Corrag

by Susan Fletcher

  What fine lodgings, he had. If I had ever doubted there was money in the Campbell name, they were cast aside by his parlour which was finer than any I’ve seen in Edinburgh. A huge fire, Jane! I might have roasted a pig upon it, and it cast a pleasing glow upon the glass and wooden walls. He offered me a whisky, which I graciously declined—for the drink can souse a man’s wit, and I need all that I have, I think. He poured himself a glass—but I will say that neither the dram nor the fire put any colour in his cheeks. He was ghostly-pale.

  How may I help you? he asked.

  I gave my false name and false purpose (God forgive these lies—but they are spoken in His name and for the sake of the nation). I gave a lengthy account of my wish to rid the world of the unfaithful, of heretics and heathens, and that it is God’s path for me. I was earnest, of course. I am not without a little cunning of my own, and I said that I had heard of his own pious nature—that I was assured of his most courteous help.

  Indeed, he said. I will help where I can. We can all hope for a civilised world.

  I noted, at this moment, that he finished his whisky and poured a second one.

  Might I ask, sir, on Glencoe?

  Well, Jane—I saw him wince. Indeed, wince is too mild a word—he grimaced, he bent at the waist as if the glen was a blow to him. He swallowed, straightened himself. If it is darkness you wish to rid us of, it is a shame you were not here a month before.

  I hear there was a massacre, there. By the King’s men?

  He eyed me. His face, then, softened. Aye—I cannot hope to think that those deaths will not be spoken of—such as they were…Brutal business. No creature deserves an ambush of such a kind…What can warrant it?

  I asked about the oath.

  Oath? He nodded. He drank the whole glass in one mouthful. Oh they came. He came—the MacIain. He came to swear allegiance to William, as decreed. I had him here—here! Where you sit now! Poor man…He’d been through mile after mile of wretched weather, and he’d barely eaten, and he was not young, sir. Not young.

  He was late, I hear?

  He was. He went to Inverlochy on New Year’s Eve. I was bad-tempered with him, Mr Griffin. I scolded him—I said, “why Inverlochy?” It’s well-known that Colonel Hill at the fort is a friend of the Highlanders, and tries his best by them—but he could not accept the oath! It had to be myself, sir! My task and mine alone! And yet the MacIain rode north…He filled his glass again. He looked into the whisky, rocked it in his glass. For all my life, sir, I will never forget how he looked as he stood here, in this room. Snow on his shoulders. Tears—

  Tears? The MacIain cried?

  Ardkinglas nodded. He begged me. To accept the oath—no matter of lateness. He said, “the snow has hindered me! But my people and I are the King’s servants now.” He begged. It was a sight—a man of such stature and fierceness, a man of such reputation, weeping before me.

  You accepted his oath?

  Aye. I did. We shook hands, and he departed—thinking he was safe. That his clan—he swallowed—was safe…

  Why weren’t they safe? If you accepted their oath? Surely a little lateness might be forgiven…

  Ardkinglas said I think they saw their chance. To rid the world of the Glencoe men.

  They?

  But he spoke no more on it.

  It surprised me—to hear of the MacIain’s sentiments. Tears? From a warrior? But as Corrag would assure me, we are all human, and can feel all human things. He loved his people, I am aware of that. He was a man of humour, also, from Corrag’s tales of him.

  I will suggest that Ardkinglas did not drink as he does, before Glencoe. I’ll suggest he was never this pale.

  On leaving, I said Sir, forgive this impertinence. But the prisoner? The witch? Must she be burnt? It feels as merciless and uncivilised an act as any Highland war. Might she not be spared her death? Or hung, at least?

  He nodded. I know. I’ve heard no proper case against her, sir. But I do not keep her there.

  Are you not sheriff?

  I am. But do you know a man called Stair? he asked. The Master of Stair? John Dalrymple? The witch is imprisoned by his orders. It is he who orders her death—and I do his bidding, as he does the King’s…

  So she must be burnt?

  She must. He took a mouthful of whisky, swallowed. As if we’ve not seen enough blood…

  At least, Jane, I tried. I have done my best to save her. I asked the sheriff for her life—what more can I do?

