Note
"Account" is the story of Margaret Drummond (c. 1472–1502), either the youngest or the eldest of the daughters of Lord Drummond, Laird of Cargill, and one of several mistresses of King James IV of Scotland. She and two of her sisters—Lady Euphernia Flemming and Lady Sibilla (ir Isabella) Drummond—died after sharing a breakfast in 1502. Family tradition, backed up by very little evidence, claims that Margaret was murdered to prevent her from marrying the King. Their daughter Lady Margaret Stewart was raised in Stirling Castle with the King's other illegitimate children.
Revelations
Friend Mother has drawn all her Children together, more than sixty of them, now, from all over Scotland. She has led them into the sweet fields of Nithsdale, to build their last house.
In her former life in Glasgow her name was Elspeth Buchan—nicknamed Luckie, for her power to survive all trials—but she has cut her ties to the world, and Friend Mother is the only name she will answer to now. She has told her minister, Hugh White, the great secret of the coming times: her Children will not die as other folk will, but be changed, transported into the clouds, to meet with Christ in the clean air and mingle with him forever.
The house the Buchanites have built—called Buchan Ha—is a low barn roofed with heather, with a ladder leading up to a garret where they all sleep on narrow pallets, the men at one end and the women at the other. They have made long deal tables and benches, a meal chest, a dresser, and stools. They have built stout doors with bars, just in case. Already Nithsdale folk are muttering against Buchan Ha, calling it a coop of lousy, fornicating idlers.
Hugh White—the Reverend Minister of the Relief Kirk at Irvine, as he once was—has tried to explain to the neighbours that he and his Brothers and Sisters are not idle but busy. It is already June, in this year that the world calls 1786 but that Friend Mother says is the true Millennium. The Buchanites are busy awaiting the Second Coming.
Only if they renounce the world now, he preaches, will sinful men and women be fit to leave it when the trumpet sounds. Like the disciples who left their nets upon the shore and followed Jesus, the Buchanites have had to resign all earthly drags and entanglements: trades and professions, homes, families even. No one is sir or mistress, husband or wife any longer; there is no more servitude and no more marriage. Only if they live in holy fellowship together, under Friend Mother's close guidance, will they be able to purify themselves for the Coming.
The time is short. The Buchanites have given all their money to Hugh White, to hold and use for the common good. The Brothers work together to dig a well and chop wood, or hire themselves out as labourers in exchange for fresh rabbit meat, bread, and turnips; the Sisters share the childminding, washing, mending, knitting, cooking, and brewing of medicines. Everyone wears homespun clothes of light green, which Friend Mother says is the colour of hope.
Hugh is what Friend Mother calls her former minister: one plain syllable. It makes him feel like a boy again. Enemies accuse Luckie Buchan of being mad, or devilish, a ravening old she-wolf that preys on the flock of the true Kirk, but Hugh knows otherwise. He was dust and Friend Mother watered him. He was barren and she made him fruitful. When she fixes her eyes on him, he knows he will be with her in heaven, and soon.
One morning Hugh calls the congregation together on the grass outside Buchan Ha, to hear Friend Mother speak.
"What is the body?" she begins, getting out her tinderbox.
"A frail wee house of clay," says Hugh fervently, "that will soon cave in."
She nods magisterially. Young James Buchan, one of the three children of her own body, lights her pipe for her; Friend Mother takes a long draw. "There must be a fast."
"All day?" asks Hugh's wife, Isabel. Of course, Isabel White is not Hugh's wife anymore, he reminds himself. Nothing is what it was in the time before.
"For forty days," Friend Mother corrects her sweetly.
Silence, like quicksand under their feet.
"Like Elijah did," says Hugh a little hoarsely, "like Moses. Like Christ himself."
She gives him a long smile. "To purify yourselves in preparation for the Coming," she tells her Children, "ye must turn your faces against all earthly nourishment for forty days. Not as much as a bannock must pass your lips. Just as a horse is trained for a race, so ye will be strengthened."
"Strengthened by eating nothing?" asks Isabel White, feebly.
