Books: Highland Ballad
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Christopher Leadem >> Highland Ballad
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"He did not return that night. And after three days' fruitless vigil,
there was no use hoping further. A priest came to our small cottage,
and said some words as empty as the promise of afterlife. My brother
and I held candles in our hands, and I think he was truly shocked that
I shed not a single tear. He could not know that my nights for many
years had been filled with them, and that those last, worry-sick three
had drained the well to its dregs, and beyond. That was the end of it.
My first love was gone, leaving me a widow at nineteen, wholly without
means.
"My brother did what he could for me, I'll give him that. And he would
have played the father well enough for you, if the Fever* hadn't got
him first. They're not all bad; I do know it. But the good ones with
hearts that feel, are forever and always at the mercy of them that
don't---the aggressive lot who just take, and trample, without
thinking.
*Typhus.
"But here, I'm ahead of myself, and you look near done-in. Into bed
with you now, and enough of my sad stories."
"No!" said her daughter at once. "You promised. I want to hear it
all!" Though she was in fact tired and morose, and beginning to feel
again the ache of her affliction, Mary sensed that now or never would
she learn the whole truth. She must show this woman that she too could
be strong, and was not afraid of dark reality.
The widow MacCain looked hard at her, trying to gauge the depth, and
source, of her daughter's desire to know. But at the same time she
felt the slow stirrings of concerned motherhood, and at that not the
detached, objective instincts of a guardian, the role she had been
forced to assume, and grown accustomed to these many years. She turned
away, and wrung her hands as if deep in thought.
"All right," she said at last. "But we must get you into bed in any
case. I'll not have you seriously ill."
She rose, and took the tea-cup from Mary's hand. She turned down the
covers for her, and saw her securely tucked in. Then to her dismay as
she sat down on the bed beside her, felt such a surge of tenderness
for this innocent extension of her own flesh, that it was only with
difficulty she did not bend down and kiss her damp, flushed forehead.
"Go on," said Mary, who in her mother's eyes crossed that very hour
from adolescence into womanhood. There was no denying the soul inside
her.
"Are you very sure, lass? I do not say it in mockery, but truth be
told it's not a tale to make the young heart glad. I'll understand if
you've had enough."
"No, really, I'm all right now. Mother," and she took her hand. "I
want to know."
The woman gave a sigh, and shook her head. She found herself cornered,
and not by the hounds and hunters of treachery, but by honesty and
simple love. There was only one way out: forward, through memories and
emotions she had long banished. There was nothing else for it. She
continued.
"My father grew old and finally died, with my mother not far behind.
My brother became man of the house then, and one of the first things
he did was to send for me, though it was not straight away that I went
to him.
"I had been earning my modest keep as a teacher to the children of the
fishing village, and living alone in the spare, two-room schoolhouse
that they built for me. I'd had chance enough for suitors if I wanted
them. But I did not, could not think to put myself through such pain
again. And though I loved them well enough for the simple,
hard-working folk they were, but for my John I never met one as
stirred the embers of any true romantic feeling. Of course the men of
the distant gentry wanted no part of me, a dowerless widow who had
shamed her family and married beneath her class. They were not all so
heartless, and I kept a good deal to myself. But the truth remains
that none ever cared enough to overcome the obstacles, and learn what
lay hidden in my heart.
"So the years went by and I found myself at thirty. My mother had
died, and my brother taken Anne for a wife, who had borne him a child.
So at last I swallowed my pride, and thinking to be useful, went back
to the big house that still haunted my dreams. Both Bryan and your
aunt were kind enough in their awkward, Christian way, and did what
they could to make me feel welcome and at home. But as Michael
continued to grow---yes, child, who else would it be?---they naturally
began to feel a tight bond of family that did not include me.....
"But here the way becomes less clear. It is never a single incident,
nor even a closely knit series of events that makes us what we are,
but a lifetime of broken promises and shattered dreams. They say that
hope springs eternal, and I dare say that's true. More's the pity,
since it must always end in disillusion, and finally, in dark and
lonely death."
She felt her daughter's hand grasp her own, and saw that there were
standing tears in her eyes. As if a veil had been drawn aside between
them, she saw at last the terrible loss the girl had already suffered,
and was suffering still, in the form of an impossible love for a man
three years dead. Yes, thought the dark widow to herself, she deserves
to know the truth.
