Lonesome? Me?
Never, and always. That was witch for you—that one word. When was I not a bit lonesome inside? I mostly was. Seeing true, natural beauty can lessen it, because sunsets and winter light can make you say inside you I am not alone—you feel it, through such beauty. But it can worsen it, also. When you want a person with you it can be a sore thing. Sometimes you see this beauty and think it is not as lovely as them.
And poor? You think I was poor, in Glencoe? Far from it. No pennies, no. But when did pennies make a person truly rich? Folk seem to fill their lives with favours or a title or two—as if these are the things which matter, like happiness lies in a coin or two. Like the natural world and our place in it is worth far less than a stuffed purse, or a word like earl or duke. Perhaps, for them, it is. But that’s not my way and never was. I was at my richest as I sat cross-legged amongst the last of the foxgloves, watching a plump-bodied bee live his life. He pushed up inside each flower so that his bottom peeped out, and his droning sound was muffled, and then he’d slowly creep back out with a louder hum, and powdered wings. From flower to flower, he went. I was watching him four hours, and I reckoned I was richer for that wandering bee than a fistful of gold could ever make me.
Poor? Not poor. Lonely? A small part.
STILL. There was magick in that place—I promise it.
I felt it everywhere. I felt it in each tiny thing I saw—each stone which shifted under my heels, or each raindrop. I had time, now. Time, until now, had been as thin and as scarce as a windblown web—fluttering by, very brief. My second life had been go! Go! And when had I had the time to lie on my belly and watch a snail make its way across a leaf, leaving its moonshine mark? Never. I was running too much. I was galloping over mud and wild land, with the mare snorting hard, and any slow times were spent with her—picking the nettles out of her tail. No snails. No hour upon hour in the rain, watching a leaf’s middle become a rain-bright pool.
I had never liked witch, and still don’t. But if ever I deserved the name at all, it was then, I reckon. It was having my hair fly in the wind as I stood on the tops, and how I crawled through the woods where the mushrooms grew. It was cloud-watching and stag-seeing, and spending long hours—full afternoons—by the waterfall that I’d bathed in, watching the autumn leaves fall down and make their way seaward. They bobbed and swirled. I said magick, one day. In the gully that led to my valley, I stopped. The wind was in the birches, and it felt they were speaking. If they were speaking, it was magick they said. Magick. Here.
I found it everywhere. I hauled myself onto the tops and sat upon them for hours, just looking—like a queen might look at her kingdom and think it is good. It was all very good. I learnt the glen’s shape, this way. I saw its long, thin nature, and how high its mountains were. In the west, if I squinted, I saw a shining sea. I learnt the glen’s colour, too—reddish-brown, with old ferns. Leaves were turning copper. Hours and hours were spent, just sitting there on the tops.
And coming home, one evening, I heard a distant roar. I stopped. I thought what is that? Not thunder. Not a drum. I looked up, to where the roar came from—and on a peak I saw a stag. He was bellowing. He was dark against the greyish sky, and I saw his wide branches, and how his breath steamed out. I thought is this a welcome? To me? Maybe not. But I chose to think it was, for the lonesome part in me had been stirred by sitting there, high up. My hair had blown across me. The loch had shone with dying light, and I’d wished another living thing might have seen it too. None had come. But here was a stag, looking so fine. He welcomes me, I thought. And he roared again, with cloudy breath.
I THINK, also, I healed. Those early Glencoe were days like no other days. As though I had found where I’d been looking for, for years and years, I felt myself soften and tend to myself. I think I had not grieved, till Glencoe, or be kind to myself. I don’t think I had sat down and thought of Cora, and truly allowed myself to be sad. I’d been so stern with myself—but amongst the brown ferns, and the air, and the goodness that is felt in clean, wild places I became more gentle, and remembered her. I cried for her there. I cried, too, for my mare.
