The Autumn Duchess- The Seasons' Fairy Tales

  The Autumn Duchess

  By

  Katie M. John

  www.katiemjohn.com

  Copyright 2018 Katie M. John

  Little Bird Publishing House

  London

  This is an Amazon Exclusive book. No part of it may be copied and uploaded on any other site. The act of illegally uploading this book may result in the author being penalised by Amazon and being unable to produce more books. It destroys the creative community.

  Please do the right thing and alert the author at www.katiemjohn.com if you have come to this through any other means than Kindle.

  Disclaimer about Historical elements in this story.

  This is a fairy tale which borrows real life historic elements. Although artistic liberties have been taken in the telling of this story, and invented fictional characters have been woven through this story, as well as liberties of place, great respect is offered to those who lived the past.

  I will never forget the profoundly moving experience of visiting the battlefield of Culloden, the museum, and the Scottish Highlands in the summer of 2018.

  Scotland, you stole a piece of my heart.

  CHAPTER ONE

  When the helicopter began to spiral out of control, when I finally accepted the truth we were going to crash into the hard, unyielding granite of Scottish mountain side, and that I was going to die, it wasn’t how I thought it would be. Not that I had given too much thought to what dying might be like, or no more than most sixteen year olds give over to dying.

  I guess I had a vague notion I would at least try to fight it, or that I might be flooded with a thousand regrets about all the things I would now never do, or a tsunami of precious childhood memories. It would have been nice to see the faces of those I loved, of those I had already lost. But there was nothing—just an absence of any kind of rational thought. There wasn’t time. Crashing from two and a half thousand feet in the air doesn’t take long enough to really process a lifetime.

  I think I might have dropped the f-bomb, like I did when I went on that crazy-ass ride at Hope Park last summer, much to my mother’s disapproval. This time, I think she would have forgiven me.

  Maybe I passed out because I don’t remember what if felt like to make impact with the earth. My last memory is Hamish, my uncles pilot, saying he was sorry.

  The feel of rain on my face stirred me but didn’t fully wake me. I was in the deepest sleep I’d ever had, nestled at the bottom of a deep warm pool of darkness. Slowly, a dull ache spread through my body, which turned to something more the further I swam up from the depths of my subconscious. Other sensations assaulted me. Cold. Damp. A ringing in my ears, and finally a full lurch as I rose from the ground with the realisation I was still alive—against all odds, I was still here.

  My head hurt so bad and when I reached for it, my fingers felt the viscous matting of blood. Something terrible had happened to me. Something serious. I checked over the rest of my body. Bruising was already coming out on my ankle and my forearms were lacerated with fine cuts, as if sharp shards of glass had kissed them. I closed my eyes trying to work out how I had arrived in this quiet space, a moorland in the Scottish Highlands with no civilisation in sight.

  I sat for a moment, my knees pulled up to my chest, my head resting against them as I tried to orientate myself. I pushed my mind backwards, tracing back my memories to see how I have arrived at this point. The morning had been full of golden light on the loch; of laughter as my brother Benji had got up and ran straight out of my uncle’s house to the edge of the water to skim stones. The kitchen had been busy with the sound of breakfast making and mum and Uncle Jamie had been having a tense conversation about… My mind went blank. What had they been talking about?

  My mother and her brother had always been the very best of friends. They hardly ever disagreed about anything, and Uncle Jamie was one of the most laid back men I’d ever met. I couldn’t imagine what they were fighting about. I raised my head and scanned the landscape again. There wasn’t a great deal to see. Purple heather, dark green bracken, and golden grasses. One of the mountain mists had settled in, drawing the horizon close. That’s what happened in the Highlands, one minute it would be glorious sunshine and the next minute, a mist would fall as if nature was draping a blanket over her napping child.

  It was time to assess the damage that had been inflicted on my body. I couldn’t spend the rest of the day sat there feeling sorry for myself, but a part of me was frightened I would try to stand and suddenly find my limbs not working. Then I really would be screwed. There was no sign of a road or village within the circle of mist.

  I stretched out my leg. God, it hurt. Everything hurt. Like a new born Giraffe, I made my way to my feet, fighting the dizzy whirling sensation that wrapped its way around me. Everything felt insubstantial. There was nothing to hold on to out here. Just the air and the ground and nothing in between. Even the was the same, it was either flat or rose proudly several thousand feet into the air, disappearing into the grey.

  I wrapped my arms tightly around my chest, yelping at the pain from my shoulder. It was the kind of pain that made everything go momentarily red. I dared myself to look, knowing I had done some serious damage. The white of my blouse sleeve was stained a dull red and a cut at the top of my arm was so deep that I looked away before I might see my bone. It was a miracle I hadn’t bled to death but it did explain why everything felt so faint and unreal.

  I had to move. That was certain. If I stayed there, I would die. If I’d had the energy, I would have cried, but crying wouldn’t help me, and besides, crying meant I’d given up, and I was far from giving up. I breathed in deeply and spun on the spot, trying to read the landscape as best as I could. It was alien to me. I was more used to grey concrete and busy highstreets and humans always being within arms’ reach. London was a million miles away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’d been travelling for hours, or at least that was what it had felt like. Aside from a few sheep scattered over the heather and a rather sullen looking highland cow, there had been no other signs of life. Even the birds were silent in the grey gloom of the mountain mist.

