Scattered Seeds Read Free

expected.” Father brushed at the pouch, but it did little to clean away any dirt. “It is nae that simple. This torc has been in our line for as long as anyone can remember. It belonged to our ancestor, a king in Scotland named Somerled. Much of his story is lost to time, but early in his life, he freed a dog from a snare wi’oot realizing it was a witch. In return for saving her life, the witch gi’d him two torcs, this being one of them. She promised him that dogs would serve and protect his line forever, and indeed, they say King Somerled was ne’er wi’oot at least one great grizzled beast.
    “His descendants are many, and scattered like windblown seeds. Many of them rooted in Scotland, some floated across the sea, and some, like us, blew into this godforsaken muckhole called Ireland.”
    He handed the pouch to Henry. “It’s yours now. If I can trust ye enough to tell ye about it, then I can trust ye enough to own it.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Your mother would nae be pleased, God rest her.”
    Henry felt faint. “Mine?” He fingered the pouch, which was much heavier than he’d expected. His mind went on a journey and returned with images of all the things he would buy. He’d have an apprenticeship, at last. Although, as rich as he was, he probably wouldn’t need one. He’d join the goldsmith’s guild, wear a powdered wig, and sit on plush furniture like Uncle Sorley’s. Why, everything would change for the better. Of course, it once belonged to a witch, and witches were trouble. At least that’s what George Ewing said, and even the good reverend respected George’s opinion on witches.
    There were two torcs.
    “Where is the other torc? Does Uncle Sorley have it?” It would explain his uncle’s immense wealth.
    Father shook his head. “No one knows where the other one is. Only your Uncle Sorley and I know about this one . . . and now ye, I reckon. Sorley always coveted it. Father passed him o’er and gi’d it to me. Him the eldest, too. Has nae sat well wi’ him.”
    Henry often wondered why Uncle Sorley so cruelly—and so often—raised the rent on his own brother. His motives were clear now.
    “He wanted to force ye into selling this to him, no doubt,” Henry said, feeling protective of his new gold. “My grandsire was wise to gi’ it to ye and not to him.”
    “He knew Sorley would sell it first chance he got, which would have doomed us all. Ye see, there’s more . . . more I have nae told ye.”
    “If ye tell me the witch is coming back for it, I’ll shite my breeks.”
    Father’s teeth flashed in the dimness. “No, but mayhap this is worse. There’s a curse attached to that thing.”
    A curse. Of course there was a curse. An item once owned by a witch would only come with a curse.
    “It’s important that when ye have sons of your own, ye take great care to gi’ it to the one who will protect it, as my own father did. As I hope I did.” He stood and blocked the moonlight. “I’m trusting ye wi’ this, Henry. Take it to heart.”
    “What if I have no sons?”
    “Ye will, lad, dozens, but if they’re like your Uncle Sorley, then ye must choose a relation from under another McConnell roof. It must stay in McConnell hands. Mind me, son.”
    “And if it does nae?”
    Father looked around again, as if the witch might be listening from the shadows. “No one can remember the whole curse, but the part that matters goes like this:
    ‘Blessed be thou wi’ many sons.
    Fine lairds to thee I’ll send.
    But let them fail to keep my torcs
    and all wilt come to end.
    Thy name wilt fade like fog from morn.
    Thy blood be smote from lore.
    And on that dire and dreadful day,
    thy seed wilt be no more.’
    “It can only mean our line will disappear. I did nae always believe it,” Father said, “but as I said, my luck changed the day that thing left our hoose. And since we’re no longer lairds and barely anyone can remember the king called Somerled, we must assume