All the things I loved were amongst me—rivers, rocks. Creatures. Wind sounds. And I was grateful for them. I was grateful, for amongst them I could mend the wounds inside—the losses, the sorrow. My soul, where it was bruised, could be fed and cared for in my hut, on the peaks—and who does that? Which people take the time to care for their souls, these days? I reckon not many. But Mr Leslie, hear this: I think that maybe in our lives—in our scrabbling for food, in the washing of our bodies and warming of them, in our small daily battles—we can forget our souls. We do not tend to them, as if they matter less. But I don’t think they matter less.
Still. What stays the same? What does not change?
I had been in the glen for a month, no more. And in came a brown-coloured day. I remember it—the leaves blowing off, and the ferns turning soft, and a deep autumn-red. Most don’t like such days—their damp air, and their brownness. But I never minded them. Why should we mind them? The birds liked the pools they made in fallen trees, and they make for greener grass in the months that follow them. They make silvered parts in cobwebs. Mist is a thing I’ll miss, when I am dead—walking through it, smelling it.
I went walking. I wanted berries, and a day on damp, autumn hills. And I thought I might see the stag again, or more stags, or an eagle or two.
I saw none of these.
But I saw houses.
Houses came. Or I came to them—for as I was wandering west, along the top, I paused, looked down. Chimney smoke. It rose up very steadily. It was black, in the half-light, and I sank down onto my heels and stared. Of course. How could I be surprised? I reasoned that a glen of such clean, fast water, and with cattle grazing in it, and berries inking up on bushes must have people in it. Others must have found this glen and thought yes. Here.
And there they were. A single house, by the loch. I sucked my bottom lip, thought one house is not so bad. But when I sighed, and looked west towards the sea where the sun was going down, I saw more—more chimneys, more small, low houses with no windows. Many more.
People. Which meant trouble.
It worried me. It kept me awake, picking my thumbs. I searched my head for all the old words I had heard about the Gaelic folk—and I searched for good things, not bad. But what good had I heard? They are barbarous… Not much.
There is no devil, said Cora. Only man’s devilish ways.
And I sniffed. I thought that doesn’t help. But by my fireside, with an owl calling outside, I also thought Cora would not be afraid of them. She’d be as she is. She’d not fear them at all. She would go down. She’d peer through their doors and not care if they saw her. She’d throw back her hair. Swing her red skirts. I told the cows this, and they listened. Am I not her daughter? I said. And they stared.
So at dawn, I crept down. I passed through the boulder, and went down to the glen. I scurried to the lone house by the loch, and eyed it from a birch tree. I heard no talking. I heard no footsteps. But I heard a man snoring, very thickly. Also, a dog yawned—the quick, high whine, and I heard it flap its ears. So I stepped a little closer. I breathed in the smells of the place—peat, wet wool, meat, the dog, unclean people. I smelt chickens, too, and when I was so close to the house that I could touch its walls, I heard the cluck of a roosting hen. There she was, in the thatch. Her eyes had the milky film on them that hens’ eyes have, when they’re sleeping, and I thought when did I last have an egg? Very quietly I reached up to her. I slipped my hand beneath her feathers, and felt a firm warmth. I clutched it, pulled. She broke into a squawking, and the dog woke up, and I ran.
I ran and ran, with my hair flying. I ran, and I cooked the egg up, and I curled up on my deer’s hide and pulled my knees to my chest. I felt so close to something. But what? I didn’t know.
Theft? No! I have never thieved.
I went back to that house in the evening and left herbs there. I
left a little oak there, for if it is burnt and its vapours are breathed in, they can help the snoring. I put it under the hen. Maybe, I thought, the wife would check for eggs and think our hen is laying herbs, now? And maybe she’d prize the herb above a hundred eggs, if it meant her man stopped snoring, and she could sleep better. I hoped so. I liked that thought.
I became a bolder creature. Knowing the rocks, and the best hand-holds, and the animal sounds made me bold. Knowing the homes, the herbs, the views. Where the best sitting places were.
