Books: Highland Ballad
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Christopher Leadem >> Highland Ballad
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The girl was beautiful, yes, but it was far more than that. There was
a depth to her, a genuine suffering..... But that was not the whole of
it, either. What did it mean? What did it mean?
He could not know that part of what he was feeling was an instinctive
sense of kin, the primal recognition of blood and family, a feeling
which jarred against, and at the same time increased, his awed
physical desire, for her.
And alongside this, no less tangible, was an almost spiritual
softening, and unconditional love. . .yes, love, for the beautiful and
innocent child before him. Everything about her, from the gentle eyes
and supple figure, to the long and simple dress she wore, seemed to
him more becoming and picturesque than anything he had ever seen. At
the back of his mind flashed a vision: an angelic being all in
white.....
For her own part, Mary also felt a shock. From the first glimpse there
could be no doubt that he was in fact her brother. She knew this not
by any cold comparison of features, but by the sudden love and pity
that welled up in her own heart. Love because, whatever his faults and
follies (these too she sensed), he was her brother, a fellow orphan
and lonely, wayward soul. Her womanly instinct recognized this at
once. Pity, because she saw in his eyes the rising of a passion that
could never be fulfilled. He was in love with her. This she knew with
equal certainty.
Still holding tightly to the reins, he came forward. Remembering his
pretext for coming, he began to speak stiffly of escaped prisoners and
official duties. She listened, hearing not so much the content of his
words, as reading in his voice and manner the confirmation of what she
had intuitively sensed. And she could not help but feel a certain
thrill that this powerful, aggressive man should find himself groping
for speech, shy and self-conscious before her.
And indeed, the young captain soon felt the emptiness of his words,
which were like banners raised without wind to support them. He
stopped, flushing with anger and embarrassment, and looked at her. As
clearly as if she had spoken, her eyes said to him. "It doesn't
matter. I know why you're here, and it's all right."
She stepped closer, and without fear or hesitation, began to stroke
the white muzzle of the bay, which to his surprise, did not pull away.
"He's never let anyone do that," he said honestly. "A perfect
stranger." He unconsciously stepped back, allowing her greater
freedom. "Have you been around horses all your life?"
"When I was younger, before....." Her face flushed. "But that's not
why. We understand each other."
"Before the war?"
"Yes," she said defensively. She could not understand his persistence,
into a matter that was clearly painful to her.
"Do you hate us all, then?"
Her eyes flashed, then became quiet again. "No. I've seen too much of
hate, and death. I lost..... I lost everything."
And suddenly it came to her. She was standing and talking with a man,
her own flesh, who had been on the other side of the firing, and might
well have given the order to kill---
Her face went pale as an intolerable pain rose in the hollow of her
chest, and the full horror of war loomed before her. She stepped back,
senses failing, and would have fallen if he had not rushed forward and
caught her up.
Horrified at his own actions, which could have caused in her such
pain, he carried her back to a flat stone before the hut, which served
as a bench. She sat woozily for a moment, not knowing where she was,
until she became aware of his voice, and of his strong arm about her
shoulders, supporting her.
"Mary, it's all right," he said. "Please, please forgive me. We won't
speak of it again." And looking up at his troubled countenance, so
full of concern and self-reproach, she could not help but forgive him.
He continued, hardly knowing what he said, trying to mend the breach
that he had caused between them. "I, too, know what it is to lose: my
mother, when I was very young." And in that moment it did not seem
strange to him to speak of this, his greatest secret and
vulnerability, which he hid so tenaciously from others.
"Stephen." She spoke plainly, though she was not sure herself what she
felt, sitting there so close beside him. "You came in the hope of
becoming in some way intimate with me. That has already happened; I
ask you to think of me as your friend. And as a friend, I have
something to ask of you."
"You know that I would do anything." And he colored to hear himself
speak.
"Thank you for saying that just now." She laid her hand lightly on
his, feeling the shiver it caused in him. Half against her will she
left it there, and felt his grateful fingers close around hers. "Would
you take me riding today?" she asked. "Without expecting anything in
return? More than anything right now I want to go somewhere wide open
and free, where I can think, and feel alive. I need someone I can be
alone, with. Do you understand?"
"I think so."
