Books: Highland Ballad
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Christopher Leadem >> Highland Ballad
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So the man called Jamie began his tale, relating at first only the
barest facts of his capture and imprisonment, leading up to the mass
escape as they were being transferred from one hell-hole to another.
But as the memories and emotions rose up in their fullness before him,
he found that he could no more pass over them quickly than he could
forget them. The wounds were too deep, and too many, for that.
So gradually, without himself realizing the change, he spoke in
greater length and detail of the trials and fears of that time, and of
his desperate struggle not to be broken, or to lose sight of his
dreams and yearnings, no matter how black his world became. Even his
childhood, and his passionate
love for the girl, found their rightful place in his tale, so much so
that his throat often swelled or shut tight, and he was unable for a
time to go on.
But go on he did, far into the night, while the old man here and there
nodded his understanding, or gave a timely word of encouragement.
Until it had all come out, and he slumped back in the chair,
exhausted, his face wet with tears.
Then without further speech the old man rose. And taking down a candle
from the mantle he showed him to the bedroom, where he gave him his
own bed to sleep in. Then with the young man safely at rest, he
returned to the fire to think through all that he had heard, and
decide what he must do to help him.
Because this same weather-beaten mariner, who was never to be seen
making dramatic gestures at the church, or heard to raise his voice in
righteous patriotism at the tavern, who himself had so little in the
world, was then and there willing to risk it all to restore a single
life to fullness. Without being asked, or telling himself that he was
good or kind to do so, he felt the simple, organic stirrings of
compassion in his aged heart. And expecting no greater reward than the
warmth of the feeling itself, he determined to do all he could to
guide this lad back to safety and freedom.
Simply put, he had vision enough to see another human soul before him,
and courage enough not to turn away. For such was the spirit of his
kind.
Twelve
She had found what she sought: a chant to raise the spirits of the
dead. In terror at her own resolve, yet no more able to restrain
herself than to stop her heart from beating, she put the book beneath
her arm, wrapped a thick cloak about her, then lit and lifted the
torch that she had found.
The night was still and cold as she stole from the hut, with traces of
ghostly mist already forming in the hollows. The moon shone full and
hard, dimming the surrounding stars with its halo of pale white.
She made for the Standing Stone, as dry as bone, where the power was
strongest, older than the hills themselves. She felt that she moved
not of her own accord, but as a puppet upon the strings of some higher
(or lower) being. The reading of those dark, soul-splitting words had
done its work on her. She moved as if entranced---eyes wide, mind dark
and dulled. Only very deep, in the roots of her being, did the heart
remain intact; and she realized that no matter how strange the
vehicle, or how terrible the consequences, this was a thing which must
be done. She must reach out to him with living hands, and in death or
in life, calm the tortured spirit of her beloved.
The Standing Stone was just that, an uncarved granite tusk, thrusting
up from a high shelf which overlooked the ravine. She approached it
slowly, her senses returning. It did not need the reading of ancient
lore to make her stand in awe of it, or believe in its dark powers.
For this was a place known throughout the countryside, to be wondered
at by day, religiously avoided by night. It was said that the ghosts
of William Wallace and Mary Stuart could be summoned here by those
possessed of the black arts, as well as murdered warriors and
chieftains from the grim, violent times before memory.
She trembled at the sight of it, as everything beyond fell away,
shrouded by mist and distance. It was as if she stood at the edge of
the living world, opening upon the vague and endless sea of Death's
Kingdom. Her one desire was to turn and flee, back to the world of
daylight and living flesh. And yet she must not only force herself to
look upon it, but pass beyond, and standing in its far shadow, to call
upon the very darkness from which her spirit palled.
She stood motionless, her resolve wavering before the onslaught of
doubts and questions. Was she doing the right thing? Might her actions
not only do them both further injury? These thoughts interlaced with a
raw, gut-level fear for her own safety.
Yet strong as these forebodings were, there lived inside her something
stronger: the love of a single man. The thought of Michael alone and
in pain, was more than she could bear. She took the final steps, and
stood on the sloping ground just beyond..... It.
