“Welcome . . . welcome, laddie!” exclaimed Duncan in answer to Andrew’s knock. The old man stepped back to look over the panting young man with a great smile radiating on his wrinkled and ruddy face. “What brings ye sae far frae hame?”
The very sight of the old man’s worn Shetland wool cardigan—whose shades of red and blue and tan were so overlaid with oil and grime from his flock as to make them nearly indistinguishable, and which contained more holes than a quick glance could count—as well as the brown denim trousers and the black boots that were probably older than Andrew himsef—sent Andrew’s thoughts into a tailspin of fond recollection.
“To pay a long overdue visit to a good friend,” replied Andrew.
“Then come in, laddie—come in! We’ll drink a cup o’ tea t’gither.”
So saying, MacRanald turned back inside. His guest followed.
Duncan MacRanald had seemed old to Andrew Trentham’s young eyes twenty-five years ago. But in the time that had passed since, the weathered lines of the Scotsman’s cheeks had not changed much. His healthy crop of hair, however, then only speckled with gray, was now pure white. Altogether untamed, it looked as if the mountain winds were swirling through it, even as they whipped up the snows on the peak of his beloved Ben Nevis itself.
“I’ll jist put some fresh peats on the fire,” said the Scotsman as they entered, “while you bring the pot, laddie. Ye’ll remember, I’m thinkn’.”
A minute later Andrew was setting the small iron pot filled with fresh water on the hook above what was now a well-caught fire. Duncan brought a second chair to the hearth, and both men sat down.
“So, how is the life o’ an important London man?” asked the host, easing into his chair.
“Busy, challenging . . . sometimes exciting, sometimes frustrating,” replied Andrew. “But there is big news, Duncan, about your homeland.”
“An’ what would that be?”
“The Stone of Scone was stolen last night.”
“Ye dinna say!” exclaimed the Scotsman, his face displaying a look of astonished shock. “From atop the grit castle rock o’ Edinburgh? How could they hae won int’ the place?”
“From Westminster Abbey, Duncan,” replied Andrew. “It was taken back to England for the coronation. But now it’s gone without a trace.”
“Ay, I forgot. Who took it?” said Duncan.
“No one knows. Some say the Scots, some suspect the Irish.”
“I doobt it’d be the Irish, laddie. The Stane’s got more meanin’ t’ the Scots.”
“But why would the Scots do it? It’s already been given to them. It was going back to Edinburgh next week anyway.”
Duncan shook his head. He had no answer to that puzzle.
Andrew leaned forward and peeked into the pot. The water inside, however, showed no sign of being yet anywhere near hot enough to produce steam, much less come to a boil.
“Don’t you know, Duncan,” remarked Andrew in a lighter tone and with a grin as he resumed his seat, “this is the modern age. You should get a microwave oven. You could boil your tea water in seconds.”
The very thought sent the old Scotsman into subdued chuckles.
“A microwave in this cottage, laddie—’tis aye a good one, that! Duncan MacRanald boilin’ water wi’ a microwave!”
“Not all modern inventions are so bad,” laughed Andrew. “The twenty-first century is upon us, you know.”
“I’ll agree wi’ ye there. But a microwave—I canna well fix the twa things in my mind at once: a peat fire in one corner, an’ a microwave in the other! Nae, nae, laddie—I’ll boil my water slow, an’ enjoy the tea the more that it’s taken some time an’ a wee effort t’ bring it t’ my lips.”
“You’re probably right . . . I’m sure water boiled over a peat fire tastes better,” replied Andrew, still smiling at the humor of the image he had suggested.
Again they resumed discussing the theft of the Stone.
“What is it about the Stone that makes it so special to the Scots?” asked Andrew. “Why do they call it the Stone of Destiny?”
“Ye might as well ask what makes a Scot a Scot, laddie,” replied MacRanald.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”
“The Scots love their land, the things o’ their land, their history, an’ their culture. The Stane’s part o’ them all, as real as if it were alive.”
“After all this time . . . in these modern times?”