  There were few landmarks to mark my way. More heather. More bracken. More white stones that jutted from the earth and did their best to trip me over. Every so often, my foot would hit softer ground, and water would rim up around my shoes. If I hadn’t already been soaked to the bone, it might have bothered me more. Perhaps I was going to die here after all. I shook the thought away worrying that somehow, Death might hear it like a calling. The mist had lowered as I walked, which meant I was either heading higher or the storm was setting in for the evening. Neither situation was great. As if to answer my question, a strong gust of wind came barrelling towards me and the rain turned from soft to hard.

  At last something more solid formed at mid-height in the mist. A rectangular box of hope. A bothy. I laughed with relief. At least I could take shelter for a few hours and if I was lucky, there would be a wood burner and some emergency supplies.

  Uncle Jamie had taken us to one of his bothys last week for a family picnic. They were designed to provide places of shelter for people lost or travelling on the moor when the weather came down. Each landowner took his responsibility seriously. For some, a well-cared for and basically stocked bothy was literally a matter of life and death. Like now.

  I approached it, forcing myself not to get too hopeful when I saw that it was quite run down and little like Uncle Jamie’s. The door barely hung by its hinges and the windows were misty with dust and grime. However, I wasn’t in a position to be too choosy. With my good arm, I pushed it open and smiled when I coul
d taste the dry air. It was gloomy and spider ridden, but there was a small metal stove and a stash of kindling and logs next to it. There was a chair and a small table with an oil lamp, half-filled, and a cupboard that might offer the possibility of a can of beans or corned beef. Aside from that, the only other features were a tired looking cedar chest. I flicked it open and sighed when I saw the sad condition of the blankets. In any other situation my skin would have crawled with the thought of them being anywhere near me. Our dog had better, cleaner blankets.

  I sighed and made a mental plan to first, light the fire, and then try and get my clothes dry. I would try and rest until the storm passed and if there was enough light left in the day, then I would continue walking until I got to the next village. If there wasn’t enough light, I would sleep there and start again tomorrow.

  The fire lit easily and I offered up a silent thank you. It wasn’t long before the small wooden bothy warmed up and the steam started to rise from my clothes. The sound of pelting rain was almost deafening on the tin roof, but there was a part of me that found it comforting. It was better than the silence.

  I sat in front of the fire and closed my eyes, trying again to work out what had happened. A low growl of frustration emitted from my lips as every time I got close, it was as if the mist had crept in from outside and entered my mind. This was what amnesia must be like, I thought.

  There were stories of people going missing and then turning up hundreds of miles away, not remembering anything about themselves. At least it wasn’t that chronic. I still had memories of home, of mum, of Benji, of this morning—and my birthday yesterday. Yes, it had been my birthday. I had turned sixteen, and been a complete bitch about the fact that I wasn’t home in London so I could spend it with my girlfriends. No, instead, we were visiting Uncle Jamie at his beautiful house in the highlands.

  Uncle Jamie owned acres and acres of mountain side and forests. He’d started when he was just eighteen when he had purchased a batch of forest with the gains of some inheritance. A few years later, the Douglas Firs had been felled and he had put a little of the money by to build a tiny house and then re-invested the rest in replanting and buying the next patch along the mountain side. After twenty-five years of doing this, he was now a ridiculously wealthy landowner. My mother had put hers towards a deposit on her London flat. As much as they were close, they were different.

  I shook my head wondering why these thoughts were coming to the surface now when there were others I really needed. Perhaps it was connected somehow. The forests and Jamie and…

  I pricked my ears and listened carefully. Something had come in on the wind. The sound of activity and commotion—of human life. My heart skipped a beat. Maybe it was a rescue party. I gathered myself to my feet and rushed towards the door, fearful they might just pass right on by in this mist. I was just about to call out when the sound of gun-shots silenced me. It was a hunting party. If I wasn’t careful, I’d end up with a bullet injury to add to all the others. Raising my hand to my eyes, I leaned forward, trying to see through the mist. My heart gave a leap when I saw the swift movement of a handsome young stag running towards me. Sensing me, it stopped and stared directly at me.

  In that moment, I swear it could see right inside of me. The stag turned its head over his shoulder as if to search out the hunters who were perusing it and was just about to turn and take flight when the weirdest compulsion came over me. There had been something in the way the creature had looked at me. It had been asking for salvation. It had been looking for hope. I understood that feeling only too well. I let out a whistle as sharp as I could, knowing it was most likely a futile attempt to communicate with a wild beast.

  I could hear the hunters in the distance, even though I couldn’t see them yet. A terrible sense of inevitable death hit me. I whistled again, praying with all my heart that somehow the creature would understand my intentions to harbour it from its bloody fate. The stag stopped and turned to look back at me, before rounding and heading towards me.

