3915 Words Frank 0. Dodge 11056 Airline Highway-30 Gonzales, LA 70737 email: fdodge@eatel.net THE TIDES OF TIME Angus MacGowan, The MacGowan, Thane of Glochlahn, nodded. Ian MacGowan touched his torch to the pile of oil-soaked wood, and the bonfire roared up. On a distant hill-top The MacGowan saw an answering column of smoke. From hill-top to hill-top the fires moved across the shire, signaling the gathering ... calling the Family Heads to the highland stronghold of their Chieftain. From the glens and from the mountaintops, each family leader mounted and rode at once, leaving orders for his kinsmen to arm and follow hard on his heels. The MacGowan had called, and The Clans responded. # Ellen MacCloud woke suddenly in her New York apartment, and half sat up in the bed. The dream had been so vivid! The details of the highland fastness she'd never seen, were etched on her retinas. Half castle and half cavern, the stronghold of The MacGowan, atop the towering crag called Ben Glochlahn, overlooked a vast sweep of foothills and mist-shrouded glens. The Great Hall was hung with rough tapestries depicting past victories of the Clan, shields, lances, battle- axes, and claymores ... the four-foot, basket-hilted swords of the Highlanders. And The MacGowan, himself. Short, but broad and burly. Kilted in the MacGowan tartan of black and red, with the black haft of a wicked knife called a Skene Dhu protruding from the top of his stocking by his right knee. A great sweep of red beard and long mustaches. Thick braids before and behind his ears. A wide white scar bisected his tattooed face, running from hairline to chin, rendering his left eye blind. The souvenir of a Viking raider who had mistakenly thought that the Highlands were his for the taking. The Highland Chieftain stood with his feet wide-spread, and hands on hips, listening. The deep boom of kettledrums, and the hoarse call of a ram's horn trumpet from down The Cleft announced the arrival of a vassal kinsman. Ellen remembered every detail of the arrival's appearance ... from the floppy bonnet with its black cock's feather, his kilt of green and black with narrow stripes of red and yellow, the great highland sword strapped across broad shoulders ... down to his buskin-shod feet. Her thighs tightened, and her nipples stiffened, heretofore unfelt urges flowing through her. Her ancestor, Black Andrew MacCloud. MacCloud, originally spelled 'MacLeod', came from the Norse 'leod', meaning 'ugly'. To Ellen, there was nothing 'ugly' about the tall Highland warrior. On the contrary, his blatant masculinity brought a rush of warmth to her lower belly. No portrait of him had come down the centuries, but she knew him immediately. Called 'Black Andrew' from the raven hair that fell to his hips, the Clansman was tall, clean-shaven and handsome, with a bold and challenging eye. He swept off his tam-o-shanter and bowed to his liege. "The Clan MacLeod answers your summons, MacGowan. What's amiss?" The MacGowan fingered the mystic runes tattooed on his face, and looked at his chief vassal. "'Tis most disturbing, Andrew MacLeod. Goldorf, the seer of Fergus Ferguson, Laird o' Conmore-by-the-Sea sends word that a great dragon was seen above his castle yester-e'en. The beast soared over the castle trailing a tail of smoke that left a white scar on the sky from horizon to horizon. It passed over with a whoosh and a roar, like a continuous roll of thunder that set the table-ware to shivering and dancing, and caused some of Ferguson's treasured crystal bowls t' shatter." Black Andrew MacLeod eyed his Chieftain. "Disturbing indeed. There's been no dragon in the land since the Clans mustered and destroyed the last of them in its lair in my great- grandfather's time. 'Twas thought that to be the end of them." "Aye. 'Twas thought so. But now here's another. We must find its den, and scotch the beast afore it can cause much damage." "Has Goldorf discerned its nest?" "Nae. 