The Jhojan Timelines - Chapter 3 (Book 8 - The Book of Jhojan)

Magic moments,

Upon the hillside,

Lush grasses sway in the light breeze,

Tiny wings beat, reflecting a blue

Lightning bugs of a small size

Bounce in rhythm to the morning sun,

Out beyond the sea of green,

An endless horizon

A blob of light grows from that vastness

The trails of smoke bring forth an elemental dance,

Memories of a cup filled with wine,

Moments touched by the divine.

–

Jhojan read his poem one more time. He had wanted to add more to the composition but found himself interrupted by the pounding of horseshoes upon the road. The King's men were upon tall, sturdy horses, each guided in armor. He laughed, realizing that the glint of the armor had caught his attention before the sound of the horse’s hooves.

After speaking with the Sergeant of the passing Scottish cavalry, Geàrr informed Jhojan of the two-day timeline for arrival at Eilean Donnain castle.

After a brief pause, Geàrr says, “I know a family that lives near Glen Moriston, just west of Loch Cluanie. They have a small farm there, and I’m sure they would allow us to stay the night.”

Deciding to make use of the new information and additional time, the two saddled their horses and rode out past a small village and northwest towards Loch Quoich.

The Highlands were a distinct green; lush patches of forest grew such that Geàrr and Jhojan were limited to various pathways around and through the foliage. They hugged mountainsides and the shorelines until they reached the northern tip of Loch Quoich.

The two men decided to take a moment to allow the horses to graze, and Jhojan decided this was a good time to reward his mount with the second half of the apple. Using her lips, Tàirneanach donn pulled the red apple slice into her mouth and crunched the juicy fruit happily. As if to follow suit, Geàrr cut his apple in half and gave his horse, Sgòthan tàirneanaich, one of those halves. Both horses had half-closed eyes, the ears back, upper lips pointed in an equine smile.

From the position of the sun, Jhojan was able to figure there was a free hour or two in which they could wet a line in the loch.

“There are good-sized brown trout, might take a shot at a monster pike if you wish to.” A smile crossed the big man’s face.

They fished the upper inlet, where the River Quoich flows into the larger body of water, along the southern shore. For bait, Geàrr dug up a few worms. Jhojan used a piece of basal wood in the shape of an oval, a hook at the rear, and a small fixture point on the opposite side of the oval, for which he could attach a fishing line. As he pulled it along the shoreline, the bait’s movement was intended to mimic a smaller fish or large bug swimming by, hopefully luring a good-sized fish to investigate and bite.

First cast, Geàrr caught an edible-sized brown; second cast, a larger-sized brown. Jhojan missed the first cast; the fish spat out the lure before he could bait the hook. On the second cast, nothing. He switched to a shoreline strategy and, after a few seconds, caught a medium-sized brown, and just as he was pulling it into the shallows, a large pike decided a meal of the hooked trout was worth the trouble of fighting Jhojan for it.

The pike was a massive creature of the Loch, a monster that ate whatever it wanted and whenever it felt like it. This time, it took a chance at Jhojan’s catch, as quick as a flash, the master of the Celtic arcane arts snatched up his rod and, with luck on his side, hooked the beast of a fish. Geàrr stopped his search for additional worms to run to aid in the battle with the massive fish, taking it in turn via measured increments before the fight concluded with a pair of them standing with shaky arms, breathing heavily, speechless at the results of their labor. The pike had jumped back into the loch a pair of times before this third time, it had given everything to escape, and it ceased to flop about the shoreline.

“Haha!” shouted Jhojan in triumph, grasping Geàrr on the shoulder, who returned the gesture.

“That is a monster fish,” he said in his family’s blend of Gaelic and Pictish. There was a tone to his voice that hinted that nobody was going to believe that they landed such a pike.

As a result, they set to work on cooking a late afternoon meal. Geàrr carved up the pair of browns, Jhojan found a suitable cloth for wrapping the pike, and stashed the three-foot trophy catch over the saddle bags.

He went and took hold of the grey’s lead rope, to which the brown followed, leading them both to a location closer to the cookfire. Each began grazing contentedly.

By then, Geàrr had finished cooking the trout to a crispy, golden texture. For flavor, the innkeeper used a small stick of butter he'd brought and melted some of it upon the four trout fillets. Pulling them from the fire, Geàrr added a few simple spices to the brown meat before handing Jhojan a fillet half from each fish. Each sat in contented silence while they ate.

It was one of those rare afternoons when the Highlands were blessed with sunlight. They stood on the banks of the loch after finishing their meal and put out the small fire, along with dismantling the stone ring that had been used during the cooking process.

It was another quarter-day ride to the farmhouse near the western banks of Loch Cluanie, near Glen Moriston. Arriving with the legendary fish for dinner was the ticket, as Geàrr was well aware. A woman walked out to greet them, familiar with the Highland man as the travelers approached.

