Table Of ContentFaith of a Highlander
Arch Through Time, Volume 16
Katy Baker
Published by Katy Baker, 2021.
While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no
responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information
contained herein.
FAITH OF A HIGHLANDER
First edition. August 16, 2021.
Copyright © 2021 Katy Baker.
Written by Katy Baker.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 1
Sara Connelly sat in the overstuffed leather chair and sighed. She realized she was drumming her
fingers on the desk again and forced herself to stop. How long was this going to take?
The receptionist had shown her into Mr Renshaw’s empty office, offered her a cup of tea, and told
her Mr Renshaw would be with her presently. That had been thirty minutes ago. She’d finished her tea
and now really needed to pee.
She looked around, wondering where the bathroom might be. The office was big and lavish,
designed to impress. It had high ceilings and over-sized furniture with a tall row of windows on one
side, giving a sweeping view of the Scottish Highlands spreading into the distance. By the look of the
dark sky above the heather-clad mountains, another downpour was on the way.
Great, she thought. Just in time for my drive home.
The door opened with a creak and a short, round man walked in. He was going bald on top but
had a fringe of wild white hair around the rest of his head that made him look as though he was
wearing a cloud. He peered at Sara over the top of a set of half-moon spectacles.
“Ah! Miss Connelly!” He crossed the room and took her hand, pumping it vigorously. “I’m Angus
Renshaw. Delighted to meet ye! I’m sorry for keeping ye waiting so long. I was trying to talk to
someone in New York on one of these new-fangled video call thingamabobs. Had a bit of technical
trouble. Turns out I had my microphone turned off and spent twenty minutes talking to myself! Would
ye like another cup of tea? No? Then we’ll get down to business.”
He lowered himself into the chair on the other side of the desk, which creaked alarmingly as he
settled his weight into it. He leaned forward, looking entirely too small behind the enormous piece of
furniture, and fixed her with bright eyes.
“Ye know why ye’ve been invited here today?”
Sara nodded. “My late uncle’s estate?”
She had been saddened to receive the letter telling her of her uncle Robert’s passing. She’d only
met him once, when she was around five years old on one of the rare occasions when she’d been
spending time with her father, and it was one of the few memories she had of either of them. She
remembered Uncle Robert as a red-faced, jovial man with a liking for the whisky. By all accounts, it
was that liking that had done for him in the end.
“That’s right,” Mr Renshaw said, nodding. “I trust ye had a good flight?”
She smiled crookedly. “Oh, you know. Not really. Long. Boring. Horrible food. The usual.”
Angus Renshaw snorted a laugh. “Aye, sounds about right.”
She didn’t tell him she’d almost declined the invitation. There was no way she could afford the
air fare to Scotland, not after what had happened with Simon and the business, and it was only when
she’d learned that Uncle Robert’s estate would pay for her travel and accommodation that she’d
decided to come. Her mom had been dead against her coming of course, as she was dead against
anything to do with Sara’s father.
Nothing good will come of it, I tell you, she’d chided Sara. Anything to do with that man is
poison. You shouldn’t go anywhere near it.
But Sara had come anyway. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was curiosity about the side of her
family she’d never known. Maybe she wanted to see her childhood home again, indulge in a bit of
nostalgia. Or maybe it was even simpler than that. Maybe she was running away. From Simon. From
the failed business. From everything.
Mr Renshaw climbed out of his chair, crossed to a cupboard, and took out a leather box like a
small, old-fashioned suitcase. He placed it on the desk between them.
“This is what yer uncle left ye in his will. Open it.”
Sara lifted the box onto her lap and looked down at it. The hard leather was faded with age. The
initials, R. J. C were carved into the top. Her uncle’s initials. She ran her fingers gently over the
letters.
What would it have been like to have grown up knowing her Uncle Robert and her other extended
family? What if she’d grown up in Scotland instead of moving to the US? Would she have known her
uncle better? Too late now.
She drew a breath, flicked the locks, and opened the lid. Inside, she found a stack of papers, dusty
with age. She gently took out the manuscripts and laid them out on the desk, leaning forward to
examine them.
