Books: Highland Ballad
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Christopher Leadem >> Highland Ballad
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So it was that Stephen Purceville found her. He had knocked twice on
the door of the hut, with growing impatience until, receiving no
answer to his summons, he kicked it in. There he had found her gone,
the place empty but for a filthy hag who hid her face and said
nothing.
Yet for all his indifference and haste, the momentary glimpse of her
eyes had struck a chord of memory inside him, though he was far too
angry to puzzle it out. His woman (he thought of everything he desired
as his) had betrayed him, gone off, when she knew that he wanted to
see her.
Riding off in a storm of emotion, he came across Sergeant Billings as
he rejoined the main track, who with a scared face spoke of ambush and
treachery, and pointed back along the way he had come. Angered still
further by the intrusion of duty (and reality) upon his romantic
dreams, he forced out of the man what information he could, then
bluntly ordered him to be silent, and follow.
So the two rode west together, and found her still in the same
attitude, holding the body as she would a sick child. She did not at
first seem to hear them approach, till with a vehemence which startled
them both, the young Purceville screamed at her:
"What is the meaning of this!"
Mary turned, as if not understanding what was wanted of her. Her eyes
focused on him with an effort, and she replied slowly, in a voice that
seemed to come from far away: from the bottom of a well.
"Two men are dead, who perhaps desired life. And one who desired death
still lives. What meaning would you have?"
The blankness of her face astonished him. For a brief instant he felt
something akin to genuine horror. What could have happened to
transform the lithe, innocent creature of so few days before? But the
thought could not penetrate deeply, for now the smaller man had begun
to speak.
"You see, Captain, it's just as I told you." He spoke rapidly, eyes
wide and shifting with the obvious lie. "She `ates us. Set a trap for
us she did, acting all seductive like. Then her man jumps down from
the rocks---"
"You shut your mouth!" cried Purceville bitterly. He had seen Mary's
torn dress, and knew how much faith to place in the character of these
men. "Get out of here," he said. "Back to the barracks. And God help
you when I return."
The small man rode off in haste, but did not go where he was sent. As
he struck the high road he turned to the south instead, and fled into
obscurity.
The Englishman dismounted and came closer. His face was a study of
inner conflict, as rage and compassion warred inside him. Mary had
little doubt (nor was she wrong) which side would win.
"Why?" he asked flatly, stopping a few feet away. "Why didn't you wait
for me? If you had. . .none of this would have happened."
The girl slowly lowered the body, then stood to face him. "In the name
of God, Stephen, is there any part of you that isn't utterly cruel? Do
you think I don't know that?" This was too much. Her patience expired,
and she no longer cared for the consequences.
"Am I supposed to feel worse because I also hurt your feelings?
Am I supposed to equate that with the death of two men, one of them my
cousin? Damn you! If you possessed the least sensitivity you'd have
known three days ago there could be nothing romantic between us. And
today. If I had thought for one moment that you would listen to
reason, and let me
explain---"
"What would you explain!" he cried hotly. "That you have been sleeping
with a traitor? That you prefer his filthy Scottish bed to mine? That
you are a whore, like all the others? Well? Why don't you speak!"
"I am very sorry for you," she said at last. "You are blind, as no man
I have ever known. You will never learn, and you will never change."
And with that she turned her back on him.
For a single moment he stood transfixed, loving, and at the same time
hating. . .her
. She knew him as no one else, and had always spoken the truth. But
the words she spoke now were not soothing, were not the gentle words
of comfort he sought. Instead they burned, like salt on an open wound.
Pure, blind hatred rose up inside him, devouring all else. He seized
her by the shoulders, and with the heat of the primal hunger, turned
her towards him. If love would not be gratified, then he would at
least have lust. For the second time that day, Mary looked into the
unseeing eyes of rape. Terror was no longer possible. All she could
feel was despair, and pity. This would be the final, unbearable shame
for them both.
"Stephen, I beg you. In the name of what you once felt for me, and I
for you. Don't do this. Forgive my hard words. I do not hate you. But
this..... This can never be."
"Why not? Why can't it?" He pressed her hard against him. "You know
you want me." His mouth engulfed hers, then moved greedily to the skin
of her throat.
"Stephen, don't
. It's not right!" She tried to pull away, but he held her fast. She
felt his left hand drag her downward, as his right hand worked to free
the remaining buttons.