“Eatin' well, I see.” She said, taking in the sheer size of her cousin. They hugged, movements tender as if holding someone dear. After letting go, she gave Geàrr a solid punch on the shoulder. Enough for him to involuntarily rub the spot she popped.

“Come in, come in.” She said, gesturing welcome into her home.

Outside, near the well, a small tree grew, its leaves beginning to change into a golden hue, mixed with various shades of red, orange, and yellow.

The stone masonry design of the household was covered in highland mosses. Taking a second to look around the property, Jhojan noticed sweeping glens and a few sheep roaming the pasturelands.

Geàrr’s cousin took the fish and informed the two men she was making shepherd’s pies for the evening's meal, to which the pair met up with Ranald MacDonnell, her husband. Who was gracious enough to share some aged Scotch that he’d been saving for a special occasion.

They set up a few stools outside just under the thatch. Jhojan offered pipeweed, which each took a pinch of. The trio of men enjoyed the relatively mild evening. The clouds had returned, a light grey blanket, but the sunset was still visible through a small break somewhere off the western coast.

They discussed the legitimacy of Scotland's claim on the Hebrides and the fighting between the various factions in Ireland, but then the conversation turned to their neighbors in the south.

“England has too much to say about what goes on here in our country,” Ranald began to say before his wife cut him off.

“Time for dinner; you can debate politics later,” she said, the smell of freshly baked shepherd’s pie wafting through the door ajar. This, of course, quelled any protest from the men as each one’s stomach rumbled in turn.

“Well, you heard the woman, dinner is served.”

She’d taken care in preparing the pike; the seasonings were otherworldly, which resulted in the three men eating quietly, enjoying their meal. Mrs. MacDonnell bustled about the place, ensuring the children were fed and the guests happy. She took it upon herself to ensure her cousin's visit was a good one.

After dinner, she offered up the master bedroom, but the two men negotiated sleeping places outside by the fire pit. It was a cold evening, but nothing they’d not faced before, “relatively balmy,” is how Geàrr described it.

There was not much in the way of starlight; the clouds were an ever-thickening blanket that covered the skies.

Jhojan took the first watch, each deciding to stay in practice, knowing that on the morrow, the situation against Haakon IV’s men was to become all too real. However, at the current moment, they were safely in Scottish territory.

Geàrr had no trouble sleeping; a light snoring soon escaped his person, while Jhojan contented himself with perfecting his Ethiopian cherry brewing process. He’d heard it called “coffee,” a silly name, he thought.

Yet the effect it produced was immaculate; it stimulated the mind and energized the body.

Curious effect, he thought, but one that he rather enjoyed.

He stoked the fire, then, after getting the blaze just right, he stood and moved out into the storage sheds to collect enough timber to split for the night. Taking hold of the axe left by the splitting block, Jhojan chopped a half dozen bucked-up pieces of timber.

Geàrr had rolled over; the snoring stopped, and his face was now turned towards the fire. Jhojan moved quietly, setting down the firewood gently off to the side and taking a seat. He adjusted his cloak to keep it a safe distance from the flames before taking out his Shireman’s.

With the time left to him, the ageless man decided to perform a few arcane exercises. After filling and lighting his pipe, Jhojan started by lifting small pebbles off the ground, something he was not particularly gifted at, yet the small stones would hover. He made a pair of stones dance around each other in a circle before releasing the spell.

He was suddenly hungry, stomach growling its desire for sustenance. He’d left the dining table with a pair of muffins, to which he now consumed. The confections were fluffy, with small berries dotted throughout. Geàrr's cousin was an excellent baker.

His late-night snack was delightful, just enough to fill his stomach.

The fire crackled into the night; livestock moved in the dark out of sight, occasionally grunting and mooing to one another.

The next exercise was one of the mind; he focused on his breathing and cleared his mind. It took a few minutes, yet as the ancient mage became still, he began to float an inch above the ground. His Celtic arcane teachers had visited a Buddhist temple from a distant corner of the planet, high in the mountains, and learned this meditative arcane art form.

This form of magic recharged the body, mind, and spirit. He floated in a void like space, created by the frequencies that now reverberated through his physical being, before setting himself back down and returning to an open state of consciousness. The fire had burned down, to which he added more fuel.

It was time to wake Geàrr; he’d spent more time in meditation than intended, but that is the nature of such things. The large Highland man grunted as he lifted himself from the ground, brushing off some dirt from his clothing.

“Ack, it's my turn for watch, then,” he growled, having just been roused. Jhojan handed him some coffee, which soon helped the Celtic man shake off the mental cobwebs.

Having rejuvenated himself through meditation, the ancient man decided to spend the evening sharing stories with his friend.

