He called me harlot, and quarrelsome, too. Said my chatter disrespected him, and that the day I was burnt like a hog on a spit would be a good day.
So I get them—churchy ones. Who think that by cursing me they are better men.
And lawmen. They have come. But what law is that? I’ve seen no trial, sir. I’ve seen no proper fairness—for when did fairness say its name in law? None of our women ever heard it. If a bird squawks as much as once, then cook the bird, or drown it, or maybe string it up and kick away the stool, so it may not squawk again—that is the law. Law, I think, is like hag—it is said so much we are blind to it. Its heart, which is the truest part, is lost, and a wicked lie sits in its heart-shaped place. I’m not the squawking kind, and never was. But that’s no matter. Here I am—chained up.
And doctors. There has been a doctor. Just one—a man with his own lice who looked at the wound where the musket caught me. He said it was healing so fast it was the Horned One’s work—which it wasn’t, of course. It was horsetail with some comfrey boiled up and pressed on. He might do well from comfrey himself for he had very rank sores from his lice. One was all pus and will only grow worse. He was no true doctor.
And then there were the rest. The townsfolk from Inverary who just wanted to see—to see and smell a witch, a Devil’s whore. They threw stones through the bars at me. They pressed pennies into the gaoler’s hands, as they left, and handkerchiefs to their noses, and I reckon I’ve fed him well. He must have bought many bottles with what he’s made from that witch who was in that damned glen.
She was there? In Glencoe?
Aye. Saw it all, they say. They say she knelt and did her spells there.
Called in the Devil?
Oh aye. All that blood and murder…The Devil was there, right enough.
A man called Stair, as well. He has come. He has sat where you are sitting now. He looked upon me as a wolf looks on a thing it has stalked too long, but has now.
That is all I have to say on him.
Reverend Charles Leslie. I feel I know your name.
Leslie—like the wind in the trees, or the sea coming in…
I saw you flinch at witch.
Oh it’s a dark word, for certain. It has caused its damage across the months and years. Many good people have been undone by it—married and unmarried, beautiful, and strange. Women. Men.
What did you have, in your head? With witch?
I know that all people have a certain creature in their head, when they hear it—a woman, mostly. Pitch-dark and cruel, crooked with age. Did you think she will be mad, this witch? I might be. It’s been said. I prattle, I play with my hands and bring them up to my face when I speak like this, as a mouse may with its paws as it eats or cleans itself. My voice is shrill and girlish—this has been called proof, for they say the Devil took my lower voice away and ate it up to make his own voice deeper. Which is a lie, of course. I am small, so my voice is small, too—that’s all.
And spells? Oh they’ve tried to pin a thousand things on me—a splinter in a finger, or an owl swooping in. They pinned even more on my mother, but she was a wilder one than me, and beautiful, and brave. A calf with a star on its forehead was her doing, and so were the twins which were as alike as shoes. Cora said, once, that a black cock crowed by a church door so they took it and buried it—the cock, not the door. Buried it alive, too, so that she heard its scrabbles as they held it down. The Devil sent it to us, they hissed. And Cora unburied the cock with frantic hands that night, but it was too late—it was earthy, and dead. She buried it again but gently, and in a better, secret place.
I hated that story. That poor cock which did no harm—it was just black, and passing by. But Cora said all people bury what it is they fear—so it cannot hurt them. So it is kept from them, locked up in the earth or in the sea.
Does it work? I asked her. Burying a feared thing?
She pursed her lips. Maybe. If it is done justly, and with an honest, hopeful heart—which it wasn’t with that rooster, I can promise you that. She shook her head, sighed. It was a waste of a fine, cockerel life.
So what townsfolk say we do and what we truly do are very different things. I have cast no spells. I’ve never plucked out gizzards or howled at moons. I’ve never turned into a bird, skimmed a night-time loch, or settled on ships to make them drown. I’ve not kissed obscenely or eaten dead babes, and I don’t have a third teat, and nor do I laugh like broth when it’s left to boil over and ruin the fire, and ruin itself for the broth tastes bitter, then. I’ve never seen the future in a rotten egg. I never laughed at murders, or called murders in.
I’ve not summoned anything. I’ve only asked—prayed.
Pray. Yes. I use that word, too. I pray—not in church and with no Bible, but otherwise I reckon it’s probably like how you pray, which is with the heart’s voice talking, not the mouth’s.
DEVIL-child, they’ve called me. Evil piece.
But Mr Leslie, I will tell you this. When witch was first thrown at me, as I passed through a market, Cora led me by the hand to an alleyway and sat me down, and wiped my wet eyes, and said listen to me. The only evil in the world is the one that lies in people—in their pride, and greed, and duty. Remember that.
And from what I have seen of this world, this life, I think she was right.
My telling? Of Glencoe?
Mine?
Why mine? There are others who, I’m sure, could tell you more. If you are after the truth of that night, of the snowy glen murders, then go to them that survived it. Go to them who live to bury those that do not, and ask for their stories. They know more than me, on many things—like who killed the MacIain, and who ran his wife through. Whose voice said find his damned cubs!