"I began to feel the need for solitude, and a place to dwell on the
long chains of thought that had taken root inside me. So I made this
place my own, and spent long hours, whole days and nights here,
learning. For I had been shown three books of Druid lore during the
first year of my mourning, by an old Welsh woman who lived in the
village, my only real companion. She taught me the ancient tongues,
and asked me to copy them out in English, along with other tales and
spells which she knew only in her mind, that they might not be lost at
her death. Yes, Mary, she was a witch, though that name need not mean
all that fear implies." She paused.
"A priest has a kind of power over men, because he appeals to the
angelic, or 'right' side of the soul---all filled with yearning for
the light, and the fear of God. The witch works through the left, no
less powerful, because its roots lie in corrupted instinct: vanity,
unclean desire, treachery and violence. And to the weak and abusive,
men such as my father, it is only that much harder to deny. The
daughters of Lug cast no darkness of their own, create no evil that
does not already exist in a man, but only turn that inner blackness to
his own undoing.
"Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. These words are attributed to the
great God of Christian and Jew alike. But what men cannot see, because
their simplicity demands a single being to worship and fear, is that
the One God is divided into many facets, wholly separate beings, with
moods and purposes all their own. I have chosen the god Dagda, as He
has chosen me. His passion is for retribution against the
violent---the axe-wielders and plunderers, the outwardly strong. It is
He who spoke through the prophet long ago."
"Mother," said Mary. "Please don't be angry, but you're frightening
me. You know I don't pass judgment, and that I'm trying to understand.
. . and love you. But this isn't what I want, what I need to know."
With this the old woman, whose eyes had lost their focus and begun to
stare off into space, came back to herself. "Aye, lass, I hear what it
is you're telling me. I was only trying to give you a glimpse of that
part of myself which cannot be shown in outward events. You'll be
wanting to know about the circumstances of your birth..... About your
father."
At this the cold eyes gleamed with unspeakable malice, and with a
shiver of stark insight Mary discovered the source, the burning heart
of her mother's hatred. It was as if all the bitter rage she felt for
the world of men, every grudge, even blame for the war itself, had
been focused upon this one man as the symbol, the living embodiment of
evil, and sole object of revenge. And with a second shock, and full
knowledge that had somehow eluded her, she realized that this him,
this monster her mother wished to destroy, using her as a vehicle, was
the first, the original Lord Purceville. Her father, who formed half
her living flesh.
And as much as she knew him for the man he was, as much as she
sympathized with her mother and abhorred his rape of her, yet again
she felt that sudden and all-inclusive pang: the orphan, who after
years in the lonely dark, discovers a natural parent, living still.
But now the old woman was speaking again, had in fact been speaking
all the while these thoughts raced through her, no longer aware, it
seemed, of any presence save her own, blindly reciting the words that
had become to her a litany of hate.
".....was just an officer then, in command of the Northern Garrison.
We were not yet in open rebellion, and after a fashion, were content
to be subjects of the British crown. But we were never equals. The
Purcevilles, outsiders that they were, still secured for themselves a
beautiful estate, with a magnificent home and many servants. And one
of them, by a strange twist of Fate, was I.
"Hard times and higher taxes were beginning to take their toll on
Bryan, and I felt useless enough in his house. So I determined to seek
employment, and a place of my own, wherever I might find them. For I
had not yet learned that my place was here, and that the world of men
held nothing for me. Stubbornly I hoped, and stubbornly I fell into
the trap.
"As much as perhaps I should have known better, I solicited for, and
was given the job of governess to young Stephen Purceville, aged then
seven years. He was a hard and abrasive lad, his mother dead and gone
years past. Yes, Mary, you begin to see how life repeats, and how I
was laid bare for the final sting. I loved the boy, hard as it was
sometimes. There was something in him, a brooding hunger of the eyes,
which endeared him to me for all his excesses and bursts of temper.
And if the truth be told, I saw the same hunger and restless need in
the aggressive coldness, the outward ferocity of his father.