“The history o’ the Scot lives, laddie. The events o’ three hundred years ago are as real t’ a true Scot as if they’d happened yesterday.”
“I remember you telling me the same thing when I was a boy,” laughed Andrew.
“Our history’s alive, laddie. It lives an’ breathes. ’Tis no dead past, but ’tis a livin’ part o’ who we are.”
“Every country’s got a history. Most people don’t feel quite so passionate about theirs.”
“No country’s got a history like ours. None, that is, but the ancient Hebrews, an’ oors isna so unlike theirs gien ye ken whaur t’ luik fer the signs o’ God’s hand in it. Ye can tell,” he added with a light chuckle, “that I’m jist a wee prejudiced aboot the matter! But ’tis their history that makes a Hebrew what he is. An’ ’tis oor history that makes a Scot a Scot.”
“What makes a Scot a Scot, then, Duncan?”
“Ye dinna hae t’ look farther back than Glencoe t’ find the answer t’ that question.”
“Glencoe—that’s where your ancestors were from?”
“Ay. An’ some o’ yers, nae doobt as well, an’ much o’ the MacDonald clan o’ which I’m a proud part. If ye want t’ find what makes a Scot a Scot, ye’ll find yer answer at Glencoe. A piece o’ the soul o’ every Scot dwells in that wee mountain glen. They tried t’ kill the Scots’ soul on that evil night. But there’s no killing the spirit o’ the Highlands.”
“The spirit of the Highlands?”
“Ay . . .” said Duncan as his voice trailed softly away.
A pensive look came over the old Scotsman as the tale he loved replayed in his memory.
“’Tis a long story, laddie,” he said at length. “A sad and bitter story o’ freedom lost. We’re just comin’ up on its anniversary next week.”
“Tell it to me, Duncan.”
“Noo?”
Andrew nodded.
“Du ye have the time, laddie?”
“I’ll make time.”
“Then we’ll brew this pot o’ tea, an’ I’ll tell ye the tale o’ she that might be called the grit-grandmother o’ all Scottish lads and lassies since her time, the angel o’ the Highlands wi’ its spirit in her soul. Then ye’ll understand why the blood o’ the Scot burns wi’ passion fer his land, his history, an’ the freedom that was taken frae him. If ye want t’ grasp the essence o’ Scotland, ’tis t’ Glencoe ye must gae first.”
1. Member of Parliament, specifically one elected to the House of Commons.
2. A move, instituted by the Labour government of Tony Blair and given impetus by favorable referendums (nonbinding votes of public opinion) among the voters of both regions, to “devolve” more self-governing authority to Scotland and Wales, resulting in new parliaments and First Ministers for both regions. The overall effect is a system perhaps similar to the federal system in the United States, in which power and decision-making authority is divided between the federal government and that of the individual states. The states have significant powers, yet are still ultimately responsible to the authority of the federal government. Such parallels the newly altered regional relationships in the UK. There are those, however, who advocate far greater autonomy, even full independent nationhood and withdrawal from the United Kingdom altogether. For this vocal minority, devolution has been little more than a token gesture.
3
The Maiden of Glencoe
February 1692
One
It was a rugged, mountainous glen through which tumbled the small river for which it was named, and to which th
e family called Donald had given its toil and blood from far back in times unknown.
It lay in the debatable lands between the low western forests of Appin, bordering Lochs Linnhe and Leven, and the high inland moor of Rannoch. The narrow valley formed, as it were, a doorway into the central Highlands, and the mountains that flanked it an impassable inland barrier between Strathclyde and the northwest Highlands. And though it lay not many feet above the sea and the nearby lochs, there could be no doubt that it was from the Highlands, rising on three sides around it, that Glencoe derived its soul.
The glen ran east to west, gradually narrowing as it increased in elevation from the shores of Loch Leven, then straightening to no more than a steep passage, climbing up through jagged enclosing heights on each side some twelve miles to the high, desolate watery flats of Rannoch Moor. The western valley itself lay at the base of and between several bare, rugged mountains, some of whose slopes were so steep as to render them impassable to anything but unfriendly Highland goats. North and south, the peaks rose steep and foreboding, leading nowhere but to higher mountains still. These sentinels offered few routes of escape, especially in winter.
