Corrag

by Susan Fletcher

  Of course, I will listen hard to her. You’re right—we all have our stories, and right to tell them, to have them heard. You do not see her as a wretch, and I must borrow your eyes. I know the thought of her death troubles you. In truth, I wonder if it does not trouble me somewhat, also. It did not, when I first found her—I was minded that Devil-worshippers should not be suffered to live. But I do not think she is one. She blasphemes, which is a sin, and she has known some thieves in her days. But is this worth murder? I cannot say. Moreover, she had been treated very poorly by soldiers. I will write no more on this, lest it distresses you—but I am glad to say she was not hurt in the way they tried for. Even prisoners do not deserve such things.

  Dark times, these. There seems so little light—in the minds and hearts of us all. My Bible, and your name bring light to mine. I will confess, too, that there is something in her character—her love of living, I think, of being in the world—which lightens my step a little, when I walk out into the snow. I would call this bewitchment. But we have banished such words, now.

  Thank you again for your letter. I cherish it, and will carry it with me. Would it be selfish and shameful to ask for another? If you find the time?

  My love to our boys. Remind them that a father in Scotland does not mean a father who cannot punish, or reprimand. I hope they treat their mother as she deserves to always be treated—with love, and awe.

  Charles

  IV

  “Moonwort is a herb (they say) will open locks and unshoe such horses as tread upon it…Country people, that I know, call it Unshoe The Horse.”

  of Moonwort

  In these empty hours, when you are not with me, I look upon myself like I am new to me.

  My face. My chest. And my arms—with their veins, their scars from thorns or an old, English cat. I look upon my legs like they are not my own. They are marked, muddied legs. I clutch my toes, sometimes, too. I rub each one, and feel the tender skin that hides between them—secret skin. I think, my toes. I call them mine.

  I put my thumb to my neck, and hear my heart. It beats, it beats.

  And I breathe in, out. In. Out.

  I am sure the gaoler says madness when he sees me—feeling myself, watching my cold, white breath as it steams, and vanishes. Witch, he says. But he does not know why I do these things—why I hold my hands before me. These hands. Which are small, Mr Leslie, but think of what they have held, and brushed against—what herbs, and rocks.

  I have always looked upon myself like this. It was witch that did it. In the elm wood at Thorneyburnbank, or sleeping on a low-tide beach, I’d look at my body like it was marked, somehow. Like it was newly-given.

  Why am I so small I asked Cora. For she wasn’t.

  She shrugged, said you are like my mother. She was small. But all things are small when they’re tied thumb-to-toe.

  Still.

  I look upon myself far more in these dark days and nights. I look with old, wise eyes—for I know that in the Mercat Cross they are bringing wood in, hauling it slowly through the snow. Rope. Tar. I know they do this, that they do it for me. I look on myself, sir, for I cannot believe I will burn, and be gone. That my skin will blacken, and open up. That my hair will flame up.

  This pale, soft skin between my toes will be the first to burn, I think. These parts.

  Was Cora like this? As the rope was put about her neck? Did she feel how strong she was—how alive? Was her heart so fierce in her ears, beating like a drum, that she could not believe the drop would come, the bang—and she would be gone? The chief of the MacDonalds said he never felt more living than on the eve of a battle, with his sword across his lap. I believe it now. I believe that when we think our life may soon be done, and our bodies broken up, we see every part of us. All the little hairs on my arms. My wrinkled bits.

  Cora and an unknown man made me. I come from them.

  But also I come from the wind and sky and earth and trees, and what it is that made these things. I have always thought it. But I say it now, for it comforts me.

  I need comforting for I am afraid, tonight. I know they bind the barrels up.

  WHAT will comfort me? Your face, which I know now. It is a better face than most which come into this room. I know its looks now, and what they mean. This look, now. The one you are giving me. It is sorrow, a pity which you try to hide—for I know you feel you should not feel it. Not for a witch. You think, maybe, I am a reverend and I hate all sinners, and so you tell yourself burn her. I know. But I see pity in your eyes, and I think you soften to me. I saw the sadness when I talked of my toes, on fire.