'Twas seen coming from the west, and disappeared into the east." Black Andrew looked thoughtful. "The west. That'd be, then, that the beast came from the Salt Sea. We must look for its lair along the coast, then." "'Tis my thinking ... and as soon as the men be assembled." As they talked, the sounds of new arrivals could be heard. The rumble of the signal drums muttered, as Laird after Laird mounted The Cleft, the narrow cut in the cliffs of Ben Glochlahn that gave access to Castle MacGowan. The rattle and clank of armor, the clop of hooves, as the vassals dismounted in the courtyard. One after another, the kilted Highlanders entered the Great Hall to be greeted by their Liege. Servants hurried forward with jacks of ale and horns of mead for the arrivals, and began setting the long trencher tables with food and drink. Morlach, Seer to The MacGowan, approached, accompanied by his sensitive, a slim young girl wrapped in a plaidie of the MacGowan tartan. "My Lord." "Aye, Morlach? What news? Has the firedrake been seen again?" "Nae, my lord, it seems to have disappeared, but ...." "But, what, man?" Morlach grimaced. "Colin MacBride has sent word of a second, even larger one, passing over Bridesmore Keep." "What?" "'Tis headed in this direction." Ellen reviewed the dream. No Scotland in the history she had studied, had ever accepted the presence of dragons so matter-of-factly. Mythically, yes. Practically, no. # En route to London, she had the dream again. The now-familiar Great Hall was crowded with armed men in the tartans of a dozen Clans. Trestle tables had been set up, and scores of bearded Highlanders ate and drank amid a roar of conversation as to the best way of dealing with the dragon. Many present remembered the tales of their grandfathers, and great-grandfathers, who had met and destroyed the last of the great beasts to appear. Light from the crackling blazes in the huge walk-in fireplaces at each end of the hall, and from torches set in sconces about the walls, glanced off breastplates of steel and brass, off helmets, and swords, and axes. The colorful kilts, and the plaids thrown over shoulders, gave a festive air belied by the seriousness of the assembled warriors. Ellen looked about with an unfamiliar acceleration of her pulses for sight of Black Andrew. Her breath caught a little in her throat, and she felt a rush of warmth and moisture to her womanhood as she spied her tall kinsman in the MacLeod black and green kilt, talking with The MacGowan to one side of the crowd. The long black hair had been caught up in a clasp at the nape of his neck, and he was decked for battle. He wore a plain steel breastplate and backplate, connected by leather straps over his shoulders, and buckled at the sides. Hardened leather guards protected forearms and thighs, and each of the soft leather boots laced to the knee had the haft of a heavy dagger protruding from the top. His longsword slanted across his back, and he held a short-handled war axe in his hand. His helmet, a simple round steel cap, was cradled in the crook of his other arm. As she watched, her heart racing, a tall, emaciated man in a long gray robe with runes embroidered, approached the pair, accompanied by a slight girl wrapped in a shawl of the Clan MacGowan. A hereditary memory stirred at the back of her mind, and Ellen recognized a seer and his sensitive. The wizard spoke. "My Lord, Grizelda has received a message from Colin MacBride, Laird o' Dunsmore. The Laird reports the silver dragon has passed overhead, heading in this direction." The MacGowan fingered his scar, and looked at the girl. "Be you certain sure of this, lass?" "Aye, my Lord." # Half dozing, the dream fading, Ellen MacCloud relaxed in the window seat of the SST. Half an hour, and they'd be in London. As the big airliner crossed the coastline, she felt a sharp jolt that brought her full awake. She looked around at the other passengers, but no one else seemed to have noticed. She glanced out the window at the towering, sea-washed cliffs below. A ruined castle at cliffs' edge caught her eye, and an eerie feeling shivered its way through her, as words and pictures formed in her mind ... then came a shifting and .... She was standing between a portly man in the robe of a wizard and a burly giant in the kilt of Clan Ferguson, on the battlements of the castle below. They were looking up at a fearsome silver beast soaring overhead with an ear-filling din. Her twentieth century mind told her that it was a Super-Sonic Transport, but to another mind, that seemed to be sharing her thoughts, it was a monstrous dragon. She felt herself pull her shawl over her face, and the other mind concentrated, forming the words clearly in her brain. "The dragon flies above, the sun glinting from its silver scales fit to blind me. It flies in the direction of the rising sun." Back came answer, "I hear you, sister." Ellen shook her head sharply and was back in the plane. What was happening? The experience had been real. It had not been as though she