"Fool, fool, fool!" she cursed herself. "We women find a strong,
demanding master, and we think that because of his strength there must
be goodness and nobility within, that if nurtured..... But it does not
exist. Takers and users, they plunder our hearts and our bodies, then
throw us to the dogs."
"Then," asked Mary gently, trying hard not to upset her. "He didn't
actually rape you?"
"Aye, rape he did, though not in the sense that fear casts the
word---alone in some barren place, far from help. But I said it was
not willingly I took him to my bed, and it's the god's truth. He would
come to my room of an evening, and letting himself in---he held keys
to every room in the house, and none were spared---he would.....
"This is a hard thing for me to tell you, girl. He forced himself on
me, and at times I struggled, or even cried out, until a cuff or sharp
threat silenced me. And yet, strange to say. . .after the incestuous
horrors of my father's house, it was a kind of cleansing, purging
pleasure to be so used, so long as I believed that somewhere, in the
depths of his heart, he loved and cared for me.
"Dear God, how blind we can be! It was not love he felt, nor secret
tenderness. It was not even clean desire, but the novelty of a woman
my
age---thirty-three---who was still fair, and of violating by night the
woman who coddled his son by day.
"But it was more than even that. In his meanness and baseness he knew,
in some measure, what it was I felt for him, and it gave him a twisted
satisfaction to be admired and cherished by a native lass, who meant
to him less than nothing." Again she paused, as if herself overwhelmed
by the memory.
"In time I became pregnant," she said, in a voice almost sad. "And all
my confused, forlorn affection became the more profound. For he had
stirred inside me what even John could not: a child of my own.
"So on the last night that he came to me, as we lay panting side by
side---for I had not resisted him..... I looked over at him in the
gentle candlelight, and with the trembling emotions of a lifetime,
told him that I loved him, loved his son, and now would bear his
child. To think that in that moment I half fancied he would take me in
his arms, and ask me to marry him.
"He laughed
at me! So utterly cold and cruel. Then as he came back to himself he
seized me by the wrists, and swore that no child of his would be born
to a scheming slut---his very words---the likes of me. And he beat me,
as if trying to snuff out the lives of both of us. I honestly believe
he would have done it, if fear of losing his position had not
intervened.
"Then he dragged me by the hair, down the long hallway, and threw me
out into the cold Winter night, with only the torn nightdress wrapped
about my battered limbs. The last words he said as I ran from the
house in tears, were that if anyone ever learned the child was his, he
would kill us both. And he meant it."
Mary was crying now for both of them, feeling as if she, too, had been
beaten and raped. "How could he?" was all she could manage.
"How?" asked the old woman, half mocking, half in earnest. "For a man
like that it was as easy as breathing.
`The shark will strike
and the spider spin,
The mad dog kill, and kill again
Until he is killed in his turn.'
Remember that, Mary. It is the way of things."
"But why....." It seemed almost cruel to ask, but she had to. "Why the
charade of my being Anne's child? Why couldn't you and I have had each
other, at least?"
"Aye, that. Well." And for the first time that night, through all the
gruesome details, the woman found herself at a loss, as if this alone
still caused in her something akin to remorse. "At first it was the
family honor. It was as easy to cloister the two of us, as one. And
then.
"I tried to poison myself a short time after you were born, as only
your life inside me had prevented my doing before. As much as I wanted
to love and care for you, as the innocent babe you were.....
"It all became too much for me, Mary, and my brother's death was the
final blow. I just wanted it to end. They say I went quite mad for a
time, if endless loss, and a death-like sense of oppression be
madness.
"The surviving family, the Talberts, then considered me an unfit
guardian. And with the coming of dark times it was difficult to blame
them, or disagree..... And so I gave you up---"
She had to stop, because the girl had risen beside her in the bed, and
this time in deepest earnest, wrapped her arms about the withered
neck, weeping as if there were nothing left in all the world. The old
woman (old and haggard at fifty) felt a moment of weakness. She wanted
to cry herself, to give, and receive comfort in return. But the tears
would not come.
Then she remembered the man, and was silent.
And more than anything else Mary had heard or experienced that night,
this simple non-action, and the three words the witch finally uttered.
. . brought home to her the full brutality, and continuing tragedy of
her mother's life.
