by Jane Yolen
I lost my way over and over, stumbling through the heather, and clambering over hills, skirting small lochs and wading through cold streams. When I found a river or loch whose course I could follow, I stayed with it until the sun showed me I was headed awry. Then I’d turned south and west again.
But the call of home is strong, and for every wrong turning, I took another the right way until finally I found a path I recognized, up near our shieling.
I bent down and kissed the ground. “For God and St. Andrew,” I whispered to the new grass. The rest of the way home I could do with my bonnet pulled down over my eyes.
So I survived to return to Glenroy, and there the worst of my fears came true, for I found nothing.
Nothing.
Our wee cottage—where I’d sat at Granda’s knee, listening to his tales; where Ma had stirred the daily porridge pot; where I’d learned my ABCs by writing with a sooty stick on the hearthstone; where Da had taught me songs; where Mairi and Andrew and Sarah and I had slept and eaten and played—the cottage had been destroyed. All that was left was an empty shell of blackened stone. I couldn’t go inside, afraid to find my family slaughtered like animals. I put a hand to the wall to steady myself, then turned my back on it and walked toward the byre.
There was little left of it, either, the roof burned off and the door off its hinges. Behind it, the stone dykes that enclosed our garden had been torn down, the acres of crops trampled. I even found our cows, sweet beasts I knew by name—Bessie, Cana, Rona, and Flora Ann—lying along the path between my house and Ewan’s.
I started sobbing then. Their throats had been cut, their bodies left to rot. They hadn’t even been slaughtered for food. That at least I could have understood. The English soldiers must have been hungry. Yet our cows had been butchered simply to destroy our livelihood.
I wandered through the ruin of Glenroy, the smell of burning in my nostrils, a deathly silence filling my ears. There were no people anywhere. Not outside, not inside the cottages, either. I looked.
Where could they be? Had they been taken prisoner? Or had they been marched elsewhere and murdered?
When I finally brought myself back to our broken cottage, I stood for a long moment, still afraid to enter. I who had stood before the guns at Culloden, who had put a knife in a dragoon’s horse, who had dodged the English and practically starved on my way home—I was scared stiff.
Finally, I touched the stone where once the door had hinged, drew a deep breath, and went in. My stomach was hollow, there was another hollow in my chest. For a long time I stared down at my feet, afraid of what I would find. I took a deep breath and held it. Then at last I looked up.
No bodies. None.
I let out the breath and a sob at the same time.
I guessed some of the ashes in the broken hearth were the remains of our table and stools. Poking about the sooty debris, I found a little wooden face, charred but still recognizable. I picked it up, then spit on my fingers and scrubbed at the charring. It was all that was left of Sarah’s favorite doll, the one Da had carved for her last summer, before the prince came.
Is Sarah still alive? I could hardly bring myself to think it.
“Is Sarah still alive?” There—I said the words aloud, and they echoed in the hollow that had once been my home.
“Is Sarah weeping for her lost doll, or for her lost brother, or Ma or Da or …”
I couldn’t go on that way or I’d go mad. Instead, I knelt down and put the little carved face back where I had found it. To do anything else felt like disturbing the dead.
It was near dark now, and that seemed right. Right that the whole world should be as black as the remains of my old home. I couldn’t stay inside those walls. I walked away with misting eyes until I reached the copse of trees where Ewan and I had played at war.
For a moment I thought I could hear our wooden sticks clacketing together, could hear our arguments and our laughter.
Oh, what I’d give to have those days back again, I thought.
I sank down onto my haunches and rested my head on my folded arms. I began to rock back and forth, humming one of Ma’s old lullabies, just as if I were a bairn again. A soft wind accompanied my song.
I’d had enough of being a man.
Suddenly, the undergrowth crackled behind me, and a sense of danger prickled at the nape of my neck.
I reached for my dagger, forgetting that it was long gone. Grabbing up a fallen birch branch instead—better any weapon than none—I jumped up to face my attacker.