imagined it ... she had actually stood on the castle wall and seen a dragon fly overhead! She had heard herself send a telepathic message to ... whom? The girl's mind whirled dizzily. What was happening to her? As the big Skyliner flew inland, Ellen began to feel as though she were phasing in and out .... Flickering from reality to fantasy ... or was it fantasy? Which was real? The big aircraft in which she sat? Or the torch-lit Great Hall of Castle MacGowan? Again Ellen felt a tingle of unreality, as she spotted another of the crumbling castles that dotted the land, and knew, although she had never heard of the man, that it was Bridesmore Keep, the stronghold of Colin MacBride, Laird of Dunsmore. Once more she stood on a battle turret, and looked up at the silver dragon. She was concentrating. "The beast heads true for Ben Glochlahn. Inform The MacGowan ...." "I hear you, sister." This time she recognized the voice in her head as that of Grizelda, the sensitive of Morlach, seer to The MacGowan. A sensitive! Ellen gave a start. Was she was a sensitive, too? And was she picking up telepathic messages sent ... five hundred years ago? No. Now ... sent now. Five hundred years ago. Now. Now and five hundred years ago. Ellen felt herself slipping. The ... flickering ... became more pronounced. She stood in a corner of the Great Hall of Castle MacGowan. She sat in a seat of the SST. She stood in the Hall .... She sat in the aircraft.... Again she wondered. Which was real?... the plane? ... or the castle? Or ... were they both real? She remembered no Scotland in her past wherein telepathic communication and dragons existed, but what if Castle MacGowan were not on her level of existence, but on an alternate time-line ... a world parallel to her own? What if her latent telepathic ability had opened a gate between the two? It came to her that she could step off the pendulum at whichever end of its swing she chose .... She thought of Black Andrew MacLeod felt a spurt of heat deep in her belly, and made her choice .... # The flight from New York landed at Heathrow Airport, and the pilot had something strange to report to the authorities. One of his passengers had disappeared in mid-flight .... # Ellen closed her eyes, and formed a vision of her tall, raven-haired clansman before her mind's eye. She concentrated, calling on her dimly stirring extrasensory ability. The motion of the aircraft ceased, and she felt herself to be standing on hard rock. She opened her eyes to find a startled quartet staring at her. Grizelda the sensitive was first to speak. "I sensed you, sister, but know not from whence you come." Morlach the seer made a magic pass in the air with his hand. "You're not of this world...." A puzzled look crossed his face. He gestured again, and his look of puzzlement deepened. "You're connected in some wise with the dragon, yet I feel no harm in you." The MacGowan peered at Ellen from the one eye in his scarred and tattooed face. "Who are you, child, and how came you here?" Black Andrew MacCloud ran his gaze over Ellen's trim figure, and chuckled. "Who cares? She's beautiful." Ellen blushed. The Thane of Glochlahn repeated his question. "Who are you, and how came ye here? Morlach says you're of a piece with the dragon. How can this be?" Ellen tore her eyes from Andrew's admiring stare. "I don't know how I got here," she said, "but you have nothing to fear from the 'dragon'. It's not alive. It's only a machine." "A what?" How to explain? How to explain a flying machine to these unsophisticated folk? Grizelda came to her aid. "If you'll permit, sister, mayhap I can take the thoughts from your mind." Ellen was aware, although she knew not how, of the strict code of ethics amongst the telepaths, a code that forbade the intrusion into another's mind without permission. To send, yes. To pry, no. "You may try, sister," she said, hoping with all her heart that the sensitive could penetrate the gelid block of horror the sorcerer had placed at the back of her mind. Penetrate it, and expose the real danger, but she feared that the wizard's power was too strong. The Thane's seer had not detected the spell. For a moment, Ellen felt the gentle probing of the other mind, the probing that sought only what was necessary to explain the dragon that was not a dragon. The mind withdrew. Grizelda turned to her liege. "My lord, her name is Ellen MacCloud, from a land far away in mists I do not understand, but I glimpsed a wondrous world wherein carts moved with great speed without horses, and I saw numbers of people going into the belly of a huge silver shape that then rolled swiftly along the ground, and leapt into the air. 