The morning came swiftly as the two shared in the delights of conversation, choice beverages, and good pipe smoke. Geàrr had packed enough for one last morning meal; strips of coney and a few eggs were all that was left in the food stores, including what he prepared back at the inn.

Jhojan began to feel he had the brewing process down, now that he’d managed not to get grinds into either mug. Smiling to himself, a sense of self-satisfaction came over him, until he drank the last of his mug to find grinds at the bottom.

Geàrr watched in amusement as triumph turned to realization of failure and began to chuckle. “Mine was free of grinds, if that helps,” he said, trying to reassure his friend.

Jhojan looked to his friend, then gave Geàrr details on what he must have done incorrectly and what might improve the process.

“A metal mesh, to filter the solids from the liquid, would be ideal,” the ancient mage concluded in a crescendo of thoughts. Geàrr listened patiently, having little interest in the brewing of coffee.

He cleaned up his plate, along with Jhojan’s dishes, all before the MacDonnells started their day.

Mr. MacDonnell was the first to rise, having responsibilities in caring for the livestock and the limited crops that grew in the area. He moved with a slight limp, an injury suffered in his youth.

“Will you be off this morning?” he asked in a more formal version of Gaelic, gesturing to the north where the castle of Eilean Donnain was generally located.

Looking northward, Jhojan could see the clouds darkening from a light, fluffy grey to a dark, threatening, near black. Flashes of lightning could be seen in the distance. To the east, sunlight penetrated the lighter cloud cover, allowing objects to become visible. Geàrr told Mr. MacDonnell that they were intending on leaving in the next hour, not wishing to tarry.

Their horses were brought to them, saddled and bridled, ready to ride. Jhojan took hold of Tàirneanach donn’s lead rope. She’d become friendly towards him after being given apples over the course of the past few days.

Just then, Doggos came running up to them, deciding to travel with his ageless friend. Over generations, Jhojan was able to develop a relationship in which the four-legged companions would travel freely.

The pack maintained certain areas, the size of those territories varied depending on the health of the alpha, this Doggos, when healthy was not to be trifled with and thus maintained a vast domain. Yet, Doggos and his ancestors would always come back to travel with their ageless human companion.

Sgòthan tàirneanaich nickered, knowing an apple slice remained, and tossed her head. Geàrr chuckled lightly, then pulled out a carrot from his saddle bags, which excited the grey mare equally to that of the apple. She crunched her treat happily, as Geàrr checked her hooves and patted her on the rump.

The road from Glen Moriston to the castle of Eilean Donnain was a couple of hours' ride; they figured to arrive at midday, when the garrison would most likely be active.

“The Mrs. would not be too pleased if you left without a proper goodbye,” Mr. MacDonnell said, as the two travelers prepared to pad the road. Geàrr knew what he meant and decided to reenter the home and inform his cousin of his desire to depart. She was fussing with a few of the younger bairns before her attention could be spared.

“You two, clean up this mess,” were her final instructions before heading outside with Geàrr. The winds slightly picked up as the cousins hugged. Jhojan and Mr. MacDonnell grasped forearms in farewell. He’d gifted them with a bottle of Scotch as they parted.

"You are welcome here anytime," Ranald said in parting. Mrs. MacDonnell's eyes began to well up with tears. Geàrr hesitated slightly before mounting.

They started at a walk, riding north. Geàrr turned and waved one last time before Jhojan gave his mount more leg to prompt her to a smooth canter. The brown mare's movements caused the grey to jump forward to keep up, which forced Geàrr to focus on the road ahead. Both horses had smooth strides, which gave the riders a sense of flying through the air.

They reached the halfway point at the base of Sgùrr Fhuaran, a spot was selected near a spring that ran from the mountain tops, where they dismounted and allowed the horses to graze. Jhojan took the opportunity to refill his waterskin, then exchanged roles with Geàrr so that he could do the same. The two mares did not wander too far off, preferring to stay close to their riders and maintain the chance at another piece of juicy fruit or crunchy vegetable.

Doggos ran alongside, investigating interesting smells and scaring up a few grouse. A large male took off from his hiding spot, during which Geàrr whipped out a sling and took the adult Capercaillie down for the evening meal.

“This guy is useful,” Geàrr said, scratching Doggos behind the ear and patting him on the top of the head, after which he collected the bounty and tied the avion prize to his saddle bags.

Having rested the horses and executed on the opportunity to secure a meal for that night, the two men hit the road at a trot before increasing speed to a canter after a short distance. Doggos howled from behind them, signaling his departure. Jhojan mimicked a howl back, letting his companion know he understood.

Typically, this behavior meant that they were closing in on a human settlement in which Doggos was uncomfortable. Very rarely did the wolfdog enter such places; there was still an edge of wildness in him, yet he would return to Jhojan’s home tucked away in the Highlands regularly as any domesticated dog.