"Stephen. . .no!" She was on the ground, and he had flung aside his
coat, looming on one knee beside her. Then with a swift movement of
both hands he tore open her slip, the widening V of her dress. Still
further, till the treasures of her body lay exposed. His mouth was
upon her breast, as his hand swept low to engulf her.
"Stephen! For God's sake. . .I'm your sister!"
He froze instantly, then lifted his head with a jerk. "You're lying."
"No," she said bitterly. "My mother is the widow MacCain. Your father
raped her, then sent her away when he found she was with child. Your
father. . .is my father, too." She sat up, pulling her knees to her
chest. And the pain in her eyes was more than he could face. Because
he knew that it was true.
Then for the first time he seemed to see the bodies, and to realize
that they had once been men. And he saw her, his gentle sister,
ravaged and distraught by the work of his own hands. He did not feel
remorse, which was beyond him. But sorrow he could feel, and even, in
that moment, a halting compassion.
"I'm sorry. Mary. I didn't know..... There's really nothing more I can
say." He rose, shifted uncomfortably, trying to reconcile himself to
his actions. It was impossible.
"Is there anything I can do now," he said stiffly. "To make it
better."
"No. Just go away."
He turned, and started to leave.
"Wait," she said, half against her will. She could not look at him.
"Help me to bury him. Both
of them."
He put on his jacket, pawed the ground with his boot. ".....I'll need
a shovel."
"Ride back to the hut. My mother will give you one." She finally
looked up at him, and the tears would not stop. "Please leave now. I'm
not that strong."
He remounted slowly, and with one last look at her, rode off. Mary was
left to prepare her cousin's body, and to seeping thoughts of death
and earth.
When Stephen returned, they buried James Talbert. And then the other,
placing stones over the mounds to keep the wolves off. There were no
other adornments to give them. And even as they worked, the clouds
thickened and turned to rain, as if Nature wept, to see the unending
tragedy of Man.
Sixteen
"May I take you back to the hut," Stephen said when they had laid the
last stone. "I have much on my conscience already. I would see you
safely home, at least." He could say no more, nor did she wish him to.
They rode back in silence, and in silence they parted.
With silence, too, did she greet her mother, who asked no questions,
but only welcomed her with a strange, apologetic smile. Hardly able to
notice, let alone dissect the mysterious change in her, Mary shed her
wet and tattered garments, then hung her cloak by the fire to dry. As
she put on the nightgown the old woman provided she said blankly, and
bitterly.
"James Talbert is dead. I must go and tell Anne this evening. Please
don't wake me until then." She lay listlessly in the bed, and after a
long, empty passage of time, fell asleep. She did not dream.
Her mother returned to her place by the fire, and sat down in a
melancholy heap. She felt anxious and utterly lost, without place or
purpose in the world.
For a change had in fact taken place in her, with or without her
consent. In the troubled hours since her daughter's flight, it had
become impossible to think of killing and tearing down. Too clearly
did she see, and feel, and remember all the dark, destructive forces
that pull the living back to earth, wholly without a woman's schemes.
And she felt this to the core of her being, because she knew that she,
too, would soon return to dust.
Because her body was at long last giving out. Beside the painful
angina which had plagued her since the night of the Stone, she felt in
these bitter, infinite hours a dizziness and blurring of vision which
she knew to be the forerunner of stroke.
Her daughter had not yet realized her condition, and for this, at
least, she was grateful. As her own life inexorably diminished, she
found she thought less and less of herself---of the past---and more
and more of her daughter's future. This was both painful and sad,
because she saw the tragedy of her own life mingling, and becoming
one, with Mary's. How similar. Her love for John MacCain---clean,
strong, yet ended by untimely death. Then the desperate, animal
attraction to a handsome, brutal man who had broken her heart, and
crushed the last of her dreams. He was his father's son..... Then the
emptiness, and finally the horrid, burning hatred of all that still
lived, loved, and desired happiness.
Her one hope now, strange as it might have seemed but a few days
before, was that the girl might still be young enough to heal, and
wise enough to seek that healing in the light of life, rather than the
darkness of revenge, which had so fruitlessly swallowed the remnant of
her years.
