“Bring in the shoe-maker!” The words slipped faintly in to Michael"s ears as he lay on the cold
floor. Whatever he had been hit with had been hard and knocked him out quickly for a few
seconds, and now he felt like his thoughts were swimming against a thick tide of treacle.
Whatever he had been hit with was pretty hard and had knocked him out quickly. A pain shot
through his head from just above the right ear to his eye and tried to lift his hand to explore his
wound, but soon realised he was being held by two hooded assailants. He forced himself to
push the pain aside and looked through the blood that dripped down over his eyelashes. He
was kneeling down at the front of the two holding him and facing the stone platform and altar.
On the stage stood the being called the Lord, still hiding his face with a hood and his hands with
gloves. Others were standing facing the altar with their hands clasped in front of them.
“Brothers o" the Order, we are about to embark on a new frontier, where we are free from our
curse. On the stroke o" midnight, it will be exactly one hundred years since we were last at this
juncture, in this very village o" Kirkfale. Glorious are ye who will witness the beginning o" a new
era, my rebirth.”
Michael could sense the enjoyment in the man"s voice, this guy is crazy! He tried to think of
who the voice belonged to, but was interrupted when there was scuffle to the left of him. He
turned his head and spotted three followers dragging a woman in a white lacy dress and
wearing a cotton bag over her head. The dress reminded Michael of something worn at a
wedding, but he shook his head and blinked. He watched as the woman was roughly man-
handled and laid upon the stone altar and strapped to the rock.
“Here, is our ticket to freedom, the key to the lock o" our burden.” The lord held out a hand
towards the woman who was writhing and screaming. Michael willed her to break her bonds,
but knew it was useless. He watched as the lord walked to the woman"s head. “Whilst I was
here, one hundred years ago, ye taught me yer skill and talents and I paid ye all handsomely,
did I no?” There was a general low-level murmur of confirmation, “but one lass, by the name o"
Rose, escaped from the village back to her family in Argyll, damning ye all to hell!” Michael
could sense a growing energy in the gathered followers. “She forced me to slaughter ye all on
that day.” He grabbed the hood of the woman and yanked it off her head, “behold, the
descendant o" Rose McFadgen, the shoe-maker!” He held the head up for all to see.
Michael"s heart sank a million miles, “MARY!” he shouted, struggling to free his hands,
“leave her alone or I will kill you all!” An empty threat, Michael knew, but with his emotions
erupting into chaos he was not thinking straight.
The lord smiled as he looked at Michael, “interesting demands from one not in a position to
make demands.” He let Mary"s head hit the stone altar and took a few steps towards Michael,
“Ye don"t understand who I am, Michael, or what I am capable o" doin.”
“I know you are Black Donald or at least you believe you are. I know that Black Donald
slaughtered every man, woman and child of Kirkfale in 1910 and then burnt it down to the
ground, just because Rose escaped. From that I suspect you are deranged and need
psychological help.” He tried to think of something else, he figured the longer he talked the
longer he had to think of a plan and the longer Mary had to stay alive.
The lord laughed a deep, ear-piercing laugh before continuing, “When my freedom was
postponed in 1910, I had to wait for a direct line of Rose McFadgen who had her look and skill
to resume. Mary is that descendant.”
“But her name is not or never has been McFadgen, her family are from Wales not Scotland,”
Michael pleaded.
“Mary was adopted as a baby when her Scottish family were killed by an act of God.” The
Lord sniggered, though it sounded like a deep rattle, as if he was hiding something, “There are
things going on here, yer puny brain canna fathom, there are forces way beyond yer
comprehension. Ye will do well to leave it there and let me carry on.”
“You can"t possibly expect me...” Michael began angrily whilst struggling against his guards.
“I expect ye will try yer best, but, ye will fail. I brought Mary here to Kirkfale for the sole
purpose of gaining her shoe-making skill, so that my skill set be complete and I will be free.”
“You talk as if you are the prisoner here.” He wanted to keep him talking as long as he
could.
“Aye, that I am, but so are we all on this rock ye call Earth.”
Michael sniggered a little, but only enough to make his point, “now you"re talking as if you"re
an alien from out of space. Do you realise how pathetic you sound?”
“I am much more than you can imagine, Michael, so much more. Something I once offered
ye to partake in, and...” The Lord thought for a moment, “I will offer it to ye again, just because I
like yer stamina.” He stepped closer to Michael and with his left index finger under Michael"s
chin, pulled him up to a standing position. Michael knew those who were holding him gave him
a „gentle" nudge.
He now looked into the lord"s hood and saw only the faint outline of a face, though who it
belonged to, he could not tell. “Michael,” he began quietly, “I am offering you immortality, where
you can have whatever your wildest dreams want.” He could not see, but Michael sensed the
Lord was smiling. “Anything you want will be yours for the taking and no one will stop you. I will
give you the world to rule over if you wished it.” Michael had noticed the Scottish accent had
disappeared again but chose to ignore it as he did before.
“And if I refuse?”
The Lord chortled, “I"ll kill you!” Michael continued staring at the darkness inside the hood,
but thought of Mary, is she alright? Is she alive? He was still without options though.
“Then I accept!” He smiled and watched as the Lord nodded and turned back to the altar.
“Ye will come to realise the benefit of siding with me, Michael. In fact, in the next fifteen
minutes we all will be set free of our curse and ye all will receive yer just rewards.” Michael
watched as the Lord picked up a ceremonial dagger and said some incomprehensible
incantation and took up position above Mary"s body. As if an explosion of realisation occurred
in his head, Michael"s eyes widened.
“Who are ye really, Donald? I mean, are ye really Donald? How can ye have two accents,
one Scottish when speakin to yer followers,” Michael said in a rough dialect similar to Donald"s,
he hoped it would be sufficient, “and one when speaking to me?” he said in his normal accent.
He hoped the difference was enough to punch through any brainwashing Donald had done to
his followers.
He felt a nudge at his wrist and realised his wrist was free and without stopping to think,
clenched it like a brick and swung. He made contact with the two holding him, knocking them
down quite easily, but found others were charging upon him like a pack of wolves. A quick
sneak confirmed Mary was still alive, just before he was thrown to the ground by a larger
follower. “Kill him!” A distant voice commanded.
Michael looked up as several more hooded fighters reached his side; it did not take long to
work out the odds of success, but thought of Mary, even as he received punches and kicks up
and down his torso.
