Books: Highland Ballad
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Christopher Leadem >> Highland Ballad
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14 HIGHLAND BALLAD
Approximately 65,000 Words
(Historical Fiction)
Copyright 1995 by Christopher Leadem,
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-88100-086-8
Aragorn Books
www.aragornbooks.com
HIGHLAND BALLAD
For Natasha
Part One:
A Lingering Flame
One
The red sun rose slowly, achingly across the high Scottish moor,
touching with melancholy gold the patching hoar frost and purple
heath. For this was a land of pain, and stark beauty, and restless
dream. Here the spirits of the dead walked by night through grim
castles of shadow and dust, their glory long past. Here the spirits of
the living grieved by day for a proud and chivalrous time forever
lost.
For now the English ruled the land. The battle of Culloden was three
years lost and Bonnie Prince Charles, the drunken fool in whom they
had placed such hope, was living in exile in France. For what then had
the pride of Highland manhood shed their blood, leaving behind them
the heart-broken wives, aging fathers, and uncomprehending child
sisters? Was it to see the Lord Purceville establish his thieving
court at the ancestral home of the MacPhersons? Was it to pay hard
tribute in grain and goods which could not be spared, to an Empire
already bloated and corrupt?
None felt the pangs of lost promise more deeply than young Mary Scott,
aged sixteen years, with a future as uncertain as the fretting October
wind. Her father had died before she could say his name, leaving their
estate in the keeping of guardians until Michael came of age. Now it
was completely lost, their legacy ruined. Now she lived with her
mother and aging aunt in the fading cottage that had once belonged to
the chief steward, all that remained of the family property. It was
neither beautiful nor poetic; but it was warm, and for the time at
least, safe from the hungry eyes of soldiers. The dangers to a young
girl in an occupied land need hardly be detailed.
And there were other dangers as well.
On this morning, as on many others, she walked slowly down the narrow,
winding path to the gravesite of her clan. Bordered by scrub oak and
maple, alone in its silent dell, it was a place removed from time,
hallowed, and to her, sacred. For here, among the stones of four
hundred years of Stuart knights, lay the body of her beloved, her
soul. Her brother. Brushing back a long lock of raven hair, she
stepped furtively towards the mound of earth that was like an iron
door between them.
Michael James Scott
1719 --- 1746
He died a man's death,
fighting for his home.
The words on the small tombstone had always seemed to her a blasphemy,
the hurried cutters finding it more important to speak of patriotism
than to give the date of his birth. These trite, inadequate words were
all that future generations would ever know of him. They could never
see him as he had been in life---the shock of curling, golden hair,
the fierce and penetrating sapphire eyes. He had been strong and
stubborn like all his blood, but with a sudden tenderness that had
long ago stolen her heart. Her friend, brother and father. And in the
most secret depths of her heart, her lover as well.
One image of him remained indelibly carved in her memory.
He stood silhouetted against the open door of the shepherd's hut, in
which they had taken shelter from a sudden, violent downpour. The play
of lightnings beyond flashed his tall, muscular form into brilliant
lines out of the grey. He stood defiant, legs spread, crying out to
the storm that lashed him. Aye! It'll take more than that to kill a
Scott!
And he had laughed his fearless laugh.
"Michael don't, I'm scared," she said aloud. And he closed and barred
the door, and came to her with the gentle smile which he gave to her
alone.....
She fell to her knees on the cold ground, unable to stop the flow of
bitter and blessed memories. She wrapped the shawl tighter,
remembering, feeling as deeply and surely as if it were not a thing of
the past, but happening now, this moment:
He came to her, and put his cloak about her. Then feeling her shiver
in his arms, changed his mind. "No. We'll have to get you out of your
wet things. I'm an ugly brute, but you'll catch your death."
He built a warming blaze in the fireplace, then took the heavy woolen
blanket from the bed and brought it to her. "Come on now. No time for
being shy; I'll turn away." And he carefully tended the fire as she
shed her dripping garments, and wrapped herself in the blanket.
Perhaps an hour later he lay sprawled on his back, stripped to the
waist on the broad, solid bed. She stood watching him, his dried
riding cloak about her. Her own clothes were nearly dry, and the rain
was less; yet for reasons she did not understand, her one desire was
to remain with him there, as they were, forever. He stretched his arms
behind him and let out a yawn, and looked at her with laughing, sleepy
eyes.