"He will pay."
As the rain beat relentlessly, and the wind howled through the barren
pass.
Nine
Stephen Purceville rose early the next morning. He had slept alone
that night, something of a rarity, and woke feeling both cleansed and
restless. Cleansed because, like all men who give and take love too
freely, he knew in his heart how meaningless the endless procession of
women had become. Restless because he fancied, and simultaneously
feared it was not true, that he had at last found the woman who would
make it all real, and still the inner turmoil which had haunted him
time out of mind.
He got up and stretched his lean, hard-muscled frame, calling for his
valet, who came at once and began helping him dress. This act was by
now such a matter of ritual that it left his mind soft and dreamlike,
free to think again of that mystical creature of beauty and innocence,
so unlike the others, that he would woo, and take as his wife.
That he had done nothing to earn, and therefore to deserve such a
blessing, that real love could not possibly find him until he stopped
using and hurting all who came within his reach---these were thoughts
which could never occur to him. Rather, it seemed unlikely that he
would ever wake from the dream of dominance and superiority in which
he had been raised. For he had been born into wealth, and taught
(though not by his father, who in fact had taken little hand in his
upbringing) that his noble birth entitled him to both material
satisfaction, and the subservient respect of all around him. And
because the world could not possibly live up to this contrived and
irrational viewpoint, he was forever angry, feeling cheated, though by
whom he could not say, of the peace and happiness that were rightfully
his.
Sending the servant from him, he splashed cold water across his face
and neck, brushed and pomaded his strong, raven locks, then set about
to shaving with especial care. Toweling away the remaining lather he
finished dressing, buckled on his sword and walked briskly down the
corridor, roughly pushing aside the butler, who in the semi-darkness
had failed to descry his young master's approaching form, and
deferentially stand aside.
Entering at length the high, majestic dining room, he was oblivious to
the opulent splendor all around him. His one thought, as he seated
himself brusquely, was a mild gratitude that his father, whom he
despised, had not yet risen. For in the aging baron he saw what he
considered an unfair reflection of himself---what he was, and would
become---and he judged most harshly in his father those shortcomings
which he himself possessed.
But on a more human level, and in the open book to which all save
murderers (and he was not yet that) are entitled, the `brooding hunger
of the eyes' which the old woman had described in him as a child, was
in fact a true window into his innermost self---his deep-seated need
for womanly care and affection. His only memories of his mother, who
had died so young, were of an angelic being in a long white gown, who
stood in the twilit doorway of his bedroom. . .then entered softly,
and kissed and petted him good-night. And without realizing it, he
longed with all his soul for that gentle, reassuring touch, so
suddenly and irrevocably lost.
He remembered more distinctly his first governess, the widow MacCain,
whose patient affection he had begun to return when his father, for
reasons he would never make clear, had sent her away in disgrace. In
later life he had solved the bitter puzzle for himself, after his own
fashion and understanding, and hated them both for it.
Back to the present, he set to his breakfast with a will. He ate not
because he was hungry---genuine, limb-weakening hunger was something
he had never known---but because he had a long ride ahead of him, and
wished to retain a good measure of strength at the end of it, when he
saw, and would meet.....
Her.
He abruptly pushed away his plate. And for perhaps the second time in
his adult life (the first being the morning of the Battle, in which he
had served as an adjutant) he felt a kind of fear and nervous awe of
what lay ahead. Wiping his mouth mechanically, he threw aside the
napkin, strode down the long hallway, and made his way out toward the
stables, buttoning his crimson officer's coat against the early
morning chill.
The great irony of his existence, and of his current fixation on a
woman he had never met, was that the same restless hunger which drove
him to her, and which was so transparent in his eyes, had acted as
both a heart-throb and aphrodisiac on a score of beautiful women,
English and Scottish alike, and he could have picked from their number
anyone he wished. Servant girls, ladies, wives and mistresses of other
men, all were quite helpless before his sharp and demanding emerald
gaze, enhanced as it was by his high position and rakish good looks.
At any moment there were always two or three jewel-like creatures who
considered themselves deeply in love with him, and would gladly have
forsaken all others to be his wife. But of these he wanted none.