I had took more than an egg, I confess. I’d lifted a pot from a house, one night—a house to the western end. In trees, I’d found some houses which were nicely done—with a window or two, and a cleaner smell. And I’d peeped through a door, and seen a dozen pots in there. They had so many pots, and I longed for just one. I left all-heal for them—which is a fair exchange. Does its name not say what a virtuous herb it is? And now I was eating mushrooms and blackberries, and boiling up roots, and warming milk, and I’d made a good stew from a rabbit or two. I had a little belly from it all. I prodded it, when I bathed—a new shape, and softness.
I had also found a rock below the northern ridge which I liked. It was small, and on its own. When I sat against it, it fitted the shape of my back, and there was such a view from it that I could look for hours. Autumn was rich, and wild. And it was as I sat there, with my hood pulled up, that I saw people.
At last.
Men. Three of them—moving in a line along the river’s edge. I kept very still. I did not take my eyes off them. Sometimes they went behind trees, but not for long. Three men in colours that were like the hillside—earthy, damp-coloured. They had belts which flashed, and I thought, too, they move fast. Faster than I ever did.
I thought where are they going?
Then I thought I know where.
They turned, and made their way between the two hills. They went up into the gully which led to my valley, so that I said to my rock, and the air, no…
I ran.
I did not want them finding my home and ruining it, tugging at its walls or burning its roof. I did not want them spying on me, with my herbs and small fire. How I’d laid out my treasures in a corner of my hut—a pebble like an egg, the mare’s thrown shoe, an owl feather, my few coins. My basket of berries was in there, and what if they ate them? They had been a whole day’s picking. I ran with my skirts tucked into their top.
I was afraid, yes. But not of them. Not of these men being savage or cruel like the soldiers had been, for I think I knew they were not. I was afraid of them making me leave where I’d found, of my home being lost, and where would I go? I was tired of wandering on, and on. My mare was dead, my heart was tired, and I had walked into the glen thinking here is the place, here is where I’m meant to be. I did not want to leave. I liked my rock. I liked how I could sit by my hut, in its doorway, and see the deer on the slopes. I liked the stars. The taste of its water when I cupped my hands, and drank. I did not want to leave it.
I ran thinking no. I would not go.
I saw their footprints as I ran up the gully to my hut.
I came into the valley and saw them, standing there. Outside my home. One was walking round it, testing its walls with the heel of his hand. A man with a beard like a fox’s brush was dipping his head, looking in.
My skirt rustled as I walked across to them. They turned and watched me come. My heart quivered, then, for they were huge men—three huge men, and I remembered the soldier’s hand on my ankle and how he said hush now…
The man with the orange beard spoke to me. But not in English. He spoke in the Highland tongue—so that it was babbling in my ear.
I stared. Blinked.
We all looked upon each other. They spoke between themselves.
He turned to me again and said who are you? Where are you from?
You speak English? I had the thought that none did, in these parts.
He tilted his head at my voice, like how birds listen for worms. From the Lowlands?
No. Thorneyburnbank. Near Hexham.
England?
Yes.
He turned, spoke in Gaelic again. The other two men were much older than him—grizzled, broad men, like when wood is left out in the seasons. They had that weathered look. Years of squinting in sun, and snow, and rain. I have never seen bears, but I have seen them in my head. These men were like bears, I reckoned. Hands like paws.
My heart was beating fast and very hard.
There’s been talk of you, he said.
Of me?
Of a black-haired faery stealing pots and eggs from our tacksmen. Of some half-woman, half-child skinning a hind freshly killed by my cousin—he needed that hide, and would have set upon you if he’d known you were human. Our cows have less milk, since you chose to milk them. You’ve built this—he kicked the wall of my house—on our land, in a place no-one knows of but us, and now we find you’re English.
A bear said Sassenach…
I saw myself, then. I saw myself as they saw me—a tiny, snag-haired thieving thing, with a hovel made of cow-dung and fish drying in its eaves. I saw my dirty hands. I thought what to say—but what could I say? I knew they thought witch. I knew that I could lie, but lies unpick themselves and that’s some cleaning up. There have been too many lies.
I have come north to be safer, I said. To have a quiet life. To make a home here. I tried a half-smile. I mean no harm.