I swung the branch with all my might and it landed with a smack in the flat of Da’s upraised palm. We gaped at each other in surprise, and I let my makeshift weapon drop to the ground.
Da’s face softened into a loose, lopsided smile, the way it did after his third cup of whiskey. He held out his hands tentatively, as if scared to touch me and find I wasn’t real.
“Duncan!” he cried. “Oh, Duncan, I was so afraid ye were dead!” He threw his arms around me, pressing me to his chest. I buried my face in his plaid. Anything, anything to hide my tears.
At last he let go and stepped back to look at me. “Yer thinner than a fishing pole,” he said with a weak smile, “and there’s enough muck on ye to grow a field of neeps.”
I wiped a sleeve across my eyes. “I thought ye’d be angry that I’d run off.”
Da ruffled my hair. “I used up all my anger on yer granda for letting ye go.”
I looked down at the ground where bluebells were growing all about, and muttered, “It wasna his fault. He couldna stop me.”
“Never mind, lad, never mind,” he said. “All I feel now is joy that yer safe.” He patted my shoulder. “How far have ye been? Where did ye get to?”
“I was at Culloden. On bloody Drummossie Moor.”
Da’s smile died and his brow grew ridges. “Oh, God, Duncan, after all I told ye, what could have possessed ye to …” His voice trailed off and when he spoke again, it was to say softly, “Oh, my poor lad, if only ye’d been spared that horror. Some of the men have managed to make it back with such tales …”
“Aye, tales,” I repeated in a careful voice. “Maybe one day I’ll be able to tell it properly.”
He was silent.
I was silent.
We were both remembering battles. Different battles, but somehow the same.
Finally, to stop the pictures in my head, I said, “What’s happened here in Glenroy? Was it Cumberland’s men?”
“Aye, two days past they came. Lucky those red coats of theirs can be seen miles off by a man on a hilltop. Even so, we’d barely enough time to grab what we could before they came marching up the glen with their guns and their torches. There’s been some elsewhere as wasna so lucky. They were caught in their beds, sleeping, and woke to find their houses on fire around them and redcoats at the door to shoot them as they ran out.”
“But our folk?”
“All safe. We were lucky, too, for the redcoats came in the daylight. We’d already gotten most of the village cattle to hiding places in the hills. I used the cover of the dark to come down and see what was left.”
“It’s no much. And our milk cows …”
“Aye.” He already knew. We passed another silence before he asked, “And Ewan. Is he with ye?”
I swallowed hard.
He looked at me, guessing the worst, but still it had to be said.
“Ewan’s dead, Da. Killed at Culloden. A cannonball. I dinna think he suffered, it was so fast.” Ewan’s death surely deserved better than my poor words, a ballad, maybe, or a lament on the pipes.
“He and his father both killed for the bloody prince,” Da said, his voice like bile.
“And all the others. Thousands of them. The best of the Highlands. Was it worth it, Da? Was it worth it?” I remembered Angus Ban saying we’d fight another day, and I wondered if I could lift a sword should that day ever come. My chest heaved with grief and shame, and I began to shake.
Da threw his arms a
round me once more and didn’t let go till he felt me stop shaking. “I’ll tell Ewan’s ma,” he said. “And young Maggie. I’ll do it soft.”
“Nae, Da, that’s my duty.” My voice was raw. “They’ll want to know how it happened, and there’s nobody else can tell them but me. He was by my side. He was …”
“As ye think best,” said Da. “But I’ll come with ye.”
“Where are they, Ewan’s ma and Maggie?”
“Where we all are—up in the hills. Ye know the place, just past the Great Rock ye can see from the back of the byre. It looks like the end of the world up there. The English never thought to climb so high.”
I nodded.
“Let’s go now. It will gladden yer mother’s heart to see ye well and whole.”
“I’ll be happy to bring somebody gladness,” I said, though I felt neither well nor whole nor glad myself.
We came to the great rock, a crag that stood as high as the Keppoch’s rooftop. Da whistled a bit of a pibroch and an answering whistle with the next phrase of the song came from somewhere in the trees.