Beyond the plunder of their willing bodies (and this very willingness
made him look upon them with contempt), he thought of them, and cared
for them, not at all.
The groom, who had been warned of his master's mood and early
approach, stood ready, holding the reins of the saddled stallion.
Again the young man took no particular notice of his good
fortune---that here was arguably the finest horse in the countryside,
sleek and tireless, worth more in stud alone than many of the country
folk could hope to earn in a lifetime. He knew only that it was his,
and that this, at least, was as it should be. In a rare show of
affection, he went so far as to pat its beautiful neck before
mounting. But this did not keep him from upbraiding the groom for a
loose strand on the saddle-blanket. And no sooner had he mounted the
animal than it ceased to be for him a living creature, and became
instead a vehicle, existing merely to carry him to a desired end. He
rode off, leaving the groom to shake his head, and spit disparagingly
in the dirt.
Such was the love he inspired in men.
Mary sat at the bare table, drinking tea and chewing a hard biscuit,
while her mother peered narrowly out of the window. Both had been
silent since waking---there seemed little left to say---but at last
her mother broke the stillness.
"Mary. What will you do if Stephen Purceville comes to call on you
today?" Mary knew better than to ask why he would. So far as her
mother was concerned, there was no such thing as coincidence. She
thought for a moment, then replied honestly.
"I don't know. He is, after all, my brother."
"Half-brother," the old woman hissed. "And not the better half,
remember that." The girl did not like, and could not understand, her
mother's tone.
"Margaret," she said flatly. "If you did not want us to meet, you
would not have arranged his coming here. You show me one path, then
chastise me for taking it. At least tell me what it is you want, so I
can make an intelligent choice."
"What I want," she repeated thoughtfully, as if regretting her earlier
outburst. "For now all I want is that you should meet, and let nature
take it's course."
Again Mary felt hostility rising inside her. She wanted to love this
woman, and help her if she could. But not as a puppet, and not
in that way. "Nature's course! Are you suggesting that I---"
"Easy, lass. I'm suggesting no such thing." Her voice was cool and
soothing. "Just get to know him. Do what you feel. Nay, child, that's
not what I mean. I think you'll find he has a certain charm. You may
even like him."
Mary rested her chin on her fists, and let out a deep breath,
bewildered. Of all the strange fates and traps: to be given a set of
natural parents after feeling she had none, only to find that one was
detestable, and the other wanted him dead.
But the son, her half-brother. . .here was a mystery. What was his
guilt, or innocence, and what would he feel towards her? Whereas
Michael had known all along that she was not his sister, Stephen would
have no notion that she was.
Of one thing only was she certain: she had had enough of violence and
hatred. She decided she would judge this man by himself alone. And if
he turned out to be a friend, so much the better. Whatever the case,
she would not take part in any scheme to hurt him. And perhaps..... As
if divining the thought, the old woman broke in upon her reverie.
"Just remember this. You must not tell him that he is your brother,
and you must not use my name."
"But why?"
"Why? Because if his father learns of it he will kill us both."
"I'm sorry, but I don't believe that."
"Believe it!" Again the harsh voice was edged in steel. "By the god,
girl, haven't you been listening? Don't you know yet what kind of man
he is?"
"But to kill two women without pretext? Even a Governor---"
"Oh, he would find a pretext. Harboring a fugitive, spying..... Witch
craft."
Mary was silent. And though she reproached herself for it, her one
desire in that moment was to get as far away from the hate-filled old
woman as possible. She longed to escape from the smouldering darkness
of that place, to find some quiet hillside where she could think it
all through, and decide what must be done. What must be done..... But
at the same time she felt the need, far stronger than she cared to
admit, for some strong and reassuring male presence.
At that moment she heard hoofbeats outside the door. Not waiting to
ask, or consider whether it was right or wrong, she rose from her
place and went to the door. The old woman did not try to stop her. She
went outside.
Stephen Purceville stopped short in the saddle, and for the space of
several seconds, did not move or breathe. Then with an effort to
remain calm he dismounted, for that brief instant losing sight of her,
and telling himself it had not happened.
But when he moved forward around the horse, holding tight the reins as
if trying to keep a dream from fading, he felt again the strange and
forbidding shock of her presence.
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