They watched me. They muttered Gaelic amongst themselves, and I waited. Speaking with the cows had been a simpler thing.
A safer life? Here?
I’ve seen trouble before. I’ve had a life of trouble in the south, with witch being said and stones thrown at me. I shrugged. I was told north-and-west, so I came here…
The tallest and greyest bear snapped out Gaelic words. These older ones spoke no English, I reckoned—only the red-haired one did. He spoke over his shoulder to them, with his eyes on me.
Witch? We have enough of them.
Like the cattle, we shifted on our feet.
You have plants in there. In your house.
Yes.
Herbs?
I nodded.
He thought on this, for a while. He looked up at the clouds. He talked in that watery language to his friends, who said it back. And then, in a voice which sounded like he had had enough of me, and better ones to speak to, he said take less milk—there’s one of you and far more than one of us. And herbs to eggs is no fair trading—not from a man whose hens are old, and lay less and less each week. He thumbed my roof like it was poorly made, or very well-made—I was not sure which. Give us no bother and we’ll give none back.
I agreed. I said I’d drink less milk—I had just been very hungry, but not now.
They turned to go. But the red-headed man said your name?
Corrag.
What?
Corrag.
Your full name?
It is just Corrag. I have no other name, for I never had a father.
He considered this. I’m Iain MacDonald—and I do have a father, and he’s the chief of our clan. This is our tacksman of Achtriochtan whose eggs you’ve garnered, and this is Old Man Inverrigan—it’s his wife’s pot I see sitting on your fire. No more thieving, Sassenach. If it’s the quiet life you truly want, we’ll not meet again.
And they walked away from me.
I thought MacDonald? I felt my belly tighten. I think my eyes widened like how water does when a stone’s thrown in, and I pushed myself onto my toes and called after them where is here? Its name?
As they were about to drop away from view, Iain MacDonald with his beard like a fox-brush and his shrewd eyes called back, Glen of Coe. And your roof won’t last the winter.
Then they were gone. All that was left was their footprints, and their smell which was how most of them smelt, for what else was there? To smell of? Wet wool, and cows, and peat-smoke, and sweat.
The owl called its name, after this. The stream which came down the
mountainside by my hut said Coe… all the time. The wind in the trees and the rough, sudden flap of a hare’s hind leg on its ear, scratching it, which I heard one dusk by the birch trees said Glen of Coe Glen of Coe. I heard it in the stag, when he roared from his rock above my hut—Coe, he said. His breath steamed, as he roared.
Fear?
No. I have felt it. I’ve known fear very well—like when the drunken man grappled me, or when I knew my mother’s feet were treading the air, turning, and then growing still. But I was not afraid of Glencoe.
I spoke of it to my hearth. I whispered it—Glen of Coe.
I’ve heard fate talked of. It’s not a word I use. I think we make our own choices. I think how we live our lives is our own doing, and we cannot fully hope on dreams and stars. But dreams and stars can guide us, perhaps. And the heart’s voice is a strong one. Always is.
Listen to it, is my advice. If I give no more of it, take this as all I have to say on life, and how to live it (for is my life not nearly done?). Your heart’s voice is your true voice. It is easy to ignore it, for sometimes it says what we’d rather it did not—and it is so hard to risk the things we have. But what life are we living, if we don’t live by our hearts? Not a true one. And the person living it is not the true you.
That’s just my way of thinking. Not many think this way.
IS IT late? Yes.
It’s so dark I barely see you. Just your white wig and your goose-wing quill.
Darling Jane
She talks of gifts—of the world being rich with them, and we must know them when we see them. For her, it was a waterfall and a valley hidden from view. Jane, I feel a gift has come to me. He is the blacksmith, with a beard as thick as the seaweed on this coast, and just as long. He, like all I have met in this town, is genial, and good at his work—but as he stood in his apron with the sparks about him, I thought I had found a man with a little sadness to him. When I mentioned Glencoe and its murders, he shook his head in a melancholy way.
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