"I'm all done in, my little Mary, riding and running about with you
after the long day's work. Better let me have a bit of sleep, then
we'll take ourselves home. Wake me in a bit, won't you?" And he rolled
over on his side, leaving her flushed and agitated, not understanding
the feelings that stirred inside her. The early night was hushed, her
brother lay long and beautiful in the firelight, and she was thirteen
years old.
After a short time that seemed like an eternity, during which she
never once took her eyes from him, she heard the soft, steady
breathing of his slumber. All her love and confused desire suddenly
took hold of her. She loosed the cloak about her bare shoulders, and
came closer. Quietly, timidly, her heart pounding, she lay down next
to him, drawing the broad cloak about them both. She rested her face
against his arm, while her hand mysteriously sought out the scraggly
down of his chest. He stirred.
"What's all this?" he whispered dreamily. "You're not still afraid?"
"No
," she nearly shouted. "It's not that at all." And then, as if afraid
the moment was lost, she drew in her arms and snuggled closer to him
still. "You're not shamed for me, are you, Michael? I've done nothing
wrong."
"Ah, hush girl. You love your Michael and he loves you. Where's the
sin?" And his strong arm enveloped her back, as he gently kissed her
forehead.....
Oh, to feel his arms around her, his skin against hers! She sobbed
aloud at the thought of it, and flung herself to the ground. How
gladly she would have died, then as now, to be with him forever. But
still her life went on, still the feelings and images would not stop:
They lay quiet for a time, her breasts touching his, their faces so
close, breath intermingling. Then all at once, with a voice hardly her
own, she said the words that had sealed her fate.
"Kiss me, Michael. If you don't kiss me I swear I'll die." And though
she could not see them, she felt the laughter of his eyes. But he did
as she asked, slowly bringing his lips to hers. They touched, ever so
gently.
Then with a sudden passion which surprised them both, he gave a deep,
despairing sigh and crushed her to him, his hungry mouth devouring
hers. "My Mary," he said. "My beautiful Mary."
Then just as suddenly he broke away and stood up from the bed. He
began to pace back and forth, cursing himself, so afraid he had in
some way wounded her. She lay still, feeling the loss of his flesh
like the loss of a limb. And two months later. . .he was no more.
She found herself hopelessly, hatefully back in the present. Alone.
Convulsive sobs shook her as she lay across the mound of uncaring
earth. Her tears wet the rough grass beneath her, flowing like blood
from a mortal wound. One word, one thought only existed in the whole
of her being.
"Michael!"
A fresh burst of wind whistled through the heath and fretted the
fallen leaves around her, carrying with it, or so it seemed, a faint
strain of bagpipes. She turned her face to listen. Was it possible:
that soul-stirring sound, so terrible in battle that the English had
since outlawed it?
Was it there, or was she truly mad? She strained all her senses.....
No. The sound was gone. She buried her face and wept once more,
defeated.
Again a breeze stirred, this time more gentle, this time much nearer.
She felt a large hand caress the crown of her head, and brush the side
of her face as she turned again, bewildered. Half blind with tears she
saw the wavering outline of a man, and heard a voice whisper,
"My Mary."
She knew no more.
Two
She was found there by her aunt, pale and shivering. And as
consciousness and memory returned to her, a light of wild hope and
fear widened the deep emerald of her eyes.
"Aunt Margaret, I saw him! He called me by name, I swear it!"
But whether because the wisdom of age had taught her the wishful
fancies of the young, or for some other reason, the hale, grey-haired
woman elucidated no surprise. She helped the frightened girl to her
feet, and without a word, started her on the path to home.
But once Mary had gone the old woman turned, and made her way back to
the grave. Reaching inside a goat-skin pouch that hung from her side
she produced something cold and pale, and kneeling, laid it upon the
heart of the mound. Then rose and looked about her with a narrowing
eye. Clasping a withered hand about the amulet that hung from her neck
she set off, leaving the bit of melancholy white behind.
A human finger.
The amulet about her neck was a raven's foot, clutching in frozen
death a dark opal.
Many hours later the old woman had still not returned to the cottage.
Mary sat with her elbows upon the sill of the loft window, the rage of
thoughts and questions inside her gradually slowing to the one emotion
possible in one who had seen and known such endless disappointment:
disbelief.