But even as he said this, he realized that in the confusion he had
lost his grip on the stallion. With a catch at his throat he looked
out, and saw that it had moved off, grazing now on a sparse patch of
green perhaps forty yards away. As if sensing his eyes upon it, the
horse looked back at them alertly.
"I've got to catch him!" said the man. And he leapt to his feet. But
at his first running strides toward it, the beast raised its head and
galloped easily out of his reach, a short distance further up the
path. Again the young officer made as if to charge.
"Stephen, wait." Slowly she walked over to him, as to a child who had
not understood his lessons.
"But I've got to---" She shook her head.
"No. What you've got to do is stop grabbing so hard at life, and learn
to caress it---stop trying to make everything your slave. Haven't you
ever just let life come to you?"
"But the horse---"
"Has probably not experienced a moment of true freedom since you've
owned him."
"Mary." His face betrayed deep conflict, and she knew that she had
been right, and struck upon the roots of his character. "That animal
is worth a fortune," he continued desperately. "If he escapes, or is
stolen....."
"He won't escape," she said firmly. "This pass leads nowhere: a
dead-end of stone. But that's not what this is about. What you're
showing me now is that you're afraid, terribly afraid to let go. You
think that if you don't go out and take, by force if necessary, then
life will give you nothing, nothing at all. That is a lie which is
cruel to both yourself and others. And if you want anything to do with
me it must stop, here and now."
"How do you know this?" he demanded. "You're only guessing." But he
realized that by his very vehemence he was admitting the truth of what
she said. Already she knew him. Somehow, she knew. He let out a
breath, and said to her simply. "How would you retrieve my horse?"
"By giving him what he needs. By kindness rather than the noose. No,"
she insisted. "I am not speaking of ideals. I will do it, like this."
Without haste she returned to the door of the hut, and went inside.
Her mother sat staring blankly at the fire, though Mary had little
doubt that she had moved there but recently, and had heard, if not
seen, all that had taken place.
"Mother, may I take some apples?"
"They are in the basket, as you know for yourself."
"Thank you." There was no time to wonder what her mother was feeling,
if anything. She
strode up and kissed her quickly, then took two of the apples and went
outside.
There both man and beast looked back at her. With neither haste nor
hesitation, she took a bite of the first apple, and, as if the man did
not exist, walked directly toward the stallion. It craned its neck at
this, and looked cautiously back at its master. But as he made no
move, it turned its large, animal eyes back to the girl.
She did not hold the apple out enticingly, or make the cooing sounds
of entreaty which she knew it would instinctively mistrust. She simply
advanced, acting as if the reins did not exist, paused, came closer,
then stopped carelessly perhaps ten feet away. She took another bite
of the apple, then laughed as the creature snorted impatiently, and at
last came up to her. She reached below its head with one hand, and fed
it the apples with the other.
The reins were in her hand, and the animal ate greedily. Then all at
once she burst into tears, and hid her face against its long and
beautiful neck.
Together they rode across the wide and wild moors, past stark mountain
ridges, and lochs many thousand feet deep. All beneath a warming sun
and mild, caressing wind. They spoke quietly or not at all, taking in
the broad magnificence around them, each thinking their own thoughts,
alone, and yet in the deepest sense, together.
At least that is how the girl perceived their long ride through
Nature. For her it was poetry and roses, a spiritual as well as
physical reunion with the brother she had never known, and who so
obviously needed her love and softening influence. And to one so
young, knowing so little of men, it was easy to imagine that a sort of
romantic friendship was also possible, had in fact already been
established, and that all of this was understood between them.
Having been so long without the company of men, and in her life being
close to only one---a man of exceptional virtue and character---she
could not help but think the best of her new-found brother, and to
believe, with her heart rather than her mind, that whatever injustices
he may have committed, were over and in the past. Further, she
reasoned, the world had need of such aggressive leaders: men who got
things done.
She could not know that in following this naive and wishful train of
thought she was making a classic mistake, indeed, the same mistake her
mother had made before her. She was yielding to a woman's instinctive
attraction and submission to raw strength, which clouds the
conscience, and hampers honest judgment.
Michael had been strong and good; Stephen was merely strong. She was
too young, and too needful, to see the difference.
