The Blood And The Barley
The Strathavon Saga
ANGELA MACRAE SHANKS
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © Angela MacRae Shanks, 2018
The moral right of Angela MacRae Shanks to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This e-book first published in 2018 by Braeatha Books.
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of the author.
ISBN 978-1-9999624-0-1
Cover Design by Morven MacEwan
Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A Note of Thanks
From Angela MacRae Shanks
The Scots Tongue
DEDICATION
In memory of my mother,
Ilene Shanks.
Always in my heart.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
’Twill make your courage rise.
’Twill make a man forget his woe;
’Twill heighten all his joy;
’Twill make the widow’s heart to sing,
Tho the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne’er fail in old Scotland!
From John Barleycorn: A Ballad, by Robert Burns
CHAPTER ONE
Strathavon, a Glen in the
North-Eastern Highlands,
May 1780.
Morven MacRae stopped to rest on a spur of weathered granite jutting from the hillside. The higher she climbed, the thinner the soil became until at last the hill exposed its backbone in an eruption of rock that broke through the surface. The climb had forced her lungs to work hard, only her breathing was mostly ragged for another reason. And although she was warm with a fine sheen of sweat on the back of her neck and a clamminess in her palms, Morven trembled. She clenched her teeth, trying to control the quivering, for it was not the chill of day’s end that caused it. The trembling stemmed from within. Drawing an unsteady breath, she released it slowly through pursed lips. Oft-times that brought a sense of inner peace.
Feeling a trace easier, Morven let her gaze sweep out over the familiar glen below and away to the dark bulk of mountains in the distance and felt her resolve hardened. Clouds were amassed there in ominous banks, a shimmer of movement there too, and as she began to climb again, she sniffed at the damp air. It was heavy with the scent of earth, with a pungent zing, and her innards coiled a little tighter – a storm was coming.
The breeze sharpened and stung her cheeks, for any warmth had ebbed away with the daylight and moor and mountain stood grey now. On an eve such as this, unearthly folk did roam abroad and ’twas wise to be wary, to be ever on guard against them. Glancing around, she loosened the thick woollen shawl, her arisaid, that she wore around her waist and tugged it up to protect her shoulders. Its warmth might quell the shivering that insinuated a faint-heart, for although she knew herself to be thrawn, Morven was no lily-liver.
She’d taken the steeper, westerly route up Carn Liath and the voice of the river Avon – the A’an in the Gaelic tongue of her folk – was weaker here, little more than a whisper. Once more she paused to cast about, searching for the stone she knew had stood on the hillside since long syne. It was near, she could feel it, and paused to catch her breath by a twisted juniper tree, its gnarled roots distorted, burrowing sideways into the hill. Instinctively curious, Morven bent to determine the reason for the tree’s contortions, and there was the stone, half hidden in the undergrowth.
‘Thanks be!’ she gasped.
Kneeling, she pushed aside the lower boughs digging into the earth with her fingers until she’d exposed the entire stone. It was studded with lichens, silvery and yellow, yet the strange symbols cut into its surface were still clearly discernible. The sight brought a wondrous sensation welling through her innards, and she let it pulse over her with a little shudder as she ran her fingers over the marks and closed her eyes, trying to visualise those who had made them and grasp their meaning. They were Christians, the age-auld cross haloed at the joining of arms and stem, the wheel of life Rowena called it, was a potent sign of their faith although the other symbols, knotted and intricate, were alien to her.
Withdrawing the wooden crucifix that hung from her neck, she pressed a kiss upon it, then laid it at the foot of the shrine. To which ancient saint the stone was dedicated, Morven had no notion, but she prayed nonetheless, directly to God, first in her native Gaelic, then more guardedly though with equal earnest in English, the tongue of her foreign king and government.
‘Dear Lord, God of our fathers. The night
will be observed ancient and heathenish ways.
Yet we, yer flock, never stray from our faith.
Lighten our darkness, Lord, and banish the death
of winter from our land that we may
receive the fruits of the earth in their season.’
She swallowed, her tongue dry, feeling a vague sense of hypocrisy. As always her faith sat uneasily with her. It vied with her innate belief in the supernatural, in the Gaelic otherworlds, with her natural wariness of the faeryfolk said to inhabit the sìtheans or faeryhills plentiful in the glen. She often wondered how other folk reconciled these beliefs – what Father Ranald called superstitions – with an unwavering faith in God and, more particularly, Church. Lacing her fingers together, she frowned and went on,
‘Forgive me my foolishness, Lord, my weakness,
that I may be delivered from doubt. Fer I
believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy Catholic Church,
the communion o' saints, the resurrection of the body,
and the life everlasting. Amen.’
She retrieved the crucifix and, pressing her cold lips to it once more, returned it to its position around her neck. ‘Forgive me,’ she whispered, then continued her climb.
