Corrag

by Susan Fletcher

  But you will give birth soon enough.

  She shook her head. Not the child—I do not mean the child. They are difficult times for all of us. They are difficult times for the Highlands, and for all men who are faithful to James. Alasdair is troubled. He says less and thinks more. Sometimes he does not sleep, and goes walking with his thoughts. He doubts his cause, I think, and what can I tell him? Me? I was the enemy once.

  I frowned, and she saw this.

  Campbell, she said. I was one. I was raised in the south.

  I stared. You are a Campbell?

  Was. By birth. My father is an Argyll man whom the MacIain always hated—and truly, my father always hated him. So it was. But neither man’s a fool and they tried to make an alliance. We were the alliance—Alasdair and I.

  I blinked. It was politics?

  She laughed. That word! See? We are plagued by it! Not politics—but nor did we marry for affection. We had none at first. I thought him too hasty. I thought he was a wanderer by heart when I am not—and far too blood-hungry! Always with a blade…But love has come by us, in its way.

  I thought Campbell. When all I had heard in this glen about the Campbell men was unkind, or resentful. Mistrustful. Sarah was one, or had been. She kissed me, when we met, and had said how are you?—like the answer mattered to her.

  A cloud’s shadow moved over us—dark, and light.

  Do you not miss home? I asked.

  The people, perhaps. But home is where I am now—with Alasdair, and this one inside me. I was a Campbell by birth, but I’m a MacDonald now. I don’t know if she felt my quietness. I think I hide my feelings well, but perhaps I don’t. She tilted her head lower, as if to catch my gaze, and said, not all the people here are Glencoe born.

  No?

  No! Plenty are not.

  Are they not all called MacDonald?

  She nodded. They are, mostly. But if you serve a clan, and love them, and walk under their flag, then you may take on their name. So it works. If a soul is willing to fight for MacDonalds, then they are one of them. She eyed me. See?

  I saw.

  MacPhail? Whose bones are out on that island? He’s not a MacDonald by birth, nor is his from these parts. But the Highland way says it’s who you say you love, and who you serve, which is of worth. Not some title that is passed down upon you by tradition. That’s the English way, and the Lowland way—but who can be born a nobleman? Nobility is earned. She stroked her belly. ’Tis our choices that make us, I say.

  SHE was kind. She was wise, and good. She had never feared witch in all her days, and told me so. Sarah took my hand, placed it on her belly and I felt her child move—his child, moving—and it was like how dreams flinch beneath us. They turn and press themselves against our skin, so that we feel them, and how can we control them? Our dreams have their own heartbeats. Our wishes do.

  I wanted to say, please forgive me. I think of your husband all the time. I wish I did not, but I do. But I did not say this.

  Instead, she spoke. Corrag? We stood. We were ready to leave each other, to go back to our homes, when she said will you attend me? When the birth comes? I should like you there.

  I stared. I said me?

  Aye. With your herbs, and calm. They call you a curewife, did you know that?

  I didn’t know that. It was another name to tie to myself, and carry. I said yes. Yes, I will be with you. And I was happy that he had such a brightly-lit woman, such a generous one, for he deserved no less than that, and I was glad she had a man who could see the beauty of an eggshell, and carry it in his pocket, for she deserved such a man.

  It is a good match. The right match.

  I told myself these things. Made myself hum a tune as I wandered back through the thick-heat, the insects, the rumbling skies.

  Death and a coming birth. The two together, in one day—but that is life, I reckon. Starts and ends, and the rest of us are living between them both, living as best we can. Living a life of peace and contentment, if we can, before our death comes for us and says it is time, now.

  Mine comes. I’ve always known it would, for I’m not like many people, but I am still a person and my body won’t always last.

  The eggshell he gave me, and pressed into my hand? I think a death’s like that—a broken body with the best part out, and free. I knelt over MacPhail. I saw the grey hair in his eyebrows, his teeth, his cleft chin, and I felt his last breath on me—warm, and tired, and wise. And his widow, later, wept with her fist against her heart. He is gone is what she said. But as she passed me, a week later, I whispered may I speak? He is not gone. He’s not.

  Here is what Cora taught me, and the mare’s soft death, and the bones I’d find in the bogs, and here is what the mouse in the claws of an owl cried out, as it was lifted up, up. That we may fear the manner of death. We may fear the pain, and I do—so much. But the word death is like elsewhere—it is some other place, where others are.

  At the very least, sir, there is this truth—that there will always be the signs that a life was lived. Children, tales, words they said. Places they named. Marks they left in dust, or on bark. People they loved, and told so.

  I KNOW all this is true. I believe it fully, and remember it. I will always be with you said Cora. And so when I die, I will always be in Glencoe—for there is nowhere in this world I have loved as much as there.

  But all the same, I am sad. I fear the burning, and I am sad—for the realm may be waiting, and it may be fine, and quiet, but I will miss Alasdair. I will miss the earthy, little things. I will be so sorry to leave.