  I am not so bad, am I? Not a hag, or a wicked piece.

  My mare, also, will comfort me. I can see her. In this half-light. I can see her so clearly that I am on her, I think—with her dappled shoulders beneath me and her thick, pale mane. Good girl. I hear her fleshy nostril sounds, and when I leant down and said go! she always knew, always—and she went. She’d jump forwards, shake herself, go.

  I CRIED, after those soldiers. I cried at my sore shoulder, and the rudeness of it, and the strength of them. I cried at what they wanted—at what I had, and did not have.

  And of course I missed Thorneyburnbank, then—of course I did. I missed the marshes, and my childhood bed, and the cats in the eaves with their silver-tipped tongues. I missed Mother Mundy’s beady-eyes, and her tales. The holly, which caught my hair as I passed. I missed these things, as I rode into the Highlands, for I thought they were safe days! They were known… And aren’t there days when all we seek is safety, and warmth, and a meal?

  But, I told the mare, those days weren’t truly so safe… Not with Mr Fothers and his narrow eyes. Not with folk need a foe… And maybe it was this that I cried at, most of all—that nowhere I had ever been was safe.

  So when the land began to rise, and the ground grew rockier, and as the water which I drank from tasted thick and cool with peat, and the earth which I knelt in as I drank was black on my knees, and as the lochs had mist upon them, and the birds soared by the peaks, and as the castles became smaller and in darker, higher, windy spots, and as the homes became less, and the horses too, and as I climbed down from the mare to cross a river which had had no bridge for miles and miles and I could see none ahead, so that I thought has anyone even been here before?—I did not feel scared. Not at all. I stood waist-deep in the river and said Highland. I knew.

  And yes, they had been called brutish. They had been called wild, and untamed. And hadn’t their people been called barbarous? I stood in a river, on a summer’s night, and said what can be more brutish? Than what I have known? I told the insects that I’d been grappled at, and spat upon, and chased, and called witch, and my mare had been hurt, and my mother was dead.

  We crossed the river, and went on.

  And as the dawn broke, we came into the Highland parts.

  How can I speak of it without saying wild? Or beautiful? I had never seen such beauty. Cora had promised me that beauty was in differences, in the sights that most folk did not like, or was fearful of—she’d said for are not all other things very dull? She’d liked the egg with two yolks in. She’d liked that star-marked calf.

  And as I rode out across Rannoch Moor, I thought of her. She would have danced, in it. She’d have lain down and clutched the peat, pressed it to her face. She’d have plunged her red skirts into the lochs, and tugged up the reeds, and chased the deer with her arms stretched out—for here was her soul’s home. No people. For people said witch, and tied thumbs-to-toes. Here, there were pools so still that there was a second sky in them, and a lone bird skimmed the water so that there were two birds. When there was wind, it rattled the heather. It came about the boulders and the side of hills like water—shaking itself, shrill, almost white. It whistled through the cattle skulls, and my hair beat itself like a wing on my cheek, saying fly fly fly, and when the wind moved away again, I heard bees. I heard the soft tread of deer, and their teeth on the grass, and I liked them. I liked their reddish, thick
bodies, and their crowns on their heads like they were the true kings of the world—not a wheezy Dutchman. Not a Stuart hiding in France.

  I heard the lap lap of loch water, and the puck fish made with their mouths.

  North-and-west, always. And I nudged the mare on. She felt the wind in her half-tail, and went.

  WE slept against rocks. We stood on high places, and looked out. I wondered how we looked, the mare and I—standing side by side on those peaks, with the breezy weather in our manes and our skirts blowing out. I wondered what saw us. I scratched her ear. Good girl. Old thing.