So riding back with the setting sun, feeling fatigued but at the same
time warm and secure in his presence, it did not seem out of place for
her to rest her head on his shoulder and let her arms, which were
wrapped about his waist for support, squeeze him affectionately. And
if she felt inclined to add, "Thank you, Stephen, I feel wonderful,"
where was the harm?
And as they reached the steep and narrow final passage, his actions
seemed to confirm all the noble, underlying qualities which she had
begun to read into his character. Sensing that his horse was tired he
dismounted, and taking hold of the bridle, led it the rest of the way
on foot, displaying both a firm, sure tread, and surprising physical
stamina. Of his virility, had she known the word, there could be no
question.
When they reached the hut, the sky seemed to hover in a peaceful and
many-hued twilight. Everything around them was hushed and still, with
no light showing from within. Stephen reached up to help her dismount,
and as her feet lightly touched ground, took her in his arms.
Her eyes looked up at him searchingly, his face so close to hers. Then
he was kissing her, and before she could turn away she felt his right
hand glide across her ribs.
She tried to pull away, but he only brought her body more firmly
against his. And she felt a part of herself yield as they kissed
again, her lips parting expectantly. Once more she felt the hand
kneading toward her breast.
But as it touched, and she felt the growing insistence of his
movements she came back to herself, and with a shock realized what she
was doing, and with whom.
"No!" she gasped, trying to break free. Still he held her, but she
persisted. "It's not right."
At last he released her. With this action he too seemed to remember
himself, and to refrain,
though his reasons were vastly different.
"I'm sorry," he said simply. "I'm afraid you quite carry me away." She
gazed back at him, his features half hidden in the gloom, trying to
understand the source and meaning of his words. It was impossible.
"Oh," she said in despair. "I didn't want it to end like this.
Couldn't you just embrace me, as you would a friend, and say
good-night?"
"As a friend
?" So sharp and demanding was his voice, his whole bearing, that she
found herself saying, quite against her will:
"Please, just give me a little more time. I'm not ready....."
And these words, like so many other innocent acts, seemed to achieve
an end of their own, altogether separate from what she had intended.
Stephen was strangely soothed, and gratified, as if hearing exactly
what he wanted to. She felt, as much as saw him smile. He came to her,
and embraced her gently.
"Oh, Mary," he whispered, as he kissed her cheek. "Thank you for this.
Thank you for not giving in. I've been waiting all my life for a
feeling, like this." And he kissed her again with heart-breaking
softness.
Then he stepped away and swiftly mounted. "I'll be back three days
hence. We will ride again, and make our love in the fields." And he
rode off, leaving her bewildered and unable to reply.
And all at once the last light of day was gone. The breeze which had
seemed so gentle, now fled before the cold and chilling airs of Night.
She retreated into the woeful shelter of the hut, and lay down on the
bed in confusion.
Ten
The prisoner had slept for nearly twenty hours, woken off and on by
the cold as his fire grew dim. At such times he would rise only long
enough to fuel it once more to a warm and yet (so far as this was
possible) a slow burning blaze. He knew the white smoke of the
driftwood would be difficult to see, dispersed as it was through the
cracks high above, and carried away by the steady breeze from the sea.
But still he took no chances, using only pieces that were cracked with
age, retaining not the slightest trace of moisture. Then trying to
forget his parched throat and empty stomach, he would lie yet again in
the sand, sleep remaining the single greatest need.
But as night fell again on the interceding day---even as Mary watched
the Englishman ride off---he woke for the last time, feeling troubled
and restless. So dry had his throat become that each involuntary
swallow brought with it a sharp and brittle pain. His mouth felt lined
with parchment, and he was dizzy and weak from hunger. He knew that
whatever the risks, he could no longer remain where he was, but must
find food and drink. And this meant people, of whom life had made him
so mistrustful.
His clothes were dry, nearly scorched. These he had stolen as he fled
across the countryside with his companion, who along with himself had
broken early from the rest. But the fit of them was bad, and their
look on him plainly suspicious.
As he dressed, then climbed carefully up to the narrow opening, he
felt a deep trepidation he could not suppress. Because somewhere
inside him a voice had said, "Enough. Enough running and hiding and
stealing. I must take myself openly to the first villager I see, and
ask for help." And while this ran counter to all the hard lessons he
had learned in the stockade---that a man must look out for himself,
trusting and needing no one else---yet a line had been crossed inside
him, from which there was no returning. He did not wish to die, but
neither could he live as some hunted and detestable beast. He climbed
down from the rock.