  Write to me again? Of small, daily things. Of the flowers that you put in vases, and where these vases are. In the drawing room? Or the table in the hall? But I am foolish—for what flowers might there be, at this time? It does not snow with you, you say, but it is still cold and unkindly. The bulbs are still tight in the earth.

  Write of your tapestries. Of how our sons sound as they eat their suppers, in a line, like they do. Write of your nightly toilette. Of what you think, before blowing out the light.

  C.

  VI

  “They say a wounded man that eats mint, his wound will never be cured, and that is a long day.”

  of Mint

  When we have no skies, we think of the skies we did have, once.

  I know this, because I have no sky in here. It is stones, and damp; it is a broken cobweb no legs are left to mend. So I think of my old skies. Of the best skies I have seen—by which I don’t mean only blue ones, or summer ones with clouds all blown away. They are good. But they are not the ones I think of, in my chains.

  I think of Scottish skies, always. I saw some sovereign sunrises in my first, English life but I was young, and did not gaze upon them like the heart-stirred woman does. In Scotland, I was heart-stirred. I had wiser eyes, and a need, and it was as I rode north on my mare that I looked up and stared, for the first time. In the betwixt-and-between times, we would see such skies that I thought they were a gift—that they were a promise of some kind, in airy form. We trod through a wet, Lowland mist to find a red sun, rising on a marshy land. A red and dark-grey morning. I can see it now.

  Or the split sky of Rannoch. Rain had been and gone, and its last clouds were broken by a thick ray of sun which slanted down onto its lochs. It made the lochs silver-bright, in places. I watched. I thought keep this—as if I knew I would have no sky to gaze upon, one day.

  The blustery glen sky.

  How a hundred thousand stars were flung across the dark.

  And I think of the sunset that we saw from the Pap—Alasdair and I. I did not look at him, but I knew his face was lit by it. I knew the light was red, that it was in our hair and that if I was to turn, and look, he would glow, and if he was to look at me I would also be glowing, and my eyes would be bright. I thought look at me. Turn—for now, very briefly, I am pretty. I rarely am—but I am at this moment. Standing by you. But we both had our sight on the sunset. The line of the sky was gold, and red.

  He said the western isles are out there, somewhere. My ancestors’ land.

  I remember.

  HEAR the drip…drip…?

  It gets worse. It gets louder. I reckon the market place is truly thawing now. The snow will be coming down off the ropes, the barrels, the stake, the wood.

  Not long said the gaoler. He is drunk today. He slipped by my door, and fell, and cursed. I’ve heard some cursing but his was the worst of all. He said some dire things on God—and I am glad you weren’t here for it.

  Which is worse? To blaspheme, or to plot against the King?

  Is witch a worse word than Jacobite?

  I don’t know. It’s your kind, sir, that William hates and wants to rid his nation of, but it’s me they’ll take for burning.

  Those MacDonalds. Their cause, which is your cause. What will happen, with Jacobite? Will James ever sail back, and be king? The future will tell us. It knows. One day—in a hundred years, or two hundred, or three—people will say Jacobite and know what it meant, know what it caused. They’ll know how it ended—if it ended at all.

 
We’ll be gone by then. You and I.

  I will be gone sooner, of course.

  Politics hummed like the bees did, in June. It was in the air, and I heard it—whispered on the river-bank, or called out on the braes. The word Achallader thrummed, so that even my stag shook his head, and stayed away from me. I spied him, on the tops. He had lost his branches, but I still knew it was him. He stood very still, with one hoof up.

  I didn’t know that word. I was too busy to—for I had quite a farm by then. I had seven hens, for one of my girls had passed by a cockerel and that was that. Three of the eggs did not hatch. But five did, and at first they were yellow, scurrying chicks which threw themselves under their mother’s behind when a cow trod by. But they grew. They did their own scratching in the dirt, and laid their own eggs. They all roosted in the hazel tree, in those long summer nights.