By the time the ground levelled out near the crown of Carn Liath, and even the most tenacious trees had given way to little but stunted heather and rock, the blood was thrumming in her head, and a powerful sense of foreboding churned her belly. The light was dwindling rapidly, and she had to strain her eyes until they watered, but sure enough, trails of shrouded figures were emerging now, faceless in the half-light. They made their way from many hillside paths and converged near a circle of tinder and brushwood prepared the previous day. From the centre of that ring, a slab of dark granite reared. It had once risen ten feet in height, so it was told, though it stood at maybe a little under six now and was canted at a precarious angle, tilted through the
years by the muckle winds that skirled and clawed up the glen.
Morven took a moment to steady herself, listening to the furtive murmur of voices. As befitted the significance of the ritual to be enacted, the voices were tense and conspiratorial. Beltane night. She shuddered at the name, recalling all she’d heard of such a night. What went on upon the hilltop she knew of only from the tattle-tongues of the glen, from nudged whispers and dark knowing looks, and from what she’d managed to glean from Rowena.
It involved a Beathach – a beast. Many said it was a man made to look like a red deer stag. But for all that was said, rightly or wrongly, it was the most important observance of the year, for if it went well their harvest would be plentiful, the black cattle would thrive, and their other activity, the whisky smuggling, would be profitable and go unchallenged. Yet should it go badly, the daoine sìth, the faeryfolk that lived underground in the sìtheans might take offence, might turn against her folk, and then all could be lost. There was even risk in the ritual itself, that much had been plain from her father's reaction when she'd suggested that she could represent their family, the MacRaes of Delnabreck, should he and her brother Alec not make it home in time.
‘God’s blood!’ he'd flared. ‘Beltane's sinful. Nae daughter o’ mine will play any part!’ Scandalised by the notion, he’d fixed her with a black look.
‘But you go every year,’ she’d said in return. ‘Does that nae make you sinful, then?’ She was close to the bone now and knew it well, for her da could be quick to anger, but ’twas all so unjust.
His face darkened. ‘What I do may be sinful, but I do it fer the good o' kin and croft, no matter how ungrateful. Under this roof, Malcolm MacRae answers to God and God alone.’ He rubbed a hand through his wispy beard. ‘Ye're too young, anyhow.’
‘Eighteen, da. Old enough to work the still, to tend the beasts, and do all the skivvying but nae old enough to take yer place at Beltane, nor ever will be I'll wager.’ It hurt to know he thought so little of her, that he considered her a mere lass, in some way deficient compared with her brother Alec.
‘Aye, ye work hard.’ He acknowledged it with a curt nod and glanced at her mother. ‘Lord knows, if I could lighten yer burden I would, but with yer mam nae yet back to her full strength there's naught to be done.’ He frowned and exhaled forcibly through his nose. ‘Ye're too young fer Beltane though. Christ, ye might even be…’ He shuddered and stabbed viciously at the clumps of peat on the fire.
‘Rowena has faith in me.’ No sooner were the words out than Morven regretted them. Her father's face stiffened, and the temperature in the room dropped.
‘Rowena Forbes is no more mistress in this house than you are. Ye'd do well to mind that. Now away, I’ll hear no more of Beltane.’
But that was not the end of the matter. When the eve of Beltane came close, Alec and her da were still away to the south seeing to the sale of illicit whisky, some twenty ankers in all, and Morven agonised over Beltane, and the consequences should not one of her kinfolk play a part in it.
Racked with uncertainty, she’d turned to Rowena, the person whose judgment she trusted above all others. Rowena was her neighbour and confidant, wise and insightful, she was Morven’s guide in all things. The widow had regarded her young friend with solemn eyes.
‘I'd sooner it not fall to you, Morven,’ she admitted. ‘But if neither Alec nor yer da can be there, or if … if yer da should deem his attendance unnecessary, then I fear ’tis you must go. Keep covered up though, dinna catch the Beathach's eye, and hang well back from harm's way.’
She blinked then, as if seeing the girl before her in a new light, one she’d perhaps been reluctant to acknowledge. ‘There are dangers mind, though there are sometimes pleasures too. Ye're a grown woman Morven, ’tis nae fer me to judge.’ She smiled distractedly. ‘But I’m thinking the risks from nae going are greatest. Ye must mind and make peace wi’ yer maker first though, aye?’
With her father gone, it had been easy to slip away, although Morven imagined her absence would not have gone unnoticed for long. She took a quick breath. Rowena's warning still echoed in her ears, and she pulled her arisaid up to cover her head, tucking in all giveaway wisps of her chestnut hair and partly concealing her face. These were heathenish rites, and although she’d likely recognise every one of tonight's participants, she’d no wish to draw attention to herself.
With her head suitably shrouded, Morven strained her eyes in the half-light, perceiving the gathering had grown now; many shadowy figures having silently manifested from the gloaming. She slipped amongst them. Most of her neighbours were still recognisable: the McHardys, Hal's tuneless whistle unmistakable as he brushed by her shoulder, and Donald Gordon of Craigduthel croft, his old blue bonnet blackened and reeking of peat smoke from his habit of wearing it whilst sat at the firestone. Most were male and had tried to conceal their faces, although here and there an uncovered head stood out brazenly from the rest. Recognising these cottars and herdsmen, simple folk she’d known all her life, the tension at her core eased a fraction.