Out of curiosity, Geàrr asked how such a bond was made, between the ageless man and his wolfdogs.

Generations of Doggos lived with Jhojan over the many centuries, starting with Doggos I, who had been hurt during a tussle with an adult buck.

In those days, wolf packs would sometimes leave their injured behind, and such was the case that presented itself with Doggos I. Upon finding the injured animal, Jhojan hesitated. His first instinct was to leave the predator alone, but the whining was unbearable. He could not leave this helpless creature to suffer when he had the power to do something about it.

At first, the wild animal snapped at Jhojan, growling and baring his teeth threateningly. Wolves were not friendly towards rival predators, especially strange two-legged ones, in those times.

Modern human civilizations had not reached the northwestern reaches of Europe since the first mortal bipedal humans, who had been driven off by the ice age habitat and encroaching glacial movements.

Wildlife had no problem thriving without the presence of humans, and from what Jhojan could tell, this was the animal’s first interaction with a human.

Adjusting his course, the ageless man used dried meat strips to earn the animal’s trust. It was on the third attempt that the wild canine sniffed the offering, and realizing it was meat, snatched it from Jhojan’s hand.

The mature Buck had given the wolf a nasty gash on his hind quarters. It ran from thigh to thigh, and it could be discerned that an antler had penetrated through flesh, punctured in one side and out the other. Jhojan had seen similar injuries created from arrow shafts; unfortunately, the best course of action was to cauterize the open wounds.

Great, get him to trust me just so that I can burn his flesh shut and lose that trust, Jhojan thought after he grasped the seriousness of the situation.

The large wolf whined, knowing the direness of his condition, in which Jhojan acted. He started by digging a hole to build a fire, to heat his knife to a temperature that would effectively close the puncture wounds.

Unable to move about without excruciating pain, the wild wolf had no other option but to depend on his human savior. When Jhojan tried to get a hold of his muzzle, the wolf attempted to dash away, but was reminded of his injuries, which resulted in a howl of pain.

Patiently, Jhojan waited for the animal to relax enough to try again. By the third try, Jhojan placed a cord around the wild animal’s mouth, effectively keeping it shut during the cauterizing process.

The knife was heated to a red-hot temperature relatively quickly. The male wolf fought and tried to wriggle away from Jhojan’s grasp, but eventually the flat side of the blade met flesh. A whine escaped from the wolf’s muzzled snout, which struck the ageless man in the heart, “I’m sorry for the pain, but I need to close the wounds.”

He spoke with the tongue of the ancients, a language left to the sands of time.

As though he understood, the large wolf relaxed and allowed Jhojan to turn him over on his other side, exposing the exit wound. The blood flow was stemmed; another whine brought the mage’s attention to the amount of blood that was lost. A large puddle had formed where the wound was left untended. The wild canine was losing strength; his ears were down, and in his eyes was a pleading.

Quickly, Jhojan repeated the cauterizing process; his patient moaned but did not fight. Soon thereafter, Jhojan moved his four-legged companion closer to the fire and wrapped him up in a blanket. The whining lost its intensity; tones sounded almost gratuitous in nature, before sleep took hold of the wolf.

Terrified that his new four-legged friend would die in the night, Jhojan stayed up the entire night. Smoke drifted from his Shireman’s as he watched intently, making sure the wild canine continued to breathe. Yet, as the sun rose, the wolf lifted his head to the ageless man’s relief.

Over the next couple of days, the healing process proved to be the glue in which a bond was formed. Unable to move, the wolf would yip at Jhojan, as if asking for food. This prompted Jhojan to use this time to teach a few commands and terms of communication. Whining was simple; the sound was usually associated with fear or pain.

Yips became a way of asking for something, such as food or water, or to simply get his attention. When Jhojan said 'hush,' he tapped the wolf on the nose, which quieted the large animal, to which Jhojan would then give him a piece of jerky.

During one of these teaching sessions, the wolf got his name.

“I will call you Doggos,” Jhojan had said, while relaxing on his side next to the campfire and feeding his new friend jerky. In response, the wolf looked up into his face, and in his eyes was a glint of love.

“Doggos the first,” Jhojan continued, chuckling.

It was after about a month that Doggos stood up for the first time; he’d only been able to crawl since getting mixed up with the mature buck. The large wolf moved with caution at first, but even the most subtle movements while walking still caused a shooting pain that made Doggos stop and drop. He’d whine, letting Jhojan know of his condition.

There was an urgency to Doggos’ movements; he’d continually look to the west and would howl. Occasionally, a single wolf would respond. At those times, Doggos would show happiness and whine when the wiggling hurt, but he also slept the best when he heard the other wolf howl.