A nod from Friend Mother, who blows out a small cloud of the smoke that helps her preach. "Just as a goose must be plumped up for Christmas, so ye shall fatten on the Bread of Life."
No one says no.
The first day is long; they go about their work silently. Everyone goes to bed with an empty stomach. No one is sure whether they are allowed to drink anything, until Friend Mother relieves them by coming round with a pitcher of water with a little molasses melted in it. They gulp it greedily, the adults as well as the children; even Hugh permits himself a cupful. It lifts their mood like wine.
The next morning he wakes flat-bellied, welcoming the new sensation. He feels lighter, purer already; the great hollowing-out has begun.
But in the long garret, six faces are missing: two single men and a family who must have sneaked off in the night to the nearest town. No one says their names. Friend Mother seems satisfied, though. "This Fast will split the sheep from the goats," she murmurs to Hugh.
Now on her orders the windows are nailed shut and covered, letting in only enough light for reading; this will help them keep the world and the devil at bay. Hugh spends half the second day writing a hymn to inspire the flock. "Feed," he repeats under his breath. "Deed, indeed, decreed, seed, with all speed."
The more on living words we feed,
The less of earthly food we need.
At sunset the Buchanites go up onto Templand Hill and sing their new hymn. The June air is sweet.
The next day Friend Mother is lighting her pipe when they hear their neighbour farmers outside Buchan Ha, knocking on the heavy planks. "What heathen goings-on are ye hiding behind barred doors?" roars one man. "Debauchees!" shouts another, hoarsely.
George Kidd, the former ploughman, climbs to his feet to answer them, but Friend Mother shakes her head and puts her finger to her lips.
"They're bearing false witness against us," he protests.
"No matter," she says gently, as if to a child. "What does it matter what the folk that walk in darkness think of us?"
"But—"
"They 11 know their error soon enough, poor souls."
Strange, thinks Hugh, that no one wanted to come into Buchan Ha until the way was barred against them. That reminds him of something, but he can't remember what. He is a little light-headed today; distracted by an aching drumbeat in his skull.
A violent thump on the back wall makes the Buchanites jump. "Let us in the house," comes a deeper voice, "or we'll burn ye out!"
One of the children starts to cry, but Friend Mother smiles placidly and shakes her head. After a while the abuse dies away; the farmers must have given up and gone home. Hugh sniffs the air for the first whiff of smoke, but there is no fire. He begins to read aloud from the Book of Jeremiah, and Friend Mother goes round with molasses-water, just to moisten everyone's throats for the hymn-singing. They sing higher, and ignore the growling of their bowels.
The first days of the Great Fast go by, and Hugh has never felt so sure of his calling; he knows he must nourish his flock with words. Solid words, sweet words, language tough enough to chew on. No matter how badly his head hurts him, he preaches to his Brothers and Sisters in the morning, at noon, and in the evening—the very times when they used to stuff their weak flesh with bread and bacon and small beer. Occasionally a few farmers come by and shout threats or accusations. Once a woman's voice squeals at the window, "How many bastard infants have ye buried under the floor?"—and Hugh starts laughing, helplessly, and has to cover his mouth with his hand.
At sunset, when the Buchanites can be sure of being alone on their la
nd, he unbars the door and leads them up Templand Hill for a little fresh air. "I have found out another great secret," he tells them one evening, his voice high with excitement, and their pale faces lift and catch the last of the western light. "I have discovered, on reading Scripture, that Friend Mother is spoken of there."
A hiss of astonishment from the flock.
"I had read it before, but with a man's eyes only," Hugh berates himself. "Now I know the truth. Just as evil came into the world through a woman, so it is a woman who must save us. Listen, now, to this passage from the Book of Revelations:
A great portent then appeared in heaven: a woman, robed with the sun,
with the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve stars on her head.
See where she comes!"