They were maps.
The first looked like an eighteenth-century map of the local area. It was hand-drawn in faded ink
and showed the building in which she now stood surrounded by fields and a small village. Other
manuscripts looked to be charts mapping the Western Isles, others looked like boundary records of
some large Highland estates in the north.
Then one particular document caught her eye. It was smaller than the others and made from a
material she couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t paper, but nor did it look like parchment. It was frayed
around the edges and something about it spoke of real age. She leaned closer for a better look. The
map showed the Highlands, that much she could tell from the outline of the coast, but it didn’t show
any settlements or the usual landmarks she might expect. Instead it was marked with symbols that
looked like pointed crowns. They were scattered across the Highlands in no discernible order, each
one with tiny writing underneath. Sara didn’t recognize the language. It was a spiky script, stark and
angular, like Nordic runes.
“What is all this stuff?” she asked Mr Renshaw.
He shrugged. “I dinna have the faintest idea. All I know is that in his will, yer uncle wished ye to
have this box and its contents. What little money Robert Carlisle had was lost long ago to the drink,
I’m afraid. The house will be sold to pay off his debts. This is all that’s left.”
A box of old maps is all that’s left of my father’s side of the family, she thought with a pang of
sadness.
“Do you mind if I show my mom?” she asked. “She’s been dying to know what Uncle Robert left
me and I won’t get any peace until she does.”
Renshaw shrugged. “They belong to ye. Ye can do what ye please.”
Sara took out her cell phone, opened the camera, and carefully photographed each map. Then she
emailed them across to her mom with the message, I’m now the proud owner of some moldy maps!
She stared at the documents a moment longer, then folded them up and put them back in the box.
She had no idea what she would do with them. Perhaps some local history society might have use for
them.
Mr Renshaw steepled his fingers and watched her shrewdly. “May I be honest with ye, miss?”
Sara shrugged. “Sure.”
“I’m surprised ye made the journey from the US at all. It’s a long way to come when we already
informed ye there was nothing of monetary value left in yer uncle’s will. Most people wouldnae have
bothered. When they discover there’s no family fortune left by their long-lost uncle, they lose interest.
Yet ye came anyway. Why?”
Sara shifted uncomfortably in her seat. I don’t know, she thought. Maybe I thought I’d find some
answers.
She suspected that deep down part of her had hoped her father might be here. Even after all this
time, after eighteen years of not so much as a birthday card, Sara still found herself wondering if he
might turn up one day. Of hoping that he might turn up one day.
If only so she could slap him hard enough to rattle his teeth.
Sara climbed to her feet. “Thank you, Mr Renshaw. You’ve been most helpful. If that concludes
our business?”
“Aye, miss. It does. Ye have a good day now.”
“I will. Thank you.”
She left the plush office, Uncle Robert’s box tucked under one arm. Jeez, she really needed to pee.
In the corridor outside she turned in a quick circle, looking around, and spotted the bathroom at the
end of the passage.
Finally! She hurried towards it, eager to get home before the rain hit.
Why had her uncle left her a box of old maps? she wondered as she entered the bathroom. A
whim? Or was there more to it? And why her? They didn’t even know each other!
She was so preoccupied with these thoughts that as she finished in the bathroom and pushed open
the door, she didn’t see the small figure coming the other way until the door whacked into it.
There was a strangled scream, and the figure went flying backwards. Sara’s heart leapt into her
mouth. She dropped the box, scattering papers over the floor, and lunged, grabbing a flailing arm, then
a shoulder, catching the person a few inches from the floor.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry!” Sara gasped. “I didn’t see you. Are you all right?”
She pulled the figure upright and it was only then that she realized it was a small, round old
woman wrapped tightly in a thick coat. Although it was April and spring was well under way, it had
been unseasonably cold recently. The old woman pressed a hand to her chest and took several deep
breaths, clinging onto Sara’s arm.
“My,” she gasped. “That was close. It’s good ye can move so fast, my dear.”
Mortification sent a flush across Sara’s cheeks. “I really am sorry. You’re not hurt, are you?”