  And I had my goats, by then. I was given two goats by the man at Inverrigan, in the woods by the bend in the Coe. They were a gift—for I had been on toes’ tips at a bee’s nest, being gentle with a stick, when I heard a boy calling out my name. Corrag! Corrag! He tugged at my sleeve, spoke Gaelic. When I shrugged, said I don’t speak Gaelic, he flapped his hands, then pointed at his tooth—so I knew. I took lovage to Inverrigan. His father was lying down, and I’ve seen some blackened teeth in my time, and smelt some putrid breath, but none so black or putrid as his. I winced at it. He winced as I prodded his gums. But he winced even more when I plucked the peg out for there was no cure for a tooth like that. I packed lovage about the hole, and picked about with my nails. He was sore, after. But within two days I had two goats dozing by the hut, resting their heads on each other’s backs, and I knew they were a thank you—that the man at Inverrigan was eating his meat again. Also, I had honey—for the boy found me again at the bee’s nest, and showed me how to steal it without hurting the bees.

  He dipped in his finger, sucked it, beamed at me.

  SO I had hens and goats, and a stag. Cobwebs in the eaves. The owl outside was wild, but it hooted in the dark like it was mine. All those stolen cows.

  And in the long, warm weather I wandered more than I ever did. I set out early, and came back late. I went far to the north, where the greatest of all mountains was—snub-nosed, and mist-covered. I went south, to the sea. In the glen itself, I snagged through the buttercups, the knee-high grass, and when a stalk caught between my toes, and broke with my tread, I’d bend down and save that flower. I’d put it behind my ear, or take it to my hut. For why let it wilt upon the hill? So my hut, in summer months, had flowers in it—dried, or nearly-dried, and mostly yellow buttercups which shone like proper candles do, so I might sit beneath my thatch and pretend it was a palace, and how well my hall was, how finely it was lit with golden light.

  Buttercups, ragwort, sage. The early summer brings the sovereign healing herbs—which was good—because the MacDonalds were foraying more than they did before. Maybe the heat warmed up their blood. Or maybe it was the word Jacobite which boiled them up and made them roar—I don’t rightly know. But I had several wounds to heal, from blades. One of the bears could not fit in my hut, so I tended to him outside. The MacIain was with us. He bent over as I stitched the bear and said those stitches are smaller than the ones you gave me. Do you like him more? Or dislike me? And winked.

  He was also thieving, like he was never wounded. Six months or more, since the gash on his head which I’d sewn, by the fire, and as he mounted his garron before me he said what would you have me do? Let myself rot in a fireside chair? Not go to Achallader? I worried that my work would undo itself, as he rode, or that a fallen branch or casual blow would burst it all, and he’d die. But I’m a MacDonald. I’m from the line of Iain nam Fraoch who fought the Fionn… and I knew he’d not sit by the fire.

  So he went to a place called Achallader. I saw him go. Him, and his two sons, and a handful of men. Nine of them walked beneath me in the warm June sun, with insects in the air, and grass scent.

  But only eight walked back.

  Iain came for me. He spat into the bushes, breathed hard, said Hurry, he said. It is a bloody wound…

  It was. I came to it, and found more blood in the grass and on his clothes than was left in the man. I recognised his face. He had brown hair, and a clefted chin, and he’d raised his hand at me, once. He’d waved, and I had waved.

  Can you save him? Iain said.

  The wound was to his leg. A dirk had been twisted into the thin, bluish tissue behind his knee, and the vein had been undone. I grappled with cloth. I pressed rupture-wort as firmly as I could, and I tried, and tried. But his eyes were fixed on the sky. His breath was gone.

  I shook my head. No…

  I remember it. I remember how the women bathed the dead man in silence, how the water sounded as it moved in its bowl. Gently, they bandaged the place where he’d been cut. They closed his cold eyes. In the soft summer twilight they carried him out from the house by the loch, and the pipes lamented him, and torches were lit, and all the glen’s people went down to where the Coe met the sea. I wrapped my arms about myself. They laid MacPhail on a boat, and it moved out across the water. An island waited for him.

  He will be buried there, Alasdair said. On Eilean Munda. It is sacred ground, and for the best of our clan.