Mary woke to find a fresh dress and undergarments waiting at the foot
of the bed. After she had dressed, her mother gave her tea and
porridge, and to her surprise, did not try to dissuade her from the
long journey to the faded cottage. Both of them knew it to be a
dreary, and possibly dangerous task. But both, for different reasons,
also knew it to be essential. Wrapping the cloak about her Mary went
to the door, determined not to look back. Still, something made her
turn.
"I may not be coming back for a time," she said. "You understand
that?"
"Yes," replied the old woman, in a voice wholly lacking its former
strength. "Will you make me one promise before you go? Only make it,
and I will rest easier."
"What is it?"
"Promise me. . .that you won't try to take your own life. That you
will not let the bitterness fester inside you like an unclean wound,
turning slowly to the poison of hate. Will you give me your word?"
Mary looked back at her, confused.
"You have nothing to fear, I'm sure. I should have thought my weak
character well known to you by now, and to have removed any such
concern. Twice I have set a hard resolve, and twice failed. I doubt if
I should ever find the courage."
"Listen to me, Mary." Her mother spoke now so earnestly, and with a
desperate entreaty so unlike her, that despite the numb lethargy into
which her heart had sunk, Mary felt a qualm of fear on her behalf.
"It is not weakness," said the woman, "to desire life, and to respect
it enough...." Tears gathered in the pale, aged eyes that had lost
their hard luster. "I fear I have done you a grievous ill. Forgive
me!" And she hid her face, ashamed.
And for all the pain this woman had caused her, all the mother's love
withheld for so many years, Mary found herself unable to return the
injury, now that the chance had come. She went to the old woman
slowly, took down the trembling hands, and kissed her on the forehead.
"You are what your life has made you. Of course I forgive you. And
I'll make your promise, if you'll make me one in return." Her mother
nodded helplessly. "Will you promise to rest, and be gentle with
yourself, until I can send a doctor back to check on you?"
... "Yes."
"All right, then. Let me help you to bed, then I'll build up the fire
one last time." Her mother was unable to reply. And having done what
she said, Mary left her with those words.
Margaret MacCain died three hours later, as a black curtain descended
slowly across the field of her vision. A single tear escaped her. She
said a silent prayer for her daughter.
And then she, too, was gone.
Mary walked on through the bitter night, the faltering torch she held
like a fretted candle in the depths of the dark. The rain had stopped,
and the ground frozen solid. Each footstep clumped painfully against
the hard, unyielding earth. Her mind was so numbed with pain and loss
that she found she could not even think. Time seemed to stop dead in
its tracks just to mock her.
She continued.
Passing without fear the Standing Stone, she regarded it now in blank
wonder, that she could ever have thought it more than a broken and
projecting bone of the lifeless earth. It fell behind her plodding
footsteps, an impotent slab of nothingness.
A wolf cried out in the distance, and she did not even care. Right
foot, left foot, followed one another in mindless, meaningless rhythm.
All was dead for her. Nothing lived, nothing moved, nothing breathed.
There was only this one last task to perform, and then oblivion.
At long, impossible length her weary footsteps took her along a
familiar path, past a silent dell wreathed in scrub oak and maple.
White crosses of stone shone dully in the moonlight, in a hollow she
had once held sacred. A name was spoken in her mind, and in distant
memory a hand caressed her face. She felt a moment of profound
sadness, for a love that had died. But even that lost sorrow faded,
till she knew that it was truly over.
Up the shallow hill to the cottage. She turned the knob of the
thrice-familiar back door, and entered. Through the kitchen, into the
passage to the main room, where a fire was burning brightly. Her aunt
looked up as she entered, from the same armchair in which she had left
her. A man stood beside her, with eyes so deep and piercing.....
She collapsed to the floor. Michael James Scott lifted her in his
trembling arms, and carried her to his mother's bed.
Part Two:
The Fortress
Seventeen
Mary felt something cool being pressed against her forehead, and at
the same time a warmth and lightness of being for which she could in
no way account. Remembering the vision she had seen of him---was it
days, hours, moments before?---she opened her eyes slowly, afraid of
waking from the blissful dream of his return, which could not possibly
be real.
Yet the first thing she saw as they focused in the gentle candlelight,
was the same beloved face, neither shrouded nor ghostly nor pale. It
had aged, become more serious. But it was still of living flesh, still
shared the same world as her own. He sat leaning across her on the
bed, with softened, loving eyes taking in her every movement. His arms
were spread to either side of her, within reach of her hands. And
feeling again the swoon of emotion and disbelief, she caught at them
quickly. Her fingers encircled his wrists, and he did not fade away.