The old woman looked up at her. “Only my pride, my dear. And sometimes I reckon that could do
with taking down a peg or two anyway.” She grinned, her eyes sparkling.
The old woman’s cheeks were rosy pink and her smile made her look like a mischievous child,
despite the wrinkles that lined her face. Her eyes were dark, her hair a stormy gray and scraped back
into a bun.
“Where we ye off to in such a hurry?” the old woman asked.
“Home. It’s been a...strange morning.”
“Strange, eh?” the old woman replied, raising an eyebrow. “Didnae find the answers ye were
hoping for, eh?”
“Answers?” Sara snorted. “Just more questions.”
The woman cocked her head. “Aye, it takes ye like that sometimes, my dear. Especially when ye
dinna know the right questions to ask.”
Her dark eyes bored into Sara, unblinking, and Sara shifted uncomfortably. There was something
about the way the old woman was looking at her—as though she was being weighed on a set of
invisible scales.
Then the woman suddenly stuck out her hand. “I’m Irene, my dear. Irene MacAskill. It’s a delight
to meet ye.”
Sara shook the old woman’s hand. She had a surprisingly strong grip, even though her skin felt as
warm and dry as the bark of an old tree. “Um...you too.”
Uncle Robert’s papers, Sara realized, were scattered across the floor. She knelt and began
gathering them up. Irene suddenly let out a sharp gasp.
Sara glanced up and found the old woman staring at the last of Uncle Robert’s papers. It was the
strange map, the one with the odd crown-like symbols and rune-like writing. Irene’s eyes were fixed
on it, an expression on her face that Sara struggled to place. If she didn’t know any better, she would
say it was...loathing.
“Irene?” Sara asked. “Are you okay?”
“Put it away, my dear,” Irene replied, forcing a smile. “Ye dinna want it to blow away, do ye
now?”
Sara grabbed the strange map, folded it, and stuffed it back into the box, along with the others. She
rose to her feet. “Well, it was nice to meet you. And sorry again for nearly knocking you over.”
She took a step, but Irene’s fingers curled around her wrist. A faint burning sensation flared along
Sara’s skin where Irene touched her.
“There is a reason ye havenae found the answers ye seek,” the old woman said. “It’s because ye
havenae asked the right questions.”
Sara blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Who are ye, Sara Connelly? Or should I say, Sara Carlisle?”
Sara started. “How do you know that name?”
“I’ve been waiting for ye for a long time, my dear. Much depends on ye. Much depends on the
choices ye will make. On the questions ye will ask and the answers ye will seek.”
This was making no sense. Sara wanted nothing more than to get in her car and drive back to her
cottage. She felt a TV binge coming on. Heaven. But Irene’s grip was like iron, her dark gaze pinning
Sara to the spot.
“Look,” she said, trying to hide her unease. “I don’t know you, nor do I know what you’re talking
about. Now, if you’d kindly let me go, I’ll be on my way.”
But Irene didn’t let go. “Ye will have a choice coming to ye, my dear,” she said. “One that has
been moving towards ye through all the layers of time. One that ye canna escape because of who and
what ye are. A fork will appear in the road of yer life. Will ye take it? Will ye risk all on a different
direction? One that might ultimately lead to the thing ye have been seeking all along, even if that thing
turns out to be something very different to what ye thought? Or will ye carry on the path ye are
currently walking? The choice will be yers.
But know this. If ye choose the new path, it will be hard. Ye will discover things about yerself
that ye never suspected. Some of those things ye willnae like. But if ye are steadfast, if ye trust yer
heart, ye may come through to the end and find yer true destiny.”
Sara stared at the old woman. Her mouth worked, but no words came out. Who was this crazy old
harridan? And why did her words make nerves swirl in Sara’s stomach like acid?
Irene released Sara’s wrist, then reached up and patted her cheek. “Think on it, my dear. Ye
willnae have long. Already I feel yer choice drawing closer. Good day.”
She turned and walked away, shoes clicking on the polished floor. Sara watched her go, mouth
hanging open.
Okaaay, Sara told herself. That was weird. A night in front of the TV is exactly what I need.