The ravine opened before her, its steep sides leading down to the
flatted heath below: a narrow vale of silvered grass, withered shrubs
and speckled stone, here and there marked by solitary trees which rose
up from the wreathing fog like pillars in a flood. The same fitful
breeze which had carried it from the sea beyond, moved the vapory
shroud across the scene in ghostly patterns: here and again clearing
an open stage, only to wrap it once more in its cloak of white
invisibility.
But this she took in with her eyes only. More acutely than any other
sense, she felt
the Stone behind her, a glowering menace, an evil force aware of her
presence. She steeled herself to turn and face it. Then braving its
deepest shadows, she wedged the torch between it and a smaller stone,
half crushed beneath.
And with this action, thrusting stubborn light into a place of
darkness, she found the courage needed to perform the grim task ahead.
Kneeling in the dank ground with her back against the Stone, she shook
off the cold shudder that ran through her at its touch, and opened the
book before her, turning to the ribbon-marked page.
Holding his image ever before her, she began to read aloud the chant.
The words came haltingly at first, unwilling, then stronger, slowly
taking hold of her until it seemed another, far older woman spoke
through her: that she did not need her eyes to recall the words or
sound their meaning. The voice rose and fell.
By the Standing Stone, as dry as bone
Through ancient tales to walk alone
By moonlight stark, to spirits dark
We call to You
Their way be shown.
Back from the land, of withered hand
To islands where the living stand
With arms apart, and naked heart
This spell to Thee
I do command.
Send spirit forth, by dark stream's course
If Hell itself should be the source
Let Cerberus' gate, not hold his fate
But shatter walls
With killing force.
All this she read, and more besides, until her arms seemed to open of
their own accord, in the final gesture of invocation. Then with the
trembling emotions of a lifetime, she said his name.....
Nothing happened.
A slight freshening of the breeze, nothing more. The spell had failed.
All her mother's arts were but seeming and superstition. Michael
remained on the other side of Death's iron door, unreachable. She fell
forward onto the bitter earth, overcome by unquenchable despair.....
She heard a sound.
Was it again the wind's mockery of bagpipes, the faintest strain
playing upon her mind alone? She listened again. The sound grew
stronger, undeniable, moving toward her from the west. Far away it
seemed, from the depths of the ravine, which led after many miles to
the sea. It played Scotland the Brave, a poignant sound in that dismal
place, as she heard in its every note a proud defiance of death and
darkness. She got to her feet, and moving to the very edge of the
shelf, peered intently into the wavering vale below.
The sound continued to come on, nearer and nearer, then suddenly
ceased, now surely no more than two hundred yards away. She strained
her every sense for sight or sound of him, in vain. She began to
despair once more, until it occurred to her that perhaps the
torchlight held his troubled spirit at bay. Quickly she returned to
the Stone, and forcing out the beacon, rolled its lighted knob against
the hissing turf until it sputtered and went out. Then moving back to
the ledge she rejoined her vigil, prepared to wait all night.
But she did not have to. Almost at once she perceived the figure of a
man, moving slowly through the fog. It came on steadily, down the
center of the vale. Now hidden by the mist, now clearly outlined: a
kilted Scottish soldier, pale and weary, wandering it seemed to her,
without direction or hope. Her heart leapt inside her, reaching out to
him with all that she was.
The curly head was raised at last, still vague with distance. The
figure stopped, as if sensing some presence. . .then turned and looked
up at her. A face once handsome and strong. His name was instantly
upon her lips, as in fear and ecstasy she made to cry out to him---
Suddenly from behind her came a whoosh and swell of blazing light, and
a harsh voice crying harsh words. She whirled to see her mother
outlined in fire and smoke against the blood-red backdrop of the
Stone. Then pushing past her, the witch hurled a flaming brand into
the abyss.
"In se nama Dagda!" she cried in anger. "Baek wealcan sawol, to
Helan!" A great billowing fog engulfed the place where the figure had
stood. And when it cleared again, he was gone.
Still her mother stood poised, waited expectantly, a blackened rib
held in her uplifted hand.
But when the apparition did not reappear, slowly she lowered it. .
.and the look of wild fear passed from her eyes. She trembled, and
spat upon the ground. Then with a sharp look at the girl, she turned
to extinguish the swift bonfire she had made.
Then without a word, she took the sobbing girl by the wrist and led
her away. Utterly devastated, Mary did not resist.