Why mine? And here, too, is a question, Mr Leslie—why do you want to know at all? No one else has asked. No others care that so many people died in the glen. They were MacDonalds. Why grieve for MacDonalds? is what they say—for they stole cattle. Burnt homes. Ate their foe.
Barbarous clan.
The gallows herd.
Glencoe? A dark place…
I think most are glad that those people were stabbed, and robbed. Like they deserved what happened to them—for their outdoors life, and their language, and their dress were all a blight on the nation, a canker in the rose. So Lowlanders say. So Stair says, and the Campbells. So does this Orange Dutchman who seems to be king.
KING…That brightens you.
I reckon it’s a word to hang with hag and law—a fiery word which can kill a man, if whispered wrongly, or in the wrong ear. But most folk like it. Most folk have a man they call king, and fight for—and such fighting…Two men, with two different faiths, and look what that does? It splits up the world. It makes nations narrow their eyes at themselves, and seethe.
Always eyes and ears, in the dark.
James is your fellow, I think.
Jacobite? I know the word. The MacDonald men were those—that Jacobite clan. Those wretched papists in Glencoe. They wanted what you want, sir—to have James sail back from France and take his throne again, and for all to be as God meant it to be. They fought for that. They went to Killiecrankie and flew his flag, and killed William’s men, and rallied, and sang, and plotted against the Dutchman in their wild, blustery glen, and I was asked by them who is your king, English thing? Whose flag do you stand under? That was in the Chief’s house. There were beeswax candles, and a dog with its head on its paws. And I said I didn’t have a flag—that nobody ruled me. I said I don’t have a king.
That brought a silence to the room. I remember that.
But it’s true. I think kings can only cause trouble. Too many men die, in their name. Too many fight, and kill, or are killed—and so I think of loss with that word king. With king, I think of lost things.
SO MUCH is gone. So much. All for kings, or a shiny coin.
And I remember so much…The dog’s name was Bran, and the snow lay itself down on every branch of every tree, that night, and I kisse
d a man—there was a kiss—and I remember so much! I know plenty. And if I do not speak of what I saw, that will also be gone.
Stair called me a meddling piece, but he also said you must have seen such things, through those long lashes of yours… In a soft voice. Like he was my friend which he never was.
That’s why he’ll burn me, I think.
Get rid of the one who saw it all.
The one who saved people, and ruined the plan.
She who remembers all things.
Yes I will give you my telling.
You say tell me what you know—give me names! Soldiers’ names. And I will. I will tell you of the Glencoe massacre, and what I saw—of the musket fire, and the screams, and the herbs I used, and the truth. The truth! Who else knows it, as I know it? I will tell you every part. And I promise you this, Mr Leslie—it will help your cause. It will help you to bring your James back, for what I have to tell makes the Highlanders look wise, and civilised, as they are. It shows their dignity. It says the King we have now is not Orange, but blood-red. I promise you that.
And in return?
Speak of me. Of me. Of my little life. Speak of it, when I am gone—for who is left to tell it? None know my story. There is no one left to tell it to, so speak of it from your pulpit, or write it down in ink. Talk of what I tell you, and add no lies to it—it needs none, it brims with love and loss so I see it be quite a fireside tale as it is, all truthful. Say Corrag was good. Say that she did not deserve a fiery death, or lonesome one. All I’ve ever tried to be is kind.
IS THIS fair? A fair bargaining? Sit with me and hear my life’s tale, and I will speak, in time, of Glencoe. On a snowy night. When people I loved fell, and died. But some, also, survived.
It is Corrag. Corrag. No other name but that.
My mother was Cora, sir. But her most common name was hag so she joined them together like two sticks on fire, to make my name. That was her way. Her humour.
But Corrag is also what they call a finger in the Highland tongue. I never knew it till I walked into those hills. Many folk have pointed theirs at me, so it’s a fitting name. Also, it’s fitting that some mountains are called the word—the tall and snow-topped ones. There is the Corrag Bhuide which I never saw because it’s far north of here. But they say it is beautiful—mist-wearing, and wolf-trodden. It’s all height and wonder in my head.
WHO would believe it? A churchman and a captured witch, helping each other like this? But it is so.
The world has its wonders and I will speak of them.
Dearest Jane
I have plenty to tell you. There is much to write, for today was full of strangeness—so much strangeness that I wonder where to start. Have I not met sinners before? I have. When I was still a bishop, I met plenty of them—thieves and fornicators, and do you remember the man they strung up for having two wives, and blaspheming? That was a foul business. I had hoped to never step near such wickedness twice, in my life. But I wonder if I have met worse.
This afternoon, I sat with the witch.
I think I wrote a little to you of how they say she is: savage, dark-hearted, and with lice. He—my landlord, who is the sole source of all I know, thus far—assured me she was quick-tongued and hot-tempered, or so he had heard. I asked how hot-tempered and he said very, I hear. She is the wickedest person that has been in that cell—and that cell’s seen some rogues, sir! And he filled up a tankard.
I took my Bible, of course. I do not like being near wickedness, and I confess to you that as I walked through the snow to the tollbooth, I felt an apprehension in me. A nervousness, perhaps. So I recited as I walked, which heartened me. “But the Lord is faithful, and He will strengthen and keep you safe from the Evil One” (2 Thessalonians 3:3—as you know).