But try as she might to resolve herself to it, to accept that it had
not happened, still the phantom touch lingered inside her, denying all
peace. "My Mary." How differently the voice had said those words, than
on the day of her brother's passion! And yet how similar, how full of
the same love and care. And the only thought that would take solid
hold in her mind was that the two feelings, gentle love and hard
desire, were one in a man, inseparable, and that even as a child she
had inspired both in him. My
Mary. Mine. She wanted to fall on her knees then and there, and pray
to be taken to him, in death or in life. But the sound of her mother's
voice stayed her, rising angrily from below.
"Mary! What are you about? Come down here at once."
Obediently, though without affection she submitted, descending the
wooden ladder-stair from the loft that served as her bedroom. Her
mother's face and whole bearing spoke of the cold composure, the
loveless discipline which always followed such an outburst. It was an
expression she had come to know all too well. Wherein lay the mystery
of this woman? She did not know, only that there was no commiseration,
no sense of shared loss between them, and that she was hardly what the
younger woman imagined a mother should be.
But on this day there was especial agitation among her classic, though
faded Scot features---round, sturdy face and steady, full blue
eyes---and a greater visible effort to control herself. Of late this
usually meant that she had quarreled with Margaret. And these
arguments, Mary knew, somehow centered on herself.
"Where is she?" the mother burst all at once. Like Michael she often
kept her deepest feelings under lock and key, revealing to the world
only a lesser parody of herself. But now something had happened---
"Go and find her!" she cried, at long last giving in. "And if she has
gone to that witch's hole of hers, then. . .tell her she may just as
well stay there, and the Devil take her! I've had enough of it, do you
hear? Let them burn her at the stake; I'll not have her bring shame
upon this house. It's all the same to me!" And she ran to the armchair
by the fireplace, hiding her face in her hands.
The daughter followed, more confused and forlorn than ever. She loved
her aunt, though she also feared her, and could not understand the
vindictive nature of the words spoken against her.
"Mother, what are you saying? What are you thinking of?"
The hands came down to reveal a tired, careworn face no longer able to
think of pity. "So, you never knew she was a witch? How blind a woman
can be, when she wants to. Why, you don't even know, still haven't
guessed---" She faltered, then cried out. "Dear God, I cannot bear
this cross any longer! You have taken my husband, my beloved son, and
left me with his temptress." Then turning to Mary. "Go to her! Get
out, I tell you! She will tell you everything, everything now. Make
your home with her if you like. Leave me to my wretched memories." And
physical sorrow bent her nearly double in the chair.
The girl took a step to console her, but the hateful, flashing eyes
turned on her erased any such notion. She hesitated, then ran to the
door in dismay, and out into the bracing, October wild. It seemed the
last vestiges of solace and sanctuary were crumbling around her,
leaving a world too terrible, too full of dark meaning to endure. She
ran.
But her steps were not blind. Instinctively she stayed on the western
side of the rise, which hid her from sight of the road. And though she
had rarely seen it, the back of her mind knew where her aunt's strange
and secret abode lay: beyond the ravine, in land too wild and rocky to
grow or graze.
It was growing dark when she finally reached the high pass in which it
lay, and in place of the wind a cold stillness reigned. The rocky
culvert did not benefit from the failing light. It was a harsh and
cheerless place, all thorn and sloe, with here and there a gnarled,
leafless tree.
The faraway cry of a wolf froze her to the marrow: she was alone, and
could not find what she sought. Why had she come in such haste,
without horse or cloak? Her body ached and the sense of youthful
despair, never far from her, returned with the added force of cold,
helpless exposure.
An owl swooped, and half fearfully she followed the line of its
flight. As it rose again against the near horizon, she saw there at
the meeting of stone and sky a trail of black smoke, barely
distinguishable in the darkening gloom. She followed it downward. And
there, half buried in the hard earth which bounded it on three sides,
she saw her aunt's sometime residence, the `witch's hole' as her
mother had called it. And though she loved her aunt, and had nowhere
else to go, she could not help feeling a moment of doubt.
A wedge of stone wall---one door, one window---was all the face it
showed, the short chimney rising further to the sunken right. It was
in fact a hole, dug and lined with stone perhaps a thousand years
before by some wandering Pict, with a living roof of roots and turf.