Only when they were safely shut up inside the lair did the old woman
give vent to her fear and vexation.
"By all the gods, girl. . .you shall do no such thing again! Did you
want to lose your own soul as well?"
"I don't care!" cried her daughter sullenly. "I don't care."
And with the utterance of these words, rising as they did from her
long suppressed darker nature, something precious and fine collapsed
inside her: the will to live, and keep giving. She moved listlessly to
sit before the fire, not for warmth, but only to turn her back on the
endless pain and disillusion of this world.
All was lost, and darkness overwhelmed her.
Thirteen
The next morning she was just the same, sitting silently before the
fire, with unseeing eyes gazing into it, thinking not of light but of
darkness. Her mother, who had slept little and worried much, offered
her tea and breakfast, which she refused. She asked her then to build
up the fire, to which the girl consented, though not for any reason
that her mother might have hoped. And this solitary action, which she
repeated several times that day, was all the movement that the woman
could rouse from her.
When evening came, she asked her daughter why she stared into the
coals. Mary answered simply, without emotion. "I am watching the fire
die. Like a human life, no matter how many times it is built up, the
end is always the same. And when the will to feed it is gone, there is
death." With this she turned slowly towards her mother, adding with
grim satisfaction. "Yes. At least there is Death." Then she turned
away again, the faint smile dissolving into the stone coldness of her
face.
The witch spent the whole of that first day, and much of the second,
reading through her books of lore, trying to find some spell or charm
that would cure her daughter's malady. Because to her understanding,
she had been touched by some dark spirit of the Netherworld, or
perhaps possessed in some measure by the Stone itself.
But what ailed the girl was not the work of witchcraft, and there was
nothing in her mother's books or box of talismans that would move or
affect her in the least. What the old woman could not see, because it
was too close to her own experience, was that Mary had given herself
heart and soul to a man she could never have, the only man that she
would ever love; and without him all life seemed but a mockery of
hope. There was no longer any reason to live, nor did she wish to find
one. And so she had resolved to die, death being the only comfort she
could see on the black horizon of her ravaged world.
Her mother put her to bed on that second night, to which she consented
only because it was less troublesome than to refuse. And whether she
slept at all the woman could not have said, for in the morning she lay
exactly as she had before, hands at her sides, staring blankly at some
fixed point above her. Again she would not eat, and rising, drank a
little water only because her throat felt dry and uncomfortable.
But as the third morning wore on, the young girl began to show signs
of agitation, as it recalling some unpleasant fact that interfered
with her sullen wish to die. All at once she stood up from the chair,
pulling the hair at her temples and groaning angrily. The old woman,
glad for any sign of life, stepped closer.
"What is it, Mary?"
"The fool! The fool!" she raged, pacing back and forth like a caged
animal.
"Who?"
"Stephen Purceville! Today we are to, `Ride again, and make our love
in the fields.' Oh, if he only knew how I detest him now!"
As if some horrid music box which played always the same restless
dirge, the lid of it thus lifted, her mother's long obsession for
vengeance once more began to work inside her. Even then.
"You must be careful, lass. If you tell him as much there could be
trouble, and not the swift and easy death you seem to long for. If you
truly wish to hurt him---"
Mary cut her short with a swift, knifing motion of her arm. Upon
hearing these words an intolerable irritation had come over her at the
stupidity of these sorry puppets: her mother, and the Purcevilles both
young and old, playing out their little games of lust and hate, as if
they mattered at all in the end. How could they fail to see that
everything, everything ended in death and ruin? All their petty
desires were less than meaningless; they were absurd.
But this was not what lay at the heart of her unease. For at the
thought of her half-brother, and of the very real threat he posed, the
will to survive had once more begun to assert itself inside her. She
was afraid. And this simple, undeniable impulse---the desire to avoid
pain and danger---tormented her now because it would not be
suppressed. Death she did not fear. But thoughts of trying to fight
off her brother's oblivious, self-satisfied advances, the possibility
of rape or imprisonment if she refused him..... These she could not
face.
"I've got to get out of here!" she said suddenly, as if herself a
puppet whose strings had been violently jerked. And rushing to the
door before her mother could stop her, she broke from the hut and
began running wildly down the path, her one desire to reach its root
and turn aside before Stephen Purceville could arrive there, trapping
her in the narrow pass.