“We’ve posted watchers,” he said, leading me by the hand. “Though the sassanach are gone on to the next glen, it’s better to be careful.”
We rounded the rock and there, backed against the tail end of the crag, was a deep hollow. Campfires had been built into the hollow so the light would be hidden by the curve of the hills and smoke wouldn’t be seen against the night sky. The smell of cheese being toasted on sticks over the fire made my stomach jump.
“I’ve no had a real meal since …” My voice faded as I tried to remember.
“Dinna mind,” said Da. “Ye’ll have some tonight.” He pointed. “There!”
Before I could make them out, they’d seen me.
Ma called my name and put her hand to her breast, and Andrew and Sarah raced over to me. I picked Sarah up while Andrew clung to my belt.
“Oof!” I said to Sarah. “Ye’ve gotten heavy.”
“And ye’ve gotten dirty,” she answered. “Put me down.” Then she and Andrew started kicking each other and Ma pulled them away.
“So ye ran off to battle with yer cousin, did ye?” she said to me, then touched her apron to her eyes.
“Aye, Ma, and I’m sorry if it frightened ye. But I thought it was my duty.”
“Och, ye thought it was yer pleasure.” She shook her head. “War’s sweet to them that never tried it.” Then she hugged me so fiercely, I thought my bones would crack, but I didn’t tell her to stop.
“Did ye see the prince there?” she said into my ear.
I thought about that, about the glimpse I’d had of him on his prancing pony, before the battle turned into blood and muck and dying men. “Aye, I saw him, but I didna get close.”
“And what’s become of him now, I wonder?” Ma said.
“Caught, most likely,” said Da.
Granda hobbled up, looking far older than when I’d left. He was leaning on a stick now and when he embraced me, he almost overbalanced and fell. But still he wouldn’t let Da get the last word. “The bonnie prince caught? With all the Highlands to hide in? Nae, he’ll be as free as a bird gliding over the heather.”
Da turned on him. “Free to do what? Ye dinna think he can fight another battle, do ye? Ye canna want that! Look at the boy, old man. Look what yer prince has made of him.”
“I never said there was to be more war,” Granda answered stubbornly. “I just said the prince was free.”
“Maybe he’s gone back across the water.” I hoped that was true, for his sake. And even more, for ours.
We walked over to our fire, which was ringed with stones.
Ma handed me a piece of toasted cheese stuck between two slices of bread.
“Bread! Heaven!” I gobbled it down like it was the tastiest thing I’d ever eaten. At that moment it was.
“We’ve made an oven out of stones,” Ma said. “And bake every day. Though there’s scarcely enough for all.”
“Never mind,” Da told her. “We’ll move back down to the village in another few days, after we get the roofs back up on the houses and …” It was clearly a conversation they’d had before.
“Where’s Ewan’s ma?” I asked, after drinking a full pint of water.
“She’s sleeping.” Ma looked at me closely. “If ye’ve bad news for her, it can wait till morning.”
I knew from her tone that she’d guessed Ewan wouldn’t be coming home.
Then Granda insisted I tell what happened at Culloden. He pulled me toward a stool by our fire. I recognized it as one from our house. So, they hadn’t all been burned. “Sit—and let us know where ye stood and what ye saw and …”
I was sore tired, and the last thing I wanted to do was talk about that bloody place. “Please, Granda, can it no wait?”
“Nae, lad, ye owe us that. The others all came home with their tales. But I know ye did better than they. Ye had my dirk and the prince knew ye.” His eyes seem to glint in the firelight, and Andrew crowded next to him and leaned forward as if into my story.
“I have nae gift for telling,” I said.
Seeing Andrew quivering like a dog after a bird, Ma grabbed his arm and led him away. “This is nae tale for bairns,” she scolded.
“This is nae tale at all,” said Da. “The lad needs his sleep.”
But then others of the village came over to hear what I’d been about. Old men and boys my age who hadn’t been to the war. And one or two, like the twins and John the Miller, who’d escaped the battlefield before me and found their way home.