Her aunt had merely dug it out again and repaired the chimney. The
window and door, framed in ready openings, were new, along with stout
ceiling beams. Nothing more. It was a place that perhaps ten people
knew of, and nine avoided.
She stood unresolved, chafing the arms of her dress, unable to keep
warm. But at that moment a solitary figure came up the path towards
her, and she recognized the shawl and bound hair of her aunt, stooped
beneath a large bundle of sticks.
"Inside with you, lass," said the woman evenly, again not evincing the
least surprise. "You'll catch your death."
"Let me help you with your load," the girl offered.
"I can quite carry my own burden, Mary. Just open the door for me;
I'll walk through it." Mary did as she asked. They went inside.
The single room was dark and low-ceilinged, with no light but the
hearth fire, which played strange shadows across the rough stones and
wooden bracings. Herbs, tools and utensils, bizarre talismans hung
from the walls. The floor was of solid earth. A wooden table and
chair, two frameless beds, an ancient rocking chair---there were no
other furnishings.
"Sit by the fire, child, and wrap a blanket around you. I'll have the
tea....." But studying her face more closely, the old woman put a hand
to her forehead, and could not entirely suppress a look of concern.
"Into bed with you, Mary, you're burning with fever." And she quickly
arranged warm coverings for the thin, down mattress, which lay on a
jutting shelf of stone covered with straw, and threw more wood on the
fire.
Soon the room was warm, and in its primitive way, quite comfortable.
Mary lay in the bed, her shivering stopped, and the herb tea that her
aunt had given her calming her nerves. But still there were the
questions that would not rest.
"Aunt Margaret," she began pensively, eyes glittering. "You quarreled
with mother, and now she can bear her cross no longer, and she says
you must tell me everything." Though the sentence was hardly coherent,
the old woman nodded her understanding. She came and sat on the bed,
taking the young girl's hand in her own.
"I'll tell you this much now, and then you must sleep. There'll be
worlds of time in the morning. Will you promise me you'll sleep, and
trust
me till the sunrise?" The daughter nodded.
"She's not your mother, Mary. I am."
Three
That night, her subconscious stirred by fever, and by the maelstrom of
unsettling events, Mary dreamed more deeply and vividly than she had
since childhood. The fire burned brightly before her as the old woman,
ever mindful, rocked slowly back and forth, beside her.
She stood atop a high hill, looking down into a broad expanse of green
valley. To the left she heard the stirring sound of bagpipes, to the
right, the ominous drums and steady tramp of the English. Two armies
advanced upon each other, making for some indefinable object in the
center of the field, which for some reason both sides wanted. To the
left the plaid kilts and mixed uniforms of the Highlanders, to the
right a rigid, regimented sea of Red. She watched them draw together
with the uncomprehending horror that every woman feels for war,
unmoved by words of glory and patriotism, understanding only that men,
men dear to herself and others, are about to die.
It seemed that the Scots would reach the object first, being the
swifter and on their own ground; but suddenly they stopped. At their
head she saw two men on horseback: a rugged, wizened general, and a
handsome young prince with long plumes in his hat, seated on a
brilliant white charger. The general was arguing and gesticulating
sharply that they must advance and attack. But the Prince, with an air
of supreme confidence and divine understanding, only made a sign of
the cross and remained where he was, content.
The British halted and formed ranks, expecting a charge. But not
receiving it, and perceiving their opponent's hesitation, they quickly
brought their artillery to the fore. Unlimbering the cannon, they
loaded and took aim, and began to shower the unmoving Highlanders with
grapeshot and thundering shells.
The young girl gasped in terror, and shouted for them to fight back,
or run away. The general waved his arms more violently than before.
But still the Prince gave no order, and only looked about him as if
puzzled, unable to fathom what was happening to his men.
And at length the English charged, mowing down the decimated Scottish
lines like so much rye after a hailstorm. While the Prince slipped
away with his escort.
But all of this, gruesome and sinister as it was. . .this was not what
froze her heart. In a smaller scene that somehow stood out sharp and
clear, two red-coated foot soldiers were dragging by the arms a tall
Scot with a bloodied shock of golden hair. He was dazed and plainly
wounded, but still they pulled at him fiercely, as if to throw him to
the ground and run him through. They carried him out of sight, into a
copse of death-black trees.
"Michael!" she cried frantically, trying to follow. But her legs would
not move, and she sank slowly into quicksand, her skirts
billowing.....