She did not know how narrowly she succeeded. For no sooner had she
reached and taken the track west, climbing a shallow hill and then
dropping again out of sight, than the expectant officer on his panting
steed arrived at the meeting of ways, and began climbing steadily the
final stretch to the hut, and the long-awaited rendezvous with his
imagined lover.
Fourteen
The man called Jamie spent the night, and the two days following, at
the cottage of the fisherman. This had in no way been planned. But he
had woken trembling and feverish, and with a deep cough that would not
be silenced. It was as if only now, when it had reached a safe haven,
that his body could tell him of its many ills and deprivations.
The old man insisted that he remain in bed, at least until the high
fever broke. As to thoughts of his own safety, he had none; and with
the heavy overcast and clinging fog he deemed it prudent, and a
necessary risk, to keep him from the cold and damp of out-of-doors.
The younger man at length agreed, not because it seemed wise, but
because it was inevitable. He had no choice. Once so healthy and
robust, he now felt a dull ache in the very marrow of his bones, and a
chill that would not be abated. So he remained in bed, and with forced
patience, passed the two hard days.
But on the succeeding morning---perhaps two hours before Mary fled in
panic from the hut---he felt again the deep restlessness which had
troubled him three days before. Something was wrong. Someone dear to
him was in danger. He could not have said how he knew this; but know
it he did, and resolved then and there to pay call upon those he
loved. Though he was still far from well, and fully realized the risk,
this instinctive sense would not be overruled. He now found it as
impossible to remain in the cottage as it had previously been to
leave.
He thanked the fisherman for all that he had done, and promised to
send word to him, or come himself, as soon as he knew that all was
well. And he promised to be careful. The veteran was concerned: his
experience had taught him the inadvisability of haste. But seeing the
intensity of the younger man's face he could only wish him well, and
after he had gone, say a silent prayer for him in his own fashion.
The wheels of fate were turning. Events were in God's hands now.
* * *
Mary wandered aimlessly across the high plateau toward the sea,
feeling lost and miserable. As she walked she watched the fog rise
slowly and evaporate, along with all faith in herself. Vaguely she
told herself that she would never again live with her mother in the
dark, dismal hut, where everything was smoke and confusion. But even
this seemed a wavering resolve. How could she promise herself
anything, when she had been so weak.....
A single tear broke from the stillness of her face, as she realized
that in all the haste of her flight she had nonetheless seized the
heavy cloak from its peg by the door, the same which she now wrapped
about her. She cried because this instinctive action showed her, more
even than the painful workings of her mind, that a part of her still
wanted to live. As much as she had loved Michael, and loathed the
thought of a world without him. . .still, she desired life. It was in
that moment an unbearable anguish.
She heard hoofbeats approaching from the west. This did not at first
seem to register, except perhaps for a dim realization that it could
not be the man she feared, who would have to approach from the
east---behind her.
The plateau had gradually sunk and narrowed, until now it was little
more than a rough gully between the two rocky shoulders which pressed
upon it. It occurred to her that the riders, still hidden by the rise
and fall of the track ahead, would soon be upon her, and that there
was nowhere to hide. But the same nightmare logic that says not to
fear, it is only a dream, told her now that this could not be what in
fact it was: a dangerous meeting in a place far from help. It all
seemed so inevitable. And she was tired of fighting.
Two horsemen appeared on the track below her as she reached the crown
of the rise, which occurred at the very point where the opposing walls
were highest, rising in serrated levels to a height of sixty feet,
several yards to either side of her.
The riders were dressed in red.
She looked quickly about her for a sheltering shadow or place to hide,
as all the warnings that she had been raised on began to torment her.
But the noon sun was hidden by a cloud, as if it had not the heart to
watch: there were no shadows. And they had seen her.
The two men rode easily, lazily in their fine English saddles. Young
cavalrymen, they had been sent to investigate reports that one of the
escaped prisoners believed to be in the area had been sighted.