'Tis no dragon, but a means of transportation only." The MacGowan looked at Ellen. "How came this thing here, and where has it gone, leaving you behind?" Ellen wanted desperately to tell him, but the damnable spell placed on her by the Grey Wizard forbade any disclosure by word or deed. That icy block at the back of her mind remembered, held every detail of the terrifying encounter .... # The ... flickering ... became more pronounced. She stood in a corner of the Great Hall of Castle MacGowan. She sat in a seat of the SST. She stood in the Hall .... She sat in the aircraft.... Again she wondered. Which was real?... the plane? ... or the castle? Or were they both real? It came to her that she could step off the pendulum at whichever end of its swing she chose.... She thought of Black Andrew MacCloud and made her choice .... Ellen closed her eyes, and formed a vision of her tall, raven-haired clansman before her mind's eye. She concentrated, calling on her dimly stirring extrasensory ability. The motion of the aircraft ceased, and she felt herself to be standing on hard rock .... She opened her eyes ... and shrank back from the fearsome figure standing before her. The wizard was cadaverously thin, his face so fleshless as to appear almost a skull with a long, wispy gray beard. His piercing eyes were set deep in cavernous sockets. He was dressed in a floor-length robe of black wool embroidered from neck to hem with arcane runes in thread of gold and silver. His hands, like the shriveled claws of a vulture, were making mystic passes in the air. He looked at the girl, and laughed gratingly. "Did you think you came here of your own free will?" Ellen put the back of one hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. "Who are you?" The sorcerer bowed mockingly. "Greylin, my Lady. Greylin, Master of the Occult." The girl glanced around the strange room. Long tables held bubbling retorts and helices of glass tubing, flagons and vials of mysterious liquids, a human skull, and a huge open book with pages of yellowed parchment. The walls were hung with charts and graphs that consisted of zodiacal symbols and other runes she could not recognize. She shuddered. "Where am I, and what am I doing here?" The wizard waved a fleshless hand. "My laboratory. You are here because I brought you here. I searched across nine worlds to find you." "But why?" Greylin laughed, and rubbed his hands together. "Bait, my dear. Bait for that arrogant bastard, Black Andrew MacLeod." "I don't understand any of this." "Of course you don't." The cadaverous magician snarled. "Two generations back, I was mortally insulted and humiliated when I asked for the hand of Ellen MacLeod. No dabbler in the Black Arts will ever tarnish the name of Clan MacLeod, she said, amd I was driven from the castle. "I swore vengeance against any child born of Ellen MacLeod. But Murdoch, seer of the Clan MacCloud, and my mortal enemy, foiled my schemes at every turn. He cast runes about the child that protect Andrew MacCloud to this day." The sorcerer leered at the frightened Ellen. "My magic told me that there existed another Ellen MacLeod, a distant relation, who, with the lure of her sweet flesh, could penetrate the armor of protective runes, and bring about his destruction." He gestured, and a misty globe formed in the center of the room. An area of swirling vaporous tendrils, and dimly seen movements. "I searched across the time lines of adjacent parallel worlds until I found you." Greylin rubbed his claw-like hands together with a sound like a snake slithering through dry leaves. "Now you will lead me through the maze of charms that protect Black Andrew MacLeod from my vengeance." Ellen shrank back. Lead Andrew to his death? "No!" she cried out. Greylin chuckled. "Yes. You will do nothing but follow your heart ... and your willingness, your beauty, will draw Black Andrew into my net." "I can't. I won't." "You can. You will." The magician gestured, and Ellen found herself unable to move or speak. She watched as Greylin mixed various powders in a brass bowl, made mystic passes, and intoned spells. He snapped his fingers, and the powders burst into flame. A tendril of green smoke circled the horrified girl's cringing body like an amorphous snake. Greylin chuckled evilly. He indicated the smoky