Then the dream shifted and she was back at the grave, lying in the
rough grass. Again she felt the gentle touch on her hair and startled
cheek, again the reassuring voice:
"My Mary." And then. . .was it real or imagined? "I'll come back for
you." From the bottom of a well. "I've come back for you." Farther,
and fainter, then suddenly sharp and near. "My Mary. Mary....."
"Mary!"
"Mary, wake up. You've put yourself in a frenzy." And her guardian
steadily, though not without emotion, replaced the thrown and
disheveled blankets. "You've got to keep yourself---"
"I. . .I saw him again," she stammered. "He called to me. He said he'd
come back for me." She tried to rise. "I've got to go to him, I've got
to find him!"
"No."
For the first time her mother (the claim was true) spoke forbiddingly,
taking her by the shoulders and forcing her back down. "He's dead and
in the grave, and that's where he's going to stay. And unless you want
to join him there---"
"But I do!" cried the girl. "I do. Why doesn't anyone understand?" And
she turned away and fell to weeping. Her mother was silent.
Perhaps an hour later the girl was asleep again, or appeared to be.
Troubled, her mother rose and went to an ancient chest that lay hidden
beneath a musty stretch of carpet, in a niche carved out of the cold
ground beneath. Kneeling over it, she unfastened the broad belt that
secured the lid, which she lifted and leaned carefully back against
the wall. Then with a quick glance at her daughter, she reached inside
and lifted out from among its shadowy contents a withered branch of
hemlock.
Moving to the fire, which glowed and hissed sullenly at her approach,
she thrust its head into the flames, holding the root in a stubborn
fist. Quietly and solemnly, she chanted some words in a language that
her daughter could not understand, and at length the dead leaves and
smoking stalk caught solid fire. Standing once more, she drew a slow
circle with it in the center of the room, then went to the door. As
soon as she opened it a cold wind pushed past and blew out the
trembling torch, but this seemed no more than she expected.
Stepping outside and closing the door behind her, the witch took a few
paces forward, turned again to face the hut. She waved the branch in
strange patterns, moving from side to side and repeating the same
chant, so that the smoke which still seethed from it drew wisping
traces about the door, the window, the whole of the house. Then turned
again, and cast it to the ground before her. She opened her eyes wide,
oblivious to the stinging smoke, and whispered harshly.
"You leave us be!"
She went inside.
Four
As if a troubled thought that had slowly worked its way through her
second sleep, with the first light of dawn Mary sat bolt upright in
the bed, and said aloud.
"He's not my brother."
The old woman, who had apparently not slept at all, turned to her from
her place by the fire, now lowered to glowering coals for cooking. She
thought to reply harshly, then checked herself. Like a skilled surgeon
or a patient general (or a bitter woman gnawed by hate), she knew that
the matter of her daughter's lost love must be handled with extreme
care.
"Not your brother. Your cousin."
"Then---" The realization scalded her. "We could have married! There
was no sin, no shame in what I felt for him."
Again, though it ran counter to all her designs for the girl, the old
woman knew this was not the time to speak against the hopeless romance
that she still carried like a torch in the Night. And also (the
darkness had not yet swallowed her completely), she felt that her
daughter deserved this much.
"There was no sin. Naivety perhaps."
With this her daughter broke into wretched tears, and it was some time
before the woman could calm her enough to speak. She moved to sit
beside her on the bed; and so helpless and forlorn did Mary then
appear, that for a moment her mother forgot all else and slowly
brought to her breast the face that had suckled there so long ago.
"What is it child?" she said gently, stroking the soft hair that had
once been her own. "What is it hurting you so?"
"All this time..... I thought it was because..... After he was killed,
I went to my confessor. I told him everything, and he said---"
There was no need for her to finish. Too well did the other understand
the vindictive nature of men.
"He said that Michael was taken because you had committed incest: that
it was God's punishment for a grievous sin, and that it's your fault
he died." The pitiful nod and freshened weeping told her she was
right. "Nay, lass. It was not the hand of God that killed him, and
many other good men besides. It is not the Creator who so brutalizes
lives and emotions. It is men.
"
And with this all her maternal softness faded, as her eyes stared hard
and dry into some galling distance of thought and memory. Her arms
fell away from her daughter's shoulders, and she unconsciously ground
her teeth.
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