  And as I said that, I knew it was true. I knew she was old. I had known it since I first hauled myself on her back, with Cora crying go! Go! For I remembered her days as a foal. I remembered her sniffing the wind, in her field. I’d been in Cora’s arms, picking pears with her, and my mother had said shall we share a pear? With the little horse, here? So we fed her. She’d been thin and long-legged, but she’d already got her brown-speckled rump and rabbit ears. She’d snuffled, found the pear. I’d seen my face in her polished eyes, and she’d seen hers in mine.

  Those were our young, English days.

  I told her this. That I’d always liked her. That we’d always been friends—her and I.

  And as if she also knew, in her heart, that she was old now—that her early life of beatings had made her old too soon, and she had galloped for so long with me that her bones were stiff and sore. As if she knew that our journey was almost done, she lowered her head, and blew a long breath into the grass. She still had a foal’s nosiness, and still skittered at leaves. But her ribs pressed out, and her back sunk down.

  ON A day of flashing skies, I looked into her eye. It had the whole moor in it—all its light, and sky, and water, and I thought her eye looked sad. Like she did not want to leave it. Like she knew the realm was near her, now.

  I stroked her. I said I know.

  I did not ride her on her last day. I walked by her, held back branches for her, and sought out good rocks to shelter behind. I gathered herbs as we went, and fed them to her, and she chewed as we walked. Good girl. Never had there been a better girl than her, in all the world’s days. And the summer sky rumbled, and the wind picked up, and as a raindrop fell very fatly on her neck, and another, and another, and the wind picked up, I made a promise to her—that I would find her a proper resting place now. A bed. A roof. For how fair was it, to keep saying north-and-west? Not fair anymore.

  Thunder came in.

  And my head was by her head, as we walked, and her hooves clicked on the stones, and down the rain came and plopped into the mud. It hit our heads, and flattened our hair, and the mare went dark-coloured, and she hung her head low, and we both stumbled as the rain grew worse. It hurt us. The sky flashed and growled.

  Poor horse. Her last hours in this life were wet and cold ones. She sank deep into bogs, and dragged her soul also, and I called to her we rest soon! But where? I saw nothing, I saw no place to warm her and she was old, my little mare was old, and the rain was very painful and it blinded us and the wind charged at our bodies and I had no wish at all but for some safety.

  I prayed. I called into the rain please let us find shelter. Please.

  I shielded my eyes from the rain, and peered, and just when I thought there is nothing. We are done for, I saw a small, stone hut.

  It was not much. Just a rough and battered hut—but it had a roof on it and three-and-some stone walls, and I said there! We hurried. I pushed the mare from behind, so that she went in and shook herself, and I knew, as we entered it, this was her dying place.

  INSIDE there were nettles and some moss. The floor was dry. I pulled moss down from the stones and gathered old heather to make a soft place for her and I said lie down there. She blew very hard. We stood, the mare and I, and let our ears hear how the storm was some muffled now. I smoothed her wet coat. I told her she was safe in this sheiling with its thick walls and moss and she could sleep.

  And the grey mare I called friend gave a sigh that was as deep as all the seas and valleys. Her knees made a sound like pebbles do and she came down. She fell onto the moss and then rolled back very gently with her head laid down amongst the old heather, and her speckled body filled itself with air.

  I lay down also. I put my hands on her belly and spoke to her. I told her our stories. I told her all our best stories—like the ruined, leafy church, and the forests, and the frosts we had galloped on, and the rushing rivers she’d carried me through. Of the hare, in its trap. Of the boy we’d taken away from dogs. Of the night we had spent in a cave, her and I—sleeping nose to nose on its floor.

  I said do you remember…? And her eyelashes fluttered, like she did.

  And she gave a breath, a very long, tired breath which said the realm was waiting now, and she was going there. Her lower lip trembled. I put my face by her face. I put my breath from my own nostrils into her nostrils, and I looked into her shiny half-closed eye. I did not want her gone. I remembered how she’d munched hay in her stall on full-moon nights and carried Mr Fothers against his bidding into ditches after bramble leaves and plums. I thought of her tooting, and how she knew go!