The twilit beach was empty and the waves had grown less. Here and
again came the sound of gulls, along with the high screech of a
sea-hawk somewhere above. He plodded on through the indifferent sand,
toward the small fishing village some two miles distant.
Upon leaving the hiding place he had formed no clear plan, and in his
bitterness told himself he did not want one. But as the cliffs that
walked with him began to diminish and pull back from the shore,
leaving the more level expanse and tiny harbor of the village, his
mind of necessity began to work again, trying to think of anyone he
might know there, who would have no love for the English, and be
willing to take him in.
In the midst of his reveries he looked up to see an old man sitting on
the porch of a low ancient cottage, separated from the rest of the
village, holding aloof as it were on this, the nearer and less
accessible side of the harbor. A steep stretch of sand led down from
it to the very edge of the horseshoe bay, broken here and there by
large projections of stone.
The old man looked back at him placidly, smoking a short pipe and
humming quietly but distinctly to himself. The prisoner felt fear, and
a deep hesitation, until almost in spite of himself he began to follow
the rise and fall of the simple tune. Then with a rush of warmth and
melancholy he recognized it: "The Walls of Inverness." It was a song
that had been sung at the camp fires of Highland soldiers for time out
of mind. The old man was a veteran, in this blessed, unmistakable way
telling him that he knew of his plight, and would help.
With relief but at the same time caution, the younger man approached
the cottage, and mounted the steps to the weather-beaten porch. The
two men regarded each other a moment in silence.
"You know, then?"
"Aye, lad," rejoined the fisherman in his clear baritone. "Three
red-coated cavalry were here yesterday, searching about and makin' a
fuss. Saw fit to post a threatening bill on the door of the church.
`Escaped traitors (traitors, mind) from Edinburgh. . .believed headed.
. .fifty pounds reward
. . .death to anyone aiding or abetting.' The usual stuff."
"The villagers will be on the watch for me, then?"
"Nay, lad. That bill was torn down before their horses were out of
sight. And you plainly don't know sea-folk if you have to ask." He
took a puff on his pipe, and continued without haste.
"We live with death every day of our lives, and would not last one
season if we grew afraid every time the word was spoken. That lady out
there." He moved his arm to indicate the sea. "She gives and takes
life as she pleases, with hardly a warning. God's mistress she is,
with moods and temper to match. If we'll not bow to her, then what
have we to fear from three young hoodlums, flashing their sabers as if
to wake the dead?"
"Meaning no offense," said the other, "and I'm sure you're right. But
aren't there some as might be tempted by the money? And might the
English not have spies?"
"Perhaps," said the fisherman thoughtfully. "The arm of the Devil is
long, and no denying. But you'll have naught to fear of that tonight.
I live quite alone, as you see, and in the morning there'll be a fog
to blot out the sun." He said this with confidence, as one who had
seen it a thousand times before.
Then extinguishing his pipe against the wooden arm of the chair, he
rose as if to go inside, with an open hand indicating the door. "Right
now I imagine you're hungry, and might do with a mug of stout?"
"Yes. Thank you." No other words would form, as he felt his throat
tighten with emotion. They walked through the painted doorway, and
into the shelter of stone.
In troubled dream Mary lay upon the bed, restlessly turning. Words and
pictures of the day would appear to her, soft and lovely---riding
through the magnificent countryside, feeling him close beside
her---till with a start she felt again the claw-like hand upon her
breast, and beheld the iron gaze which knew no entreaty. And shaking
her head in torment, she would drive the images away.
After some time of this she half woke, though her eyes remained closed
against the bitter truth of the waking world. She clutched the pillow
to her like a lover, and in a moaning, despairing voice said his name.
"Oh, Michael. Where are you?"
Where are you? Where are you?
The words resounded in her mind, growing fainter, spiralling through a
dark tunnel which became a deep well, leading to the heart of the
abyss. And like tiny pebbles they struck the water far below with the
faintest echo of sound.
Something stirred, as if woken from a fearful and everlasting sleep.