  It had understood. How had it understood?

  The stag came running towards me, and I moved just in time as it crashed through the door and fell into the back wall of the bothy. The beast took up a huge amount of space in the tiny bothy, and its antlers, which had looked kind of elegant out there in the moorland, suddenly seemed to have grown and become fiercer. I looked out the window and saw the shadows of the hunters emerged in the mist and I slammed the door shut, pressing myself against it, willing the stag to stop stamping on the wooden floor and giving away his location.

  “Sssh, you need to stop that,” I whispered.

  Just as the stag had responded to the whistle, it stopped stomping and began to calm. The rapid contraction and expansion of its chest slowing. I turned back towards the window, using the ball of my hand to wipe clean a small space through which I could watch the men outside.

  They were dressed in traditional Scottish garb, red and green tartan and thick cream socks, jackets made of soft brown leather rather than tweed. I’d seen enough guys wearing kilts not to make their appearance too strange, but there was something about them that jarred. They didn’t look quite right. Their guns, not quite like the shot guns Uncle Jamie had in the gun locker by the door.

  I turned to look at the stag, not convinced that I was entirely safe from being pierced by an antler, and gave a yelp of surprise. Standing in front of me, a blanket wrapped tightly around his waist, was a young man with long red hair and a face chiselled like the frost blown granite, softened by a rash of light freckles and a blush on his cheeks.

  I could hardly breathe. My head swam and I knew this was something to do with my injuries, that I was hallucinating, maybe having entered shock or a fever—things you could easily die from.

  “Hello,” he said, strangely bashful for a young man so solid and… manly.

  “Hi,” I managed to squeak, hoping the heat I felt flushing over me was embarrassment and not fever.

  I saw the way his eyes assessed me from the tip of my converse shoes to my leggings, jean shorts, blouse, and finally, my scary looking injury.

  “You’re hurt, lass,” he said, his eyes widening at the sight of my wound.

  The voices of the hunters came closer as they made their way towards the bothy, clearly attracted by the sight of the wood smoke coming out of the chimney and the promise of warmth.

  I turned back to my strange companion, who was busy gathering another blanket from the box. Clearly he wasn’t as picky as I was, although to be fair, he had his modesty to protect.

  I returned my attention to the immediate danger outside the door, holding my breath as I heard the hunters’ discussing a warm toddy and the temptation of drying out a little. God knows what they would think if they should walk in and find her and a half-naked dude. Their accent was thick and local and it was difficult to make out except for some minor disagreement between the men about not having the time to stop and needing to get back to the village.

  Relief swept over me; at least we were near enough to some kind of civilisation that we could make it back before nightfall.

  Eventually, the hunters began to retreat and disappeared into the mist. Letting out a heavy puff of air, I returned my attention to the impossible situation of there being a young man standing where once there had been a stag.

  “Care to explain?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “Have they gone?”

  I nodded, biting down on my lip as I tried to ignore just how beautiful the guy was. He was about eighteen or nineteen and clearly worked out or was an athlete or something. He was the kind of boy I’d only ever really seen in movies.

  “Are you having a hard time knowing where to put your eyes, lass?” he asked with a flash of light in his dark brown eyes. They looked almost the same as the eyes he wore as a … no! That was just ridiculous. People couldn’t shift in and out of animal form like that, not in real life.

  “I guess you’re wondering about the whole…” he paused and shr
ugged, offering me a playful pout of his lips before they broke into a wide grin that caused deep dimples on each cheek.

  God, he was certainly sure of himself. That should have made me instantly dislike him. I hated arrogant boys. There were enough of those ass-holes at college always draping their arm around you as you walked the corridor, or who slapped your ass as they passed, or ate you with their eyes as if you were nothing but a sweet bun. I shivered at the thought of them before returning my eyes to the guy in front of me. Unlike the smarmy boys at college, there as something different about this boy. He was confident, not arrogant. Playful not power-tripping. He was also full of mischief and there was something about that which immediately made me curious.

  “Yeah, I’d really appreciate a different explanation to the obvious one being I’ve lost my mind,” I said.

  “I’m a shifter,” he said, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. “I was kissed by a fae when I was still a wee bairn and this was the curse she gave me. Everyone says I was charmed what with my sparkling personality. They don’t know I’m an animal shifter.”

  I closed my mouth, suddenly registering that I was gaping unattractively. “You can literally change between being a… stag,” I swallowed down my disbelief, “and being a … boy.”

  He advanced towards her, his forehead furrowed with concern as he analysed the wound on my arm. “I think you mean man,” he grinned and I rolled my eyes at him before he fell serious. “What happened to you? How did you get so hurt?” he asked, his hand taking my arm as he let out a low whistle. “Goodness, lass, that’s got to hurt. How comes you’re not crying like a wee girl?”

  I shrugged. “I guess the rest of me hurts so bad that it’s kind of gotten lost a little—that and the shock.”

  “Aye, well shock can do that. I’ve seen that on the battlefield.”

  This time it was my turn to analyse him. “The battlefield? Are you in the military? How old are you?”