a man in a one-room cottage, and his guilty air showed that he thought that Toby thought that.
Toby said, "Would you mind giving me a hand, Father?"
He held out both arms so the acolyte could load logs on them.
"No fire lit, but the house is inhabited. I was trying to establish how long the keeper has been gone. One always worries that he might have fallen sick or had an accident."
One always thought, Toby thought, that the spirit would take care of the keeper. He couldn't think of anything tactful to say, so he said nothing. He assumed that acolytes were capable of being nosy, like anyone else. Father Lachlan had likely just been measuring the staleness of crusts and estimating the thickness of dust.
Bearing a good third of the woodpile, Toby returned to the cottage. Hamish and Meg were sweeping the floor with handfuls of broom, while Rory knelt at the hearth, nurturing a seedling of fire. He glanced up, apparently back in his usual irreverent good humor.
"Any signs of the holy Murray?"
"No fire lit," Father Lachlan said. "From the warmth of the fireplace, he must have been here last night. He may have gone down to the loch for supplies."
"Then we shouldn't expect him back tonight. Can we raid his larder?" Rory bent to blow on his fledgling blaze.
"Larder? I saw no larder! Fasting purifies the soul." The acolyte beamed cheerfully over his spectacles.
"My tastes run more to cannibalism. Shall we draw lots?"
A shadow darkened the doorway. "Oh it's you, is it?" roared a new voice. "I might have guessed."
Everyone jumped, except Rory, who rose, beaming amiably. "All good spirits be with you, Father Murray."
"Trouble! You always bring trouble." The newcomer lumbered forward into the pale flicker of the lantern. He leaned on a thick, gnarled staff, moving as if his joints hurt. He was old and gaunt, even skinnier than Hamish — it must run in the family. His faded, waterlogged plaid revealed arms and legs like twigs. His face was a craggy construction, all nose and high cheekbones and protruding jaw, its weathered texture visible through wispy white whiskers. Streaks of silver hair had escaped from under his bonnet, plastered to his face by the wet.
Hamish's mouth had fallen open and his eyes showed white all around the irises.
"Trouble is the lot of us mortals, is it not?" Clearly, Rory was intent on being insufferably angelic. "You know the Reverend Father Lachlan of Glasgow, of course. You will also recall that my name is Rory of Glen—"
"Your name is Trouble!"
"Thank you. Rory of Trouble, I must remember that. I am also happy to present—"
"Who are you fleeing from this time?" The old man's voice creaked like Iain Campbell's mill. "I saw you running to hide down by the road. Who was that after you? Where are they? English, I'll be bound, ready to hang you at last. Outlaw!"
Rory sighed. "I am so sorry to disappoint you, Father. Yes, we were pursued. No, they were not Sassenachs. Most of them were not mortal. They were demons, led by a notorious hexer."
The keeper thumped his staff on the muck-littered floor. "Balderdash!"
"Father Lachlan?"
"I'm afraid he speaks the truth, Father."
Obviously Father Murray's worst suspicions had fallen short of the mark. For a moment he just chewed, his craggy face writhing as if about to fall apart from sheer outrage.
"Shira itself diverted them and thus gave us refuge," Rory said sweetly. "I suggest you check with it before you order us out of here. Now, may I present—"
"Where's your gear, huh? No victuals, no bedding? I suppose you expect me to provide those? You think you'll empty my larder and burn up all my firewood to dry yourselves? I'm an old man to be chopping firewood while young ne'er-do-wells take whatever they fancy without thought of payment…"
The angrier he grew, the wider became Rory's smile.
"Firewood shall be no problem, Father." He waved a languid hand in Toby's direction. "The boy there will chop all you need. Food, yes, we shall be happy to take advantage of your renowned Glen Shira hospitality, and money we do have — this time." He jingled his pouch. "We shall amply replace what we eat. Now, I am trying to introduce you to your kinsman, Master Hamish Campbell of Tyndrum."
The fearsome old man rounded on Hamish, who backed away a pace and said, "Cousin?" in a thin whisper.
"Kinsman?" the keeper barked. "Not close! Neal Teacher's youngest? Very distant kin! What're you doing running with these rebel dogs, boy?"
Hamish shot an agonized glance at Rory, then at Toby. "I had to leave the glen for a while… Father."
"Fleeing from demons?"
"Er… Well, no. From the Sassenachs, sir."
"Ha!" Murray Keeper glared triumphantly at Rory. "Now we draw closer to the truth?"
"I am always truthful, Father! Last but most certainly not least…" Rory held out a hand to Meg.
As she stepped forward to the lantern, the old man recoiled with a startled cry. "A woman!" His expression of horror suggested that this was the worst news yet.
"Correct! And none other than the famous Lady Esther, youngest daughter of the Lord Provost of Lossiemouth, whose fabled beauty is the toast of Scotland. She takes after him, as you can see. My lady, may I present Murray Campbell, keeper of the Shira shrine? Do not be daunted by his rough exterior, for it conceals a natural shyness and… Oh, he's gone! Hurrying off to prepare a feast for you, I expect."
CHAPTER FOUR
With Rory barking orders, the pilgrims located another habitable cottage and set fires in both to warm them. They swept the floors and plugged the windows with makeshift basketwork shutters of ferns and branches. Rory repeatedly denounced the hermit as a slatternly miser; Father Lachlan's efforts to defend him were notably half-hearted. The only furnishings they could find were a few rotted heaps of ferns, which nobody fancied. Rory himself went off to confront the old man; angry shouts echoed through the glade. He returned with a tight jaw and a threadbare blanket for Meg.