  I watched. The last of the light was spread out in the sky.

  As if he knew my mind he said, it was not war, Sassenach. Not a raid. He shifted. We were called to Achallader to meet with other chiefs, to talk with a Campbell…He offered money. Our allegiance to King William is worth a princely sum, it seems.

  A bribe.

  Aye. But we did not take it. And there was a brawl…

  I felt sad. I could not have saved him, I knew that. But I still felt a sadness which was deep, in my bones—deep, and with no words to it. All this loss.

  The piper stopped his tunes, and a breeze came in.

  We stood. Sarah trod neatly to us, with her hand on her belly. She kissed me twice, said there was nothing to be done, Corrag. We all saw the wound. Do not blame yourself.

  They asked me to go to their home, for bread. But how could I have done that? I was not that strong. I always thought my heart was strong, but it was not strong. I’d always thought I did not fight, that I was not a fighter—but maybe I’d always fought. I just fought in different ways. They went, and I waited into the darkness until the boat came back—the body gone, buried in the island’s salty earth.

  Achallader. Write it down. A man died from a wound, in that place. A bribe was thrown back, and dirk was pushed in. I don’t know much more on it, but that is enough—that speaks enough. It hastened the trouble that came from it.

  I grieved for him. For MacPhail.

  I did not know him. But we had raised our hands at each other, and I had been leaning over him as he died—I heard his last breath. I felt it, upon my cheek, and they say a man’s last breath is his truth, his soul.

  I sought the sea. There was a small comfort in it—in how it never ended, how there were other lands beyond it that I would never see. I tried to see the realm, like that. Like the dead people had only gone elsewhere, to a place I could not see—a place just over the sides of the earth, which is as real as the beach that I sat on. By Loch Leven, I thought this way. There were gulls, and white tips to the waves, and Eilean Munda looked back at me. I did not think of kings. I did not think of Catholics, or God, or Jacobites. I only thought of loss, and love. Of the lap lap of tides, and of his widow who had wailed as the boat came back without him. The sound of the water in its bowl.

  Sarah found me there.

  She lowered herself beside me, said—truly. You are not to blame.

  He waved, I said, at me. When the others just passed by and said nothing, he waved.

  I know. He was a good man. A heart as big as his body was—but you could not save him.

  I nodded. I knew this, deep down. Why is nothing simple? Or good? It never is.

  Sarah nodded. I know. It feels that way. But
it will pass, in time—it cannot be like this forever. And, she nudged me, this is not you talking. Don’t you see the good in every little thing? My husband says you do.

  We looked across the water. A gull called out from a weedy rock, and in the distance I could see the little ferryboat, moored for the evening. The sky was red, and grey, and light.

  ’Tis a fine place to be buried, she said. It has a small church on it. They say St Munda walked upon it, made it a sacred place. We bury the bravest souls on there. The beloved ones.

  I liked this. I smiled. It was a calm crossing for him.

  It was. That was the Lord accepting his death. They say that high waves and a bad crossing would mean the world was mourning, raging, and not wanting the person leave it behind. Two geese skimmed the water, and she watched them, and said, I am yet to see a stormy sea. The tenth MacIain was buried this way. The rain was so hard it broke stones—so Alasdair says. He saw it, as a boy.

  I don’t think we truly leave it, I said.

  Leave it?

  The world. Here. I whispered this. I don’t think we go too far away.

  Sarah smiled. There. That’s your proper voice speaking again. Alasdair told me you spoke such things. He loves how you speak—so do I.

  As we sat, we saw the herrings flash. We felt a small breeze, and we were two women, sitting side by side. I asked how are you? Both of you?

  She blew out a breath. Tender. Big. Ready. And, she added, tired of talk of kings…It’s all we have in our house. ’Tis all my husband talks of, or it feels so—wars, and James. Why talk it over as much as they do? I tell them this—but what good is my word? I’m only a woman…

  I gave a small sound as I smiled—not a laugh, but nearly. My mother said that if women did the politics there’d be more calm in the world.

  I’m with her, on that. And Sarah made a throaty sound, as she did so. These are difficult times, she said.