So I didn’t go to sleep right away, though Da hovered nearby, ready to take me off if I faltered. Instead, I leaned toward the fire, a dram put in my hand, and sipped it while telling them all about the men sleeping in ditches, and the sound of the thundering cannon, about the soldier with the blind eye, and how Angus Ban and Iain and I carried the Keppoch away from the field.
“The Keppoch dead?” Granda whispered. “That grand old man.” Though he was much older than the Keppoch had been.
“Godspeed,” the men murmured.
“Give the lad some more whiskey,” John the Miller said, when I stopped, exhausted, my voice dry.
“He’s nae more a lad,” Granda said, clearly proud of me. “He’s a man now.”
But I didn’t feel like a man and I drank no more whiskey and I left the telling of Ewan’s death for the morning.
Da put his hand on my arm. “Come to bed, son.” So I stood.
Granda pointed his stick at me. “What became of my dirk? I see ye dinna have it with ye.”
“It’s sticking in the neck of an English dragoon’s horse.”
“For God and St. Andrew,” Granda said, and several of the men said it with him.
So I had to tell that story as well, but I told it badly and quickly while I stood. Then Da took me off to bed, a straw pallet by the fire that I shared with Andrew.
Two other things I didn’t tell. I never mentioned how the fits that had plagued me for so long had saved my life. And I didn’t mention the Keppoch’s brooch. There were too many folk gathering around and I didn’t know who might be tempted by such a treasure.
31 BUILDING ANEW
The next day got off to a bitter start. I took my aunt Fiona and cousin Maggie aside, far from the cook fires. We sat on a rock under a stunted larch tree that shaded us slightly from the sun.
I told them how Ewan had died, though I made it prettier than it was, and left out the stolen sword.
“He didna suffer at all,” I said. “And he was glad to have won his share of the honor.” I tried to put great meaning in the word honor, though I felt little.
Aunt Fiona sat stony-eyed and never said a thing, but then she was never one for light talk. Her hair, greyer than I’d remembered, kept falling before her face as if to hide her from what I was saying. Maggie sobbed quietly. When I was done, my aunt stood up and walked off to shed her tears alone in the shade of the pines.
I told Ma
how they’d reacted, and Ma said, “I’ll comfort Fiona presently. For now we need to leave them to their grief. Now ye go to the fire and get yerself a cup of warm milk to draw away the bitter taste in yer mouth. The cows have just been milked.”
“How did ye know about the taste?” I asked.
“It is the taste of someone else’s tears,” she said. “A mother knows it well.”
Just then Da called me over to him, drawing me to the same rock where I’d broken the news to my aunt and cousin. He made me sit down and then sat next to me.
“Last night,” he said, his voice near a whisper, “ye didna tell the whole of the tale. Ye never once mentioned having any fits. It’s why I so feared for ye, son.”
I looked at my hands clenching and unclenching in my lap.
“Well?”
I bit my lip. “I only had one, Da. A small one, and it scarce worth mentioning.”
“Only one? In all that horror? Surely yer leaving something out in the telling.” His face got a pinched look, like a fox on the trail of a rabbit.
“Why do ye say that?” I tried to keep my voice level, but it rose and broke on the last word.
“All the while ye were telling yer tale, yer hand kept reaching for yer plaid, for a spot over yer heart.”
I gulped and my traitor hand went back to the same spot. “A bit of trouble digesting the cheese,” I said. “After so many days of starving.”
“Nay, lad, yer doing it again.” He reached over and touched my hand.
I knew I had to tell him. And I wanted to tell him, too. “I’ve been meaning to say something to ye, for I’ve a duty yet to do. I just didna know how to say it.”
“Just speak, son. I’ll no say anything but keep yer confidence.”
Nodding, I reached under the plaid and unpinned the brooch, holding it before me in the flat of my hand. Though the day had gone grey, the sun hiding behind a dark cloud, the gold casing shone.
“I think I’ve seen its like before,” said Da.
“It was the Keppoch’s, given to him by Prince Charlie.”
“Ye didna steal it, Duncan?”