The northern wall was called Aonach Eagach, the Notched Ridge, and the only pathway through it was the crooked trail, known as the Devil’s Staircase, that ran from Kinlochleven to Rannoch Moor at the eastern door of the glen. To the south, five mountains stood tied to one another by various forbidding ridges. Their lower slopes and glens provided some grass for summer grazing, but they offered few paths out of Glencoe, and only to those who knew them well. The ridges and mountains beyond them simply rose higher and higher, either covered with snow or lost in mists most of the year.
Down the sides of the surrounding hills and in their innumerable crevices and ravines tumbled a thousand small streams, each pouring into the Coe as it flowed from Rannoch Moor downward to empty into Loch Leven at the site of the small village of Invercoe. Boulders and walls of granite created hundreds of waterfalls and chilly crystalline pools. As they cascaded toward the valley floor, gradually the waters slowed and widened into shallow pools, then swelled into the loch of Achtriachtan before narrowing again to continue toward Leven.
For nine or ten months of the year, the upper portion of these streams ran swiftly with the icy water of melted snow. In the dead of winter the smaller ones iced over and ceased flowing altogether. On their banks grew an occasional fir, clumps of stunted pines, with here and there small stands of silver birch, mountain ash, or alder. None grew to any great size, however. Only the overhanging projection of some great boulder, or perhaps the face of a cliff, was capable of giving much shade during the short summer months when it might be needed.
It was a remote region, sparsely peopled in later years. But in those days when Highland life was at its zenith, the valley was fertile and full of life. For the two or three hundred men, women, and children to whom Glencoe was home, clan and earth wove together the fabric of existence.
These inhabitants spoke mostly Gaelic and a little Scots, and were almost entirely of Celtic blood. The cultivated portions of the glen produced little other than oats, kale, barley, and a few potatoes, though in some places sufficient corn ripened during the short summer for the distilling of whisky. Cattle gave milk for butter and cheese. Scrawny sheep also yielded milk and some fleece, and chickens gave eggs and themselves for food. From the nearby lochs, an abundance of fish, mostly herring, saw the people through fierce and punishing winters. Up the surrounding slopes there was much heather and moss, plentiful water and snow, but more rocks than anything.
And there was solitude. Upon leaving one of the half-dozen tiny villages in the glen, one could walk the hills and gaze about in all directions and discover but scant evidence of human abode. The faint perfume of peat fire drifting upward from some unseen chimney might give evidence of habitation. It would still be difficult to discover the cottage it came from, however, so entirely did the houses of that region blend in with the hillsides out of whose stones and turf they had been constructed.
Two
Near the western edge of the glen, a little more than a mile inland from the mouth of the River Coe, over the cluster of ten or fifteen cottages that made up the village of Carnoch, twilight darkened the sky. Snow would not be far behind.
The girl leaning into the wind as she made her way to the warmth and safety of a nearby dwelling wore a happy smile on her face. Despite the inclement weather and descending dusk, she skipped along merrily, as if it were midsummer. Guests were approaching the glen, and she had particular reason to be hopeful.
They were from a neighboring clan over the hills, and twenty-one-year-old Ginevra MacIain1 knew what that could mean. She had not actually seen her Brochan among the uniformed riders. But she felt his presence. For one like Ginevra, it was enough, for what she knew came but partially from the sight of her eyes. She depended mostly on unexplained sensations residing quiet and hidden within her soul.
The cottage she approached was of two rooms with an earthen floor, roof of timber and turf with a hole in the center. Stone in this region was plentiful, wood scarce. Thus the timber beams that supported the roof were the most valuable and important part of any home. If the roof went, destruction of the whole cottage was not far behind. The roofs themselves, spread over these timbers, were formed of thick-cut turf or bound heather. Only the largest and most important homes of any community were covered with thatch, a commodity too needful as animal fodder to be commonly used as roofing material.