And he thrusts out his arm to where Friend Mother is walking up Templand Hill in a new gown of yellow stuff, glowing like the last of the sun. She looks as fresh-faced as she ever did before the Great Fast began; he marvels at her beauty, which is not the easy prettiness of youth but a sterner stuff. "See the stars!" Count them!" Hugh urges, running up to her and fingering the twelve places in her loosened hair where black has turned to silver. She submits to his touch, just as the two of them have practised, and then she lifts one warm sole to him as calmly as a mare. "The final proof," he roars, putting his finger to it, "the crescent, the mark of the moon under her right foot!"
The smaller Buchan girl, at the back, lets out a hiccup.
Friend Mother's voice seems deeper today, silkier. "Grace and peace to you from Him who is and who was and who is coming soon," she begins.
"Grace and peace," the congregation murmurs.
"My Children, ye followed me," she says, stepping up close and looking them in the eyes, each woman and man in turn. "Ye followed me, leaving your doors open, your Washing on the green, your cows unfed at the crib. Ye stood by me two years ago, when the mob smashed our wagons and whipped us into the ditch. Ye let me lead you into the wilderness, followed me all the way to this blessed Nithsdale." Her voice begins to vibrate. "Now is coming the time of your reward!"
"What are we to do, Friend Mother?" asks John Gibson eagerly.
"Fast, watch, and wait for Christ."
Hugh can see a sort of flatness in the Buchanites' eyes; they have heard this before. He racks his brains for a way to stir the crowd up.
A girl pipes up now, one of Patrick Hunter's children: "What does He look like, the Christ?"
Hugh is about to rebuke the girl, but Friend Mother answers. "His hair is ad white ad wool," she quotes lovingly, "and hid feet are like precious ore as it glows in the furnace. His voice has the sound of many waters, and from his mouth there issues a sharp two-edged sword."
Hugh blanches at the image.
Not everyone is strong enough to live on the Bread of Life, it seems. There are murmurings; complaints, even. Isabel White tells Hugh that their children are not well, but he replies that Buchanites are all—old or young—Friend Mother's Children, and she will provide for them.
One morning some of their community—those who joined only a few months before, James Brown and Thomas Bradley among them—force the doors open, saying they will beg scraps at all the farms of Nithsdale rather than hunger like trapped rats in this barn. Hugh and some other strong men try to pull them back inside, but Friend Mother shakes her head and sucks on her pipe. She watches regretfully as the cowards leave, as if they are walking off the edge of a cliff.
The remaining Buchanites have moved beyond work; they spend the days lying curled up on blankets on the floor, listening to Friend Mother's stories. Her words are more vivid than the daylight, more real than the hard ground under their hips. She tells them of the twenty-four thrones and the seven torches of fire, the thunders and lightnings on the glassy sea. Heaven will be shaken like a fig tree and its stars will drop like ripe fruit. The sky will roll up—
"Like a scroll," murmurs the Hunter girl sleepily.
"That's right, child, like a scroll, and every mountain will be moved."
The Sisters and Brothers lie still, listening for the first vibration in the packed earth beneath them.
Tonight Hugh cannot sleep, no matter whether he lies on his front or his back or his side. His bladder is full and hurting, but he holds it, because he knows that when he relieves himself it will burn. He gets up at last, fearing that his thrashing about will disturb his Brothers, sleeping only inches apart in the long garret. He steps downstairs softly, and pauses at the door to the tiny storeroom where Friend Mother sleeps alone. He wants to ask something terrible. He is about to say: how can we be sure this Fast is right?
But as soon as he comes into the room, stooped, dazzled by the light of her wax candle, he forgets his question. Friend Mother is waiting, open-eyed.
She locks him up in her arms.
Afterwards he shudders as if with cold.
"Hugh," she repeats in his ear, her breath savoury with smoke, "when I first heard you preach that sermon in Glasgow, my soul swelled with righteous love, and it was clear to me all of a sudden that I must leave my worthless husband and be a witness for heaven."
He clings on, speechless. He is thinking of his former wife Isabel asleep in the garret above, surrounded by her Sisters.
"But I cannot do this great work alone. I need one man by my side, the chosen one, and d'you know what the name of that man is?"
"Hugh," he whispers, fearfully.