  I did not want her gone at all. I thought please stay…

  But lives must go. Lives cannot stay.

  I called her good then. I called her good lady, and patted her coat. I spent her last night with my head on her belly, and in my sleep I saw what she had seen in her final drawing out of breath—a river with a lone bird standing by it, and a field of hay.

  She was cold when I awoke. I combed her mane of knots and thorns and laid it neatly down. I put a kiss on her nose. Outside the sky was pale and there was no more wind, no more rain.

  I knew I could not lie there, missing her.

  No magick brings the dead back, and I think the newly-dead need quietness to say their own farewells in, to leave their old earthly shapes behind and slip away. I believe this very much.

  The rain had made small lochs as clear as glass is. The air smelt clean. I washed my face in a burn and drank it, and saw how the sky lightened pinkly in the eastern parts. It was good and peaceful watching. I gave an honest thanking to whatever sees us in such times, a thank you for her ways and an asking to now keep her well. When I looked back across the peat I saw the hut’s shape in the darkness. She’d had no better resting place in all her days—even Mr Fothers could not have filled his stable with such soft moss or heather—and it was my comfort that she died in a very fine horse-place.

  I watched. And as I watched, her ghost came out into the morning air. She shook her mane, grazed.

  I headed north with silvery horsehair on my cloak.

  I was twenty days on Rannoch Moor. The wind was less at night-time and so I travelled then, for the moon was waxing and gave light enough. I came to know bogs, in the dark. I used stones to cross them. I ate roots. Some stalks have a nectar in themselves that you suck upon, and this was enough for another fist of miles. But my cloak picked up branches and thorns, as I walked, and my body felt so tired from a year of north-and-west. I stood very still in high places. I crouched by lochs which were dimpled with rain, and heard their dimpling, felt it on the backs of my hands, and I thought I am meant to be here. I am meant to see this rain.

  I was done with roaming. By a rock with lichen on it I said I will walk for one more day. And where I am in one day’s time, I’ll stay. This was not a spell. It was just a tired soul speaking. I told this to the moor, but the moor already knew.

  You have been patient. How many days of my chatter have you sat with me for? And you never said on with it, Corrag or I am full. You will be glad of my next part I reckon—for it is my arriving. It is the proper start of it.

  Kind Mr Leslie with your goose-wing quill.

  Listen. I came to the glen on a full-moon night when the mare was gone. There was still magick in the world, and still wolves in lonesome places. The Covenanters were nearly done with, and William was newly-kinged and making his wheezy Prot
estant noise, and Jacobite was an infant word still wet from its hard birth. Men I loved were still living, as were men I did not love. I’d not yet breathed a stag’s breath in. I thought I was wise when no, I was far from it.

  I came like the queen of rain and wind, of tiredness, with a skirt so mud-hung that I was twice as heavy. I dragged branches behind me with moss and spiders on. These spiders had made their cobwebs in my hair at night, so moths were caught in them. My hair was wings and whiteness, and I felt their legs upon my face as I walked. I wore thistles on my hem, and held some. My bodice creaked with frost and mud. It was no pretty creature that fell into the glen.

  BUT I did fall into it. And I stood in Glencoe and thought this is the place.

  Is it not the name you’ve been asking for, all these nights?

  Glencoe, Corrag! Speak of Glencoe…It is Glencoe I am after…

  And I will speak of it. I am speaking of it now.

  THIS is the place. I was certain. For the heart knows its home when it finds it, and on finding it, stays there.

  My dear Jane,

  This note will be briefer than my last to you. It must be—for the clock says it is far later than I would like. The fault is mine, for having left the tollbooth I did not return immediately to my room. I was thoughtful, and I walked, and found myself in the town’s square. It is where they will burn the prisoner, when the thaw begins, and I looked upon the timber that gathers there. They have tried to cover it with cloth, for the snow still falls. There was also a notice nailed to a post which said witch and trial by fire. There is no date—it merely speaks of the first clear day, and less snow.