coil. "The rope of obedience that binds you to my will." Ellen watched agahast, as the green vapor sank into her flesh. Ellen's mind screamed. "No! No! No!" The hateful voice went on. "I could cause you to forget this, but it pleases my fancy to sweeten my vengeance against Ellen MacLeod to let you be aware that your tempting body will be the bait, and the trigger that springs my trap." He stood close, staring evilly into Ellen's eyes. "Although you will know that it is your soft flesh that brings Black Andrew to his destruction, you shall not, by word or deed, be able to give any indication. Nor will you be able to resist your desire to bed with him." # All this screamed at the back of Ellen's mind, as she let that desire show in her eyes. The MacGowen looked at Ellen. He repeated his question. "How came this thing here, and where has it gone, leaving you behind?" Ellen's struggle against the Grey Wizard's spell showed neither in her face nor in her voice. "I cannot say," she answered. The MacGowan fingered the runes tattooed on his face. "'Tis past my understanding, child, but since you're here, you're welcome to Castle MacGowan until, mayhap, Morlach can divine the mystery." Black Andrew stepped forward and ran his gaze boldly over Ellen's slim body, frankly admiring the pert, piquant breasts, slender waist, and round hips. The heat in his eyes sent tremors of response and open invitation racing along the girl's nerves. Andrew tossed back the plaidie over his shoulder, and took Ellen's hand. Warm thrills ran up her arm at the contact, and her nipples hardened. Ellen recognized that her reaction was no doing of the wizard's spell, but her own female surrender to the viril Highlander's maleness ... the surrender upon which Greylin, the Grey Wizard had built his plot. Andrew turned to the Thane. "Our thanks, MacGowan, but the lass is of Clan MacLeod She'll return with me to Glen Connough." The evil magician's words rang in her ears, "You, my dear, will do only what your heart commands, and your body aches for. You will express your eagerness to lie with Andrew MacLeod. As your body accepts him, the protective spells will be weakened, and I will have my vengeance at last!" She looked at the man to whom she longed to give herself. Her mind screamed, no! no! no! but her body melted against him. The stronghold of Clan MacLeod was built on a commanding rise on a side of the narrow valley known as Glen Connough. Ellen was made welcome by that other Ellen MacLeod, mother to Black Andrew. She was struck by the older woman's beauty, and resemblance to herself. The facial resemblance was remarkable, and though the breasts were a little fuller, the hips a trifle wider, the other woman's body closely matched her own. Now she understood the purpose behind Greylin's search, and Andrew's strong desire for her ... and why her surrender to the Highlander's lust would weaken the spells protecting him ... his incestuous desire t bed his own mother. She understood, but the knowledge in no way diminished her urgent attraction to the handsome Highland warrior. If Black Andrew's dark desire was to enter his mother through her body, Ellen was willing to take him on any terms. Greylin the Magician had banked on that. Ellen knew, that within hours, she would be squirming in the ecstasy of Andrew's embrace, and that in the grip of her arms and legs, the spells protecting him would fade ... and he would die. She rebelled. Surely her twentieth century mind could devise something that would counter medieval sorcery. But there was no such salvation at hand. At the height of his ecstacy, as he exploded within her, Black Andrew gasped, and fell dead atop her. # Ellen MacCloud startled awake in her New York apartment. In her ears ranq the final mockery ... and the full horror of the true vengeance of Greylin the Grey Wizard. The sorcerer's vengeance had never been against Andrew, but against her. Calculated, for her to suffer, not for one lifetime, but for many. # She knew now that she was Ellen MacLeod of Glen Connough, she who had spurned the magician. That the child in her womb had been fathered by her own son. That he would grow up to be Black Andrew MacLeod ... again impregnate her willing body, and die ... time after time ... after time .... That she was damned to suffer the shame, the guilt ... and the illicit, unsanctified joy... of the incest generation after generation .... # In his laboratory, the Grey Wizard howled with laughter. * * * * *