Again he pressed the cloth lightly to her forehead. Then with a
tenderness and swelling of the heart that erased in one moment the
imprisoned hell of the past three years, he bent down and kissed her
gently.
"Stay, Mary. It's your Michael, in the flesh, and he'll not leave you
again." Her eyes closed hard, and the tears that flowed from them were
an anguish and an ecstasy for which no words exist.
"Hold me," was all she could say. "Just hold me." He raised her up and
crushed her to him, his face as wet as hers.
"Dear God, I love you." And again he kissed her, long and full. But
then he drew back, and a dark shadow clouded his features, as if
recalling some barrier which stood between them still.
"What is it?" she asked, terrified.
"Forgive me," he said. "I know you're glad to see me. . .and I have no
right to ask." Their eyes met, and there was such astonished pain in
her gaze..... "Do you still love him?" he whispered.
"Do I still love who?"
"The Englishman."
"Michael! Whoever said that I did?"
".....but your letter, the day I left to join our troops. The one you
put in my pack, explaining---"
"Michael, look at me." He did, as bewildered as she. "I have never
loved anyone but you. I never could. And I wrote you no such letter,
then or otherwise. The only Englishman I know is my half-brother, and
if in the whole of my lifetime I can learn not to hate him, I will
deem it a blessing from Heaven."
He fell back further still, as if it was she who had returned from the
dead. The question of who, then, had written the letter, hardly
occurred to him. Only one thing mattered. Against all hope. . .she
loved him too. A tortured groan escaped him, and his face so convulsed
with emotion that he could only hide it in shame against the coverlet.
But slowly the paroxysm passed, and he felt loving fingers caressing
his hair, and whispering words of comfort. "Michael," she said, as he
drew himself up, exhausted. "It must have been my mother who gave you
the letter, part of a long, bitter plot against Lord Purceville. She
needed my help, and wanted you out of the way. Please forgive her. She
harbored such hatred against him, that it made her blind to all
else..... But that is in the past." She tried to smile, as he nodded
his understanding. "You know," she said. "I have a few questions for
you, too."
He put a finger to her lips. "Soon, but not now. Let us have what
remains of this night, at least, free from sorrow and danger. Let us
have each other."
At that moment there came a light knocking at the door, and Anne Scott
entered the room. Her face was so softened, and beaming with such
reborn faith that Mary hardly recognized it. Her unbound hair formed a
loop of pale gold upon the shoulder of the nightdress, and she looked
years younger than either could remember seeing her.
"Is everything all right?" she asked, as if this were not her home,
but theirs. "If my son will give a doting mother one last embrace, I
will leave the two of you in peace. I fancy I'll sleep in Mary's room
tonight, and give up my chambers to you."
"Truly, Anne? Would it be all right?"
"Listen to me, Mary. God married the two of you long ago. And in this
moment I'm so happy, so grateful....." She faltered, and her eyes
glistened. "My son is given back to me, whom I thought to be dead. Do
you think I can't share him, this one night, with the woman he loves,
and the girl I raised up from a child? Please, Michael, before I make
a fool of myself. Kiss me, then send me off to bed."
He rose, but not more quickly than she. Mary embraced her first, like
a schoolgirl, then stood aside as mother and son said their
affectionate good-night.
"In the morning hard choices await us," said the woman, addressing
them both. "But for now, let us thank God. Let us thank Him." She was
blinded by tears, and turned away. Michael watched her go, then closed
the door softly behind her.
"In the morning I shall have to give her sad news," said the girl,
remembering her purpose. "And perhaps it will grieve you as well."
"What is it, Mary?" And despite his own assurances, he felt that he
must know. "Tell me now, and let us have done with dark surprises."
... "Michael. Your friend and mine. James Talbert is dead."
He was silent for a time, then asked simply.
"How?"
"Two men attacked me on the road west of my mother's hut." She thought
it best not to add that they were English. As it was he came forward
and took her by the shoulders, with a look of sudden anger and
concern.
"Attacked
you? Are you all right? They didn't---" She shook her head quickly,
emphatically.
"No. James saw to that. He killed the one. . .then was shot in the
back by the other, who rode away." She looked at him imploringly. "I'm
so terribly sorry. I feel as if it's my fault....." He held her close
to him, and closed his eyes.
