Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends #1)(47)
The men were nowhere to be found. Velloc hadn’t just left me alone . . . he’d left. Anxiety fluttered up from my stomach. My sole protector had left without a word.
But then, what should he have done? Left a yellow sticky note? I laughed at the thought, my humor calming the sudden panic like a dose of Valium.
Curiosity spurred me on. I wandered unchecked amid round stone buildings with thatched roofs. The bustling people paid me little heed.
A thick blanket of cloud cover concealed the exact location of the time-telling sun, but it seemed like I’d slept well into the afternoon. Repeated stress and sleep deprivation had knocked my exhausted ass out as if I’d been chloroformed. No wonder I’d been cluelessly disrobed.
Motivated by a natural inquisitiveness and a need to assimilate, I meandered toward the women by the fire. They sorted baskets of food—shellfish, vegetables, roots, and herbs—as they laughed and whispered, appearing to gossip. One glanced up, said something, and the whole group hushed. Faces popped up, assessing the newcomer approaching their clique. I straightened my spine and forced a wide smile, ignoring the nervous roil of my stomach as I realized their topic of discussion: me.
In an empty spot on a broad log, I sat and nodded, opening my extended hands. The one closest to me handed me a basket of mussels, and I watched carefully as she sorted them. Open or cracked shells were tossed into a discard pile. I touched the rough edge of one shell, and it snapped shut. I gasped, jerking my finger back, and the entire group laughed.
“I’m Isobel,” I said once their chatter died down.
Lots of blank expressions followed.
I pointed at myself, reenacting my primitive standard introduction. “Eeee-sooo-bellll.”
A bright girl about my age pointed at me. “Isobel,” she repeated, with slow enunciation. She smiled, flat palming her chest. “Dotán.”
Finally. I’d made a breakthrough in my communication quest. Around the circle, each girl introduced herself and repeated my name, everyone enjoying the game. I took full advantage of the instant camaraderie, drafting off the momentum of the speeding translation train, and held up one of the shells in my lap.
“Mussel.”
Unblinking stares were my only reply.
“Mussel,” I repeated, tapping the shell with the index finger of my other hand.
Dotán offered the name for it. “Seynah.”
Aaand . . . we’re off! I grabbed every object I could find, and they supplied their translation for each: pelt, boot, basket, fire, log. The words were short and easy to pronounce, so we kept going, and I continued absorbing, like the driest sponge dropped at the edge of an enormous sea.
I held up a lock of my hair, identifying it. “Blond.” Among the group, my pale shade stood out from their vivid browns, auburns, and blacks.
They responded with a word that, for all I knew, could’ve meant hair. Common sense told me it probably had.
I grasped a lock of Dotán’s silky raven hair with my other hand. “Black,” I said. They giggled. I shook my head, laughing and joining the amusement. Colors seemed too difficult to distinguish from the objects themselves, so I shelved that clarification challenge for a later date.
After exhausting the supply of identifiable items around the fire, the girls abandoned their kitchen tasks, dragging me around their village, delighting in our new game. Thank God I’d been blessed with a photographic memory—a vital weapon for rapid retention.
In our quest for new subject matter, we wandered toward the outskirts, and a weathered, middle-aged woman who was hanging tanned animal hides barked a curt word at us. The course command doused our lightheartedness like a snuffed out candle, the girls instantly losing their smiles and turning around. With a swift pace, we returned to our abandoned food preparations, taking our former places while two of them whispered heatedly. I decided they were grumbling about the woman who still glared at us from afar, since overseeing our obedience had become her new primary function. We sorted in relative silence, finishing the preparations of a very large meal.
Suddenly, animal cries pierced the calm, a couple of teenage boys sounding some kind of alarm. Answers were carried to our ears on the wind. The dogs arrived first, circling the village several times. Two broke off and rolled around with the puppies.
Minutes later, dozens of men approached, carrying fresh kills from a hunt: a deer, several rabbits, and a goose dangling by its neck from one hunter’s fist. Velloc brought up the rear, accompanied by several men who held a regal, experienced air about them.
Velloc scanned the crowd until we locked gazes, and a smile lit up his face. He was either pleased that I’d worn the outfit he’d provided or that I’d had the wits to properly to dress myself in it; but perhaps he’d simply been happy that I’d been accepted by his tribe. If it was the last theory, that made two of us. In what had become my best academic day ever, I’d learned volumes in hours about the lost culture and language of the mysterious Picts.
*
Meat roasted on wooden spits over several small fires, and I watched as everyone helped themselves to a share with their own knife. I hadn’t any need for food weaponry, apparently. Velloc brought over a diverse sampling of food to where I intentionally sat away from the group, choosing to take a break from the day’s sensory overload by observing from afar. Before I had the chance to express my thanks, he left and mingled with the rest of his people.