Taking her guide from the assembled crowd, Morven kept on the move, following the ebb and press of people, striving to keep her face covered but all the while searching for the woman who inspired her, for her dear friend Rowena Forbes. Not finding her, Morven’s search grew more urgent. Unconsciously she quickened her pace, her senses heightening. A clamminess built at the back of her neck, and as she filtered the growing darkness, it felt as though her eyes overfilled their sockets. Where was she? She blinked and rolled her head to break the tension. All would be well once she found Rowena.
But after much fruitless milling and mingling, and with her jaw beginning to ache, her temples too, she’d still not found her. Perplexed, Morven drew to a holt, recognising Rowena's daughter standing at the edge of the crowd with her long pale hair uncovered and fluttering in the breeze. Breathing hard, Morven stood to watch her.
Talking with familiar ease to a man in belted plaid, Sarah was forced to stretch her lithe young body upward, and he to bend his down that she might reach his ear, for the man was easily half Sarah’s height again. Yet who was he? No Strathavon man reached such a height. He glanced in Morven's direction and then, curiosity plainly aroused, turned fully toward her, studying what she imagined could be seen of her face with distinct interest. She jerked her gaze away. Where was Rowena? And why was Sarah here? In the vanishing light, Sarah appeared paler and more strikingly lovely than Morven remembered, and she carried herself with assurance, but … why was she even here? Sarah was scarce sixteen.
Bewildered, Morven began to move again, her unease mounting. There came a strange sound now, she held her breath to listen. ’Twas coming from the crowd; a buzzing like the drone of bees. A pulse began to beat in her throat, a strange excitement tightening her chest. The buzzing grew louder, then the gathering parted to reveal the Beltane Beathach.
She fell back from its path instinctively, the suck of her breath loud in her ears, and heard the same sound echo around her. It walked upright like a man, yet not a man, its haunches did undulate like those of beasts. The head was outlandish, thick-necked and crowned with antlers, grisly against the dying light in the sky. Unable to take her eyes from it, she glimpsed a bearded chin beneath the muzzle, and a flash of pale throat before it turned and uttered a bellowing roar.
The breeze sharpened, and needles of fear pricked her temples. Those around her were just as fearful. Expressions were furtive, gazes cast down, eager to avoid a meeting with those of the creature.
Materialising at her shoulder, Sarah hissed into Morven’s ear. ‘’Twill be me chosen the night. Can ye nae feel it? I'll be the May Virgin.’
With a sharp word of warning, Morven reached for the girl’s hand, but the Beathach had heard something. It halted, head tilted toward them, listening. Within the empty sockets, Morven sensed keen eyes focused upon them.
To her right, a flicker of flames lit the darkness, and the reek of wood-smoke filled the air. The Be
ltane ring was kindled. The wheeze of pipes inflating followed, and then the tentative skirl of the bagpipes and the beat of a drum. Some preparation, a fine powder of sorts, was flung on the flames and they sparked green and blue, flaring high, heady with the whiff of brimstone and some underlying substance.
A subtle music then began to take shape. It roused the glenfolk, instinctively prompting them to move. Within moments they were dancing. They danced with the sure-footed grace of those born to the hills, feet weaving among the heather, skipping deftly over tussock, rock, and rise. The playing quickened, inciting them further, giddy and breathless, then gathered pace again.
Morven felt it too. She was seized with vigour, and a thrilling sensation arose in her innards, coursing through her limbs and setting her feet a-skipping. The crowd moved as a chaotic mass now, Morven carried with them, and then as if by some collective but unspoken accord, the turmoil ordered itself. Hand sought hand and clasped fast. With backs to the ceremonial ring, the gathering began to circle it. Slowly at first, then faster and faster until the dark shape of the Beathach lurched by.
Sarah's hand slipped from Morven’s grip, and she spun away, lashing Morven with tendrils of her hair. Morven tightened her grasp on the other hand she held and twisted to see who it was attached to. It was the giant she’d seen earlier. She tried to shake him off, but he hung on regardless.
The playing doubled in pace, became wild and reckless, inciting the dancers to an unseemly dash. The Beathach moved alongside them, undulating and stiff-headed, grasping at the dancers as they flitted by. The shadows closed in on Morven, tilting and lurching, while the beat of drum grew ever louder, and the blur of faces fell away in the darkness. That darkness now seemed to have texture, to be made of shifting shades of grey. The very air had substance to it that coalesced and then dissolved, only to form again like curds from the whey. The night sky appeared packed with pinpricks of light swirling in an ocean of ink and that ocean was changing again, like sand beneath her feet, melting and moulding and twisting into eddies, then speeding away to look like distant stars in the heavens.
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