Barns, or byres, of similar construction, sat either adjacent to or as an extension of such structures. The dwelling places of humans and animals might be separated only by hanging skins and hides. During these harsh winter months, cattle had to be kept in and prevented from starvation on what meager provisions could be allotted them, their refuse piled in huge heaps outside.
The girl had seen the soldiers before anyone in Carnoch, though none saw her shadowing their movements. Had any of the horsemen, whom she had spotted approaching thirty minutes before, denoted the wispy figure stalking them, they might have considered her a nymph of these dark, fearsome mountains or perhaps a spirit of some ancient Highland legend. Her wild, flowing hair, however, would have given her away as related, and not distantly, to the current chief. No ghost ever wore such a bright red mane.
Had her own kinsmen spotted her at this moment, none would have paid her much heed. Everyone in the glen knew Ginevra. Most ignored her, though sometimes her peculiar ways unnerved them. She always seemed to turn up in the most unexpected places at the oddest times, watching silently, hearing all. And she always seemed to know what was happening, just as she now knew that the earl’s men were coming to seek lodging in Carnoch. The villagers, however, would have to get the news from the chief’s two sons, not from Ginevra MacIain MacDonald.
The year was 1692. None of them—not maiden, nor riders, nor the sons of the chief—knew that history was soon to be made. The events about to unfold would immortalize this tiny valley surrounded on three sides by snowcapped and forbidding peaks, and sear this moment of time into the fabric of legend for a nation.
Incredibly, the lass’s feet as they hurried over the frozen ground were bare, for she was at home in the elements. Indeed, as well a nymph might, she defied them, daring rain and snow, wind and hail, to do their worst. Her mother was a MacPhail from Laroch, said to be descended from Big Archibald. Her father was nephew to Chief Alasdair. The three, along with her little brother, made their home in Carnoch.
She wore but a plain, thin woolen dress, no coat, no bonnet. Such scant clothing on this night would have worried many a Scottish mother. The days when Ginevra’s mother’s heart stirred anxiously for her daughter, however, were long past. The girl knew every inch of the glen, every stream, every rock, every sheep path, every peak. She had survived twenty-one harsh Highland winters. Why should she not survive another?
The high regions to the east she had had occasion to traverse many times during
recent years as well, for the same reason that her heart had been set stirring with particular hope and eagerness on this evening. For she was a lass in love—that much one look into her eye would reveal in an instant.
That she was one even capable of falling in love might have been questioned some years before. For everyone in the glen knew this girl was different from others of human parentage.
Three
Ginevra’s mother had worried for a time. The girl was set apart from the day she was born. Her dark hair, which started out almost black, and the deep blue eyes, which seemed preternaturally aware of her surroundings, immediately attracted the attention of every woman in the village.
“A beautiful baby,” the mothers all exclaimed when they first laid eyes on the infant, “and such eyes!”
One among them, however, was not so exuberant in praise of the infant’s countenance, a grizzled, ancient woman of wrinkled, leathery skin and more years than anyone in the glen dared speculate on. If she was a witch, no one said it. Yet all feared an evil glance from the old woman as much as they heeded whatever peculiar pronouncements might come from her mouth. Everyone for miles attributed to her the evil eye.
“Aye, she maun hae the second sicht,” muttered old Betsy MacDougall upon observing the infant.
A few gasps of mingled wonderment, terror, and awe escaped the lips of the other women. A solemn silence descended over the room.
“’Tis a blessing an’ a curse,” the strange woman went on. “An’ I be one who ought t’ ken, fer I’ve lived wi’ both this many a year.”
Ginevra’s mother trembled at the words. She knew the danger. She knew that those with the second sight were chosen to walk a lonely path. They beheld what no one else saw, and carried pain no one could take away.
That Ginevra was an unusual child was evident from more than her eyes. As she lay in her cradle, the infant uttered not a peep. Her eyes seemed capable of gathering meaning before the age when most normal children could speak. But as time went on, sounds did not accompany the changes that came to her body. By the time she was two, her mother knew something was amiss.
Legend of the Celtic Stone Page 6