Let me tell you of the tollbooth where she is kept. It is near the castle, in this town. It’s a sombre prison, certainly—half on the ground and half beneath it. It was built, I am told, to keep the Highland cattle-thieves before they were hung up on Doom Hill, and perhaps it was anxiousness on my part, but I thought I smelt cows there. It has the smell of a byre—dung and dampness. Also, the odour that comes from soiled bodies and fear—the gallows at Lawnmarket had a milder form of it. I wonder if this is death’s smell, or the smell before death.
The gaoler belongs, I think, in the cells as much as the ones he locks there. He curses. He reeked of ale and vices, and insisted on undoing my leather travelling case. He thumbed my inkwell and quill. He glanced at the Bible as if it bored him—I’ll pray for his soul. Then he coughed into his hand, wiped it on his coat, and held out that hand for some pennies. Seeing the witch is-nee free, he said (so they talk, in this country). I gave over a coin, and he smiled a brown smile. The last door? That’s her.
The corridor I walked along was not fit for even beasts. I was careful to touch as little as I could. The walls were wet-looking. I am not sure what I trod upon but it was soft, and soundless.
As for the woman herself—Jane, I wonder if even your motherly heart and goodness would feel any warmth for the wretch. I thought she was a child, when I entered. She is child-sized. I barely saw her at all, and thought the cell was empty. But then she shifted in her chains and spoke. You might read child-sized and feel tender for her—but Jane, she’s a despicable thing. Her hair is knots and branches. She is half-naked, dressed in thin rags which are crusted with mud and blood and all manner of filth (the smell in her cell is unpleasant). Her feet are bare. Her fingernails are splintered and black, and she gnaws on them sometimes, and I partly wondered if she was human at all. I was minded to turn, and leave. But she said sit. And I felt the Lord beside me, so I did not leave.
I sat—and then, in the gloom I saw her eyes. They were a very pale grey, and gave her a haunted expression, as the dying get. Her stare was brazen. She stared, and said she had expected me—which I doubt. If she knew I’d hoped to visit her, it can only be through prattle—for news is swift, in small towns. Even prisoners have ears.
She herself can prattle. The landlord was right about her tongue, for she talked more than I did. She rocked with her knees to her chest like her mind was half-gone—which it may be. She is witch, and therefore deserves no sympathy, and I give her none, but I will say she has been poorly treated in her time—there were bruises on her arms, a reddened crust above one eye, and there’s a blood-stain on the side of her. The shackles have also broken her skin. I wonder if these wounds will kill her before the flames do. (I’ll also add this—that she is bruised and cut, and mangled, but I saw no bites on her. So rest yourself, Jane—do not worry yourself on lice.)
She may have been pretty, once. But the Devil takes hold of a face as much as he does the soul, and she is filthy now. Woe is on her features. This also makes her look older than I will say she is. If she is older than our eldest son, Jane, it can only be by months.
So, in short, Inverary tollbooth is a very foul place. Foul, too, is its inmate whose high, girlish voice spoke of kindness and good deeds—but I am not tricked by that. The Devil was speaking. He hides his nature in lies, and when she said I cannot hurt you I heard his voice very clearly. I thought, I will not be fooled by you. I know who you are. He speaks through this half-creature in a feminine way—and it is better for her that she is burnt, and soon. The flames will purge her soul. The fire will clean her of wickedness, and to be purified in death is far better than to live in this manner—un-Christian, defiled.
It was good to leave. I stepped into the snow, and filled up my lungs with fresh air. I wondered if I’d ever met such a wretched human, as her—and I was minded to not return. But Jane, I am intrigued—for she spoke of Dalrymple, the Master of Stair. His is not a name you know. But he is a Lowlander. His hatred of the Highlands is as famous as his love of himself, and fine things—and he is William’s wolf. He prowls Scotland, in the King’s name. In short, if he had a hand in the Glencoe murders, then is that not proof? Of William’s own sin?
For all her unpleasantness, this witch may help
our cause.
So I will not be discouraged by her smell, or strangeness. I will endure her, and use her for her knowledge—no more than that. For I believe she may indeed have news that brings James in. I have given her my true name—which I hope I will not regret. But who might she tell? She will die soon.
She has promised to speak of the massacre and what she knows, but only if I listen to the years of her life, beforehand. A tiresome task. Who knows what horrors or filth she has seen? But she said no one knows my story. She said William is blood-red, not orange—so I agreed to her request.
A curious arrangement, indeed. It is not one I could have imagined when I wrote to you, in Edinburgh. But God works as He chooses—we have our tests, and He has His revelations. This is an unearthly winter. I will be glad when spring comes.
My love, with this knowledge, and with there being no hasty thaw of snow, I think I may be in Inverary for longer than I thought. Perhaps two weeks, or more. Therefore, if you find the time to write a small note to me, it will reach me here. It would be a joy to have your words. It is the closest I can be to you—and as always, I wish to be close.
Charles
Corrag: A Novel Page 3