She saw clearly, now level with her eyes, a dark and shallow pool
among a copse of death-black trees, the whole of the scene shrouded by
mist and lit by seeping moonlight. And in its midst, lying face
downward with only his arched back protruding above the surface of
those terrible waters, the figure of a Scottish soldier.
As if sensing her presence the figure lifted its head, bewildered, and
stood up. A fearful, long-drawn wail split the night, whether from the
spirit or from herself she could not have said, only that the face was
that of her beloved, that he was in great pain, and had been struck
blind. He turned wildly from side to side, trying to penetrate the
blackness of his eyes. And the same words that she had sent to him now
became his own, endlessly, hopelessly repeated.
"Where are you? Where are you? Where are
you!"
She tried to answer but could not, as if between them they possessed
but a single voice. And as he finally stopped thrashing, and she felt
her tongue loosed, she became aware of the thing which had stilled
him, so utterly that she knew he had lost all hope, confronted by the
sinister, solitary figure which parted the mist and stood before him:
her hated half-brother, who had stolen and crushed his heart.
All was deathly still as they faced one another in silence. Purceville
drew a long pistol, and held it at arm's length. Michael was a statue,
head down, hands at his sides in resignation. There was the crack of a
shot, and again a frozen wail split the night, this time undeniably
her own.
Mary sat bolt upright in the bed. She was trembling, and her inner
garments clung to her in a cold sweat. Fully awake now, and with the
sudden insight brought by waking, she knew beyond a shadow of doubt
what she must do. Still fully clothed, she stepped down from the bed
and lifted up the mattress.
The manuscript book was there, had been there all the while she slept.
The feel of its widow-black cover was cold and forbidding, but there
was no longer time for fear or hesitation. She lit a thick tallow
candle, and moved with it to the hard, bare table and chair.
Her mother was still nowhere to be seen. She bolted the door from
within, then opened the book before her.
Eleven
The two men sat before the roaring fire, smoking contentedly. The
prisoner put a hand to his stomach, feeling nourished and filled as he
had not been for many months. The room was warm; he was safe for the
night, at least. And yet something was troubling him. Nothing to do
with the man, or the place. It did not even seem to concern himself.
But in some remote corner of his mind there was disquiet, as if
someone he cared about was in trouble or in danger. He took another
deep puff on the pipe that had been given him, unable to work the
thought through.
They had remained thus for some time when at last the old man spoke.
From his patient movements and steady gaze throughout, and still more
from his present silence, the younger man sensed a profound caution
and wisdom. So now that he chose to speak, the prisoner deemed it best
to leave his disquiet for a time, to listen or to speak as was asked
of him, and to learn from the seasoned veteran what was needful.
"I don't ask you to tell me your name," he began. "In truth I'd rather
not know it, since what I don't know I can't tell. But if there's some
name you would be called, near enough the mark to feel it yours, but
wide enough to leave safe your parentage, I'd be pleased to learn it."
The younger man smiled. "Call me Jamie."
"Well then, Jamie. For the sake of an old man's curiosity, if nothing
else, won't you tell me something of yourself? The escape and such,
and what your plans are now. Needless to say you'll sleep in a bed
tonight, much better than that old crack in the northern cliffs."
"How did you know about that?" His mind raced; perhaps the hiding
place was not as safe as he imagined. "Could you see the smoke, then?
Do you think others saw it as well?"
"Nay, lad. Fear not. What smoke there was could hardly be seen: a wisp
or two among the rocks, which I saw only when I brought my skiff close
in."
"Then how?" asked the prisoner anxiously.
"T'was the sea hawk that gave you away. She's got a roost up near the
top, and it seems you smoked her out proper. Wouldn't land all day,
just kept circlin' about and looking down. If there's one thing a
beast won't abide it's the smell of smoke. Puts `em in a God's fear,
and no mistake."
"But how did you know about the hiding place? I thought that just
myself and my childhood companions....."
"And of course you thought that I was never young. But truth to tell,
I was. Lost the virgin there, I did, and haven't seen her since." He
let out a grunt of laughter, and broke into a boyish grin. Then slowly
returned to the matter at hand. "All in all, I doubt there's half a
dozen as know of it, and none of them English. You're well enough
there, and in the morning I'll see you safely back." He paused, relit
his pipe. "But right now I'm in the mood for a story. A good one,
mind. And I'm obliging you to tell it to me."
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