"No, my girl," he said at length. "It's not your fault, and no more
than I expected. I don't know if I can explain this to you. Here. Sit
you down, and let me wrap the coverlet about me. I'm afraid I'm not
quite well."
She did as he asked, and studied this new Michael as he spoke. He had
changed both physically and spiritually, though there had always been
another side of him, seeming at times so serious and worn that she
could find no trace of the hardy, boisterous youth she had once known.
And even as he spoke of the hardship and sorrow of another, her
woman's instinct read his own tale between the lines. And seeing his
pain, she determined to learn fully of the scars and afflictions he
bore, that she might nurse him again to health and ease of mind.
"James had a rough go of it in prison, as did we all. But for him the
more so, because he could never master his pride and fierce temper. He
didn't know when to back down, and just survive. Because of this he
was often singled out for punishment, as an example to the rest.
Punishment in that place. . .took various forms. But it always ended
with the Cellar, a cold and solitary cell in the ancient dungeon that
lay beneath our castle prison.
"For weeks on end. . .he was caged there without light or hope, like
an animal. Each return to the light of day saw him more ill, and more
distracted. But it never once brought him closer to submission.
Towards the end, his feverish mental state had become so acute that
our captors thought of sending him to an asylum. This, until it was
learned that he had contracted the shakes*, which would sooner or
later carry him off of their own accord.
*Ague.
"It is a wonder that he lived to see the escape, let alone survived
our long flight across the countryside. What a bloody hell that was.
Stealing food, horses when we could get them, riding or walking the
endless miles by night, hiding out like thieves and murderers by day.
All in the land of our birth, and the home that we had fought for.
After what we had already been through, I don't know how he endured
it. I, at least, had thoughts of you, though I had lost all hope of
your love. He had nothing but fever and chills, and a strength that
grew less each day."
"My God. Michael. Did he know about the letter, the one you thought I
wrote?"
"Yes, love. We'd been together through so much, and were now thrown
into such a desperate pass..... There could be no secrets between us.
But he loved you, as cousin and friend, and never held it against
you."
"Then he died thinking. . .that I was in love with those who did this
to you. Oh, it is horrible."
"Easy, lass. His pain is over." Again they embraced, taking that last
human comfort against young and tragic death. Then Michael began to
pace again, both to warm himself, and to finish what he must say. For
he, too, carried a burden of guilt and remorse.
"As I said, it is a wonder that he survived it. But some last
obsession drove him: whether hope or madness, I could never say. He
was determined to return to the home of his fathers, and perform some
last act of heroism." He paused. "There is something else I haven't
told you. Something very painful to me."
"What is it, Michael?"
He could not face her, as if she were some part of himself which he
had shamed. And the look of self-reproach that she had long known in
him, returned with a force she had not yet seen.
"It was a horror for me to watch his decline, his hopeless battle in
the stockade. Because we are so much alike, and because I felt..... I
often felt that he made my mistakes for me. That I learned, and
survived, only because of him. Many is the time that my own temper was
about to explode, to my injury, and possible undoing.... But it was
always James who struck the guard first, or raised his voice in anger
at the outrage we all felt, but lacked the courage to act upon.
"It is a terrible thing to think that he died for that courage, and
that because of my cowardice I live. Seeing the black end to which we
must all come, still I shunned the fight. After the first year..... I
only turned the other cheek, again and again. I told myself that I had
to survive, just keep trying and hoping. But survival becomes a poor
excuse, when pride is lost.
"It will be many years," he concluded, "before I can look myself in
the face when I think of James Talbert."
"Why?" she asked, in deepest earnest. "Because you desired life
instead of death? Because you saw the futility of resistance, and
chose not to follow him into the grave? For I tell you now, and from
the bottom of my heart, that if you had not lived, and come back to
me. . .my own sorry tale could not have gone much further.
"And what of your mother? Do you have any idea what her life has been
like, without you? I will never understand. Why do men call it a
virtue to die, to leave bereft the ones they love, and a weakness to
return to them, and give meaning and substance to their lives?
"Perhaps that is unfair," she continued. "I have seen in the years of
your absence just how bitter, how unanswerable sorrow can be. And I
know that nothing is ever that simple. I only want you to know that
this
pain, this scar, I understand as well as you. I have felt the same
remorse, the same bludgeoning sense of guilt. Until tonight.
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