But if their superiors placed a high importance on the capture of
these elusive wretches, clearly they did not. For them it was a
tedious duty; and without their captain to oversee them they were
merely pretending to search, killing time and half looking for
trouble. Like much of the English military of that time they were not
volunteers, but had been pressed into service as an alternative to
prison. They were neither dedicated nor high-minded, and had been
assigned to this remote desert (as they thought of it) because they
were fit for little else. In fact, they were hooligans, representing
not the best of their country, but the worst. As for compassion, they
had little enough for their own kind. For the kin of these stubborn
Highland fools, they had none.
So when they saw the girl it was not a question of what they wanted
from her, but only, would there be anyone to witness the act? Their
eyes searched ahead and behind, to either side, then fixed resolutely
on the girl.
Mary observed all of this, but stood rooted to the spot in fear and
disbelief. Surely they could not want her like this, pale and
distraught. Surely they had some conscience. The two riders stopped
just in front of her, addressing each other as if she did not exist.
"What d'ya think?" said the first in a heavy cockney. He was a
smallish, heavy-set man with a nondescript face and yellow teeth.
"Would be a fine catch, and no mistake." His companion, a lean,
dour-looking man with drooping red moustaches, did not at first reply,
but only continued to stare at the object in question.
"I think," he said at length, dismounting. "That I want you to hold my
horse." The smaller man laughed harshly, and spurred his own steed
forward to take hold of the reins.
"Just be sure ya save some for me," he said. "I don't fancy ridin' a
dead horse." The red-haired man began to advance, as Mary backed away
in rising horror.
"Please," she said in a pathetic voice. "Don't do this." But her words
had no effect. The man seized her by the arms, and after a moment's
indecision, threw her to the ground.
And then he was upon her, tearing at the buttons of her dress,
pressing her body hard against the stony track. Writhing in terror,
Mary let out a piercing scream. The man lifted his hand to strike her.
But the blow never fell.
A shadow flashed across her vision, as an indistinct shape flew down
from the rocks above. There was the thud of impact, as the man on top
of her was torn aside. Two men wrestled on the ground beside her. The
one, in rough clothes that fit him badly, quickly gained the upper
hand, pinning the other beneath him. He raised a long knife in his
hand, and with a savage cry, drove the blade home.
But an instant later there came a shot from behind, and the prisoner
fell forward across the man that he had stilled. The second
cavalryman, still mounted, had draw his pistol as soon as he regained
his senses, and waited only for a clear shot at the Highlander.
In the confusion he had lost his grip on the other's horse, which
bolted at the sound. And taking quick stock of the situation, the
cavalryman seemed to feel much the same panic. For he too rode away,
as if the Devil rode behind him. His hoofbeats died slowly in the
distance.
Recovering somewhat from the shock, Mary rose and went to the crumpled
form of her deliverer, to see if anything could be done. The ball had
pierced his back, but perhaps.....
Raising his upper body carefully, she drew him clear of the other.
Then kneeling, she slowly laid him down, causing the fair, curly head
to loll weakly into her lap. She let out a gasp as a familiar face
looked up at her, and said her name with a smile.
"My Mary."
It was James Talbert, her cousin, and companion of her youth. And
though he lay dying, there was yet a look of strained happiness on his
worn, still boyish face.
"James!" she choked through her tears. "You should have just let
them..... Oh. Don't die!"
"Hush, my girl. I don't mind." His words were quiet but distinct. "You
don't know it---" His face clouded with pain, and for a time he was
unable to speak.
"You've done me a kindness," he said finally. "You've given my death
meaning." With this he stiffened, and gave a convulsive shudder. She
feared he was already gone; but after a pause the blue eyes opened
again, and he spoke. "Will you do something for me?"
"Anything," she wept. "Anything."
"Kiss me, Mary." Brushing the tear-stained hair from her face, she did
as he asked.
"Thank you, love..... You're so very sweet..... Too bad you're in love
with that other one, eh?" He tried to wink at her, but his face was
suddenly changed, as crestfallen as the moment before it had been
triumphant. His muscles convulsed from the pain of his mortal wound.
"Kiss me, Mary. I'm gone to a better world."
Trembling, she bent once more to press her lips to his. And when she
rose again, he was gone.
"No
. Dear God, please! It should have been me," she sobbed. "It should
have been me."
She rocked him slowly back and forth, for the second time in her young
life crying the bitter tears of a loved one lost. A heavy silence
reigned about her, and the birds in the heath would not sing.
Fifteen
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