"Hugh," she repeats, making a glad chorus of the word. "Now Jon't fret." She strokes his thinning hair. "You know there can be no adultery, for marriage is no more."
"Aye."
"Marriage is a bargain with death and with hell, and such bonds are not to be boasted of or clung to any longer."
He nods.
"We are partners in the great work. We can do no wrong," she assures him.
And he tries to believe her.
riend Mother is fresh-skinned, tireless; the Bread of Life is all the food she needs.
But resentment stirs among the Buchanites. Some have gone missing. And it has been noticed that Hugh goes to Friend Mothers room at night. His wife-as-was speaks bitterly to him in a corner. "Isabel," he says sternly, "look to your own soul, for the time is short." After that they don't exchange a word.
By the end of a fortnight there is sickness, too, locked up in Buchan Ha. Some are not well enough to walk up Templand Hill at sunset for the hymn-singing. There are cramps, fevers, strange swellings. One of Hugh's children-of-the-body, the boy, vomits up whatever molasses-water Friend Mother gives him. She whispers soothing things in the boy's ear, but he turns his head away. "They will nevermore hunger or thirst," she tells him, "those who are washed clean in the blood of the Lamb."
Patrick Hunters daughter appears to be dying; her fever is high, her breath is weak. She has deliriums, sees devils in the ceiling. Friend Mother shakes her head over the girl, and says it is a lack of faith among them that has let this sickness in. Finally she produces a handful of oatmeal from the end of an old sack.
The girl turns her face away in revulsion. "Friend Mother," she gasps, "I need no earthly food."
"Dear lass, dear good lassie," says Friend Mother, and gives her another sip of molasses-water instead.
But then Elizabeth Hunter breaks her long silence. She staggers to her feet and says, "We've fasted long enough. June's near over. If Christ was going to come, he'd have done it by now."
Patrick Hunter belts her with the back of his hand for her blasphemy. The sound silences them all.
Friend Mother comes up close to the woman. For once she is not gentle. "You value your poor flesh, do you? I tell you this, you besom, the time is very close. If you desert us now, Christ's fire will melt all the flesh from your bones."
Elizabeth Hunter is clutching her cheek. "Whatever about myself," she weeps, "I'll not watch my daughter and my son and my husband die of famishment before my eyes. Patrick," she roars at him, "this is self-murder, so it is, and the murder of your own bairns
!"
But he turns his face from her, and so do the boy and girl; when she tries to lift the children in her arms they are dead weights. So Elizabeth Hunter goes off with no companion but Katherine Gardner who used to be her maid in the old days. Katherine begs Andrew Innes to come too, but he spurns her. Hugh watches them go, then turns to count the Buchanites: barely forty of them left. Too few, too few; what kind of welcome party will they make for the Lord?
There is no day or night anymore, only this damp, warm, blanketed floor where the remaining Sisters and Brothers lie curled up together like worms. Their breaths are sharp; their faces are sunken. Friend Mother is all sweetness, all patience with their imperfections.
In bed, she interprets the Book of Revelations. "It has come to me that you are the one called the Great Man Child, my beloved," she tells Hugh excitedly. "Is it not written that the woman shall give birth to the Man Child, and the dragon shall seek him out, but he shall be so well hid that the dragon will not find him?"
Hugh smiles up at her, as when he was small and his mother used to tell him stories about bogeys in graveyards. He is drifting, vague, almost asleep. And then he smells bacon.
At first he thinks it is another of the hallucinations of hunger, one of those ghost scents that have been troubling him recently. But no, it really is a bit of lean, purple bacon. She has it in her hand; she touches it to his mouth. He jerks away as if burnt.
Friend Mother is smiling. "Hugh, don't you recall what the Prophet said? Eat that which is good, and let your soul delight in fatness!"
"The others are starving," says Hugh hoarsely. He begins to understand. So that's how she still looks so strong, so alive.
"For a little while more, aye," she says sadly, "they must be cleansed in preparation for Christ's Coming. But for the leaders there is exemption."
The Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits: Stories Page 5