  In the days after MacPhail died, Alasdair came to my hut and said how are you? to me. He searched my face for the answer. He stayed for a while, and we spoke about the world—how we saw it, him and I. I told him of the mare, of England, and wild skies. Of my mother’s hanging. He told me stories as old as his clan, and drew a map on my hand of the western isles, and when he stood to leave he said how do you live with it all? So much hardship has come by you.

  I smiled. Others have had worse.

  Some. But most have far better. Most do not live alone, as you do.

  I knew this. And I said, I’ve had my sorrowful days. My lonesome ones. Sometimes I wonder how the world can turn, with such loss in it. I shrugged. But there is beauty, too. Plenty.

  He stared. He said, there is no-one like you.

  There must be.

  No.

  And he went. He went, and I climbed up onto the tops to watch him go—into the gully, along the glen floor. It rained, so that my hair flattened down, and my clothes grew wet, and as I watched from the peaks my head said go now, get indoors—but my body did not want to move. It was like two creatures—the head being the master, leading the heart away when the heart is not done yet with the mountains, or the rain. Go now. Go.

  YES I will miss him. More than all other things.

  Jane

  She has no politic sense. She can talk of herbs or instinct—but ask her of kings and she sulks, shakes her head. She does not understand it, nor cares for it, and she has a manner of pouting behind her mane of hair which is childlike, and gives her a very innocent air.

  She is both child and woman, Jane. In size and form, she is girlish—when I hear that the Glencoe men called her a faery, of some kind, I can almost believe it, for she is uncommon in appearance and might be thought of as a trick of the mind, or a strangeness of light. She is quick, in her movements. She has a habit of tugging her toes, and feeling the skin between them, and this reminds me of all our boys when they were very small—playing with their own bodies as if they’d never seen them before. There is also, of course, her voice. It is how a faery would speak, if they lived—high, shrill.

  But Jane, there is no denying that the life this creature has lived—the treatment she has endured (and still endures) and the feelings she has harboured—are far from childlike. I know few people who have undergone such a solitary life, and one of such suffering. Moreover, I believe she is in love. I hear he
r, sometimes, as I walk up to her cell. In the dark, I hear her whispering, and it is his name she speaks over and over. Alasdair, she says—in the breathy, high voice of hers.

  How he felt—or feels—about her is beyond my knowing, this far. He was a married man, and therefore I hope he adhered and respected God’s laws, and his own vows (although who can say what is respected, in Highland parts?). But I will say this to you, Jane—that for all her smell and strangeness, I suspect she could incite strong feelings in a man. I have them—I do, as a father does. I recognise them—for when I see her raw wrists which the shackles have given her it brings to mind the cut knees, the bloodied noses and the grazed hands of our little ones, as they learnt to walk or ran too fast. I wanted to kneel down to them, each time—and so it is with her. I want to soothe her, as a father does. But might she have stirred up more, in Alasdair? It is hard to say. She is like no other soul I’ve met.

  I have written to this Dalrymple, Master of Stair. I asked him to think upon his conscience. I wrote, too much blood has been shed.

  So I wait. There are a mere five days for my letter to reach him in Edinburgh, and for him to reply. But greater feats have come to pass, in this world—such as us. You and I. Are we not a great work? A blessing?

  How I wish you were here. The snow softens, the birds sing a little more.

  Charles

  VII

  “It is as gentle as Venus herself.”

  of Peach

  What I would give to be back there. To be there, and not here.

  When I pushed my hands into the sand, I’d have the sand beneath my nails for days, or weeks—and I wish for sand, now. I have an old scar, from this time. Here—see? I caught a thorn on the Keep-Me-Safe. I was running, and it tore me, and I bled through two leaves of dock. It is moon-white, now. I have healed. But I wish the wound was fresh again, and bleeding, and red, for this would mean I was back in Glencoe, and unchained, and it would mean he was still near enough to be seen—on peaks, or by water. Or in the corn—for they harvested it, and I saw him. The kiss had not happened, and was still to come.

  My eyes will never see him, Mr Leslie. Not again.

  I know I talked of what we leave behind—and of not fearing death. But last night, I wanted him with me—I wanted his face to be here, by my face, and for him to teach me those Gaelic names. Aonach Dubh. Coire Gabhail. Missing him is like water—it comes in waves. It rushes in upon me so that I’m soaked with it. It is like being grabbed. It leaves me gasping like how the herring did, in their nets. Just now, I felt it. Just now.

  You were pressing a penny into the gaoler’s hand, in the corridor—I heard it. I heard him grunt. And it rushed in, then. Fear rushed in, grabbed me by the neck so that I could not breathe, and I thought I want to see Alasdair, and I do not want to die, and I cried—I gave a sob—and look. I still have my tears coming down. Still a torn voice, like rags.

  Sit near me?

  Give me a while to wipe my face, and be steady.

  What a poor welcome for you. A filthy crying thing with no cloth to clean herself. You deserve a little better than that.

  WHAT were my last words? A man had breathed his last breath. MacDonald was a name to be earned. His child rolled beneath a freckled skin.

  I could not sleep in those nights. Those were the summer nights which did not feel like night. There was too much light—too much grey and pale-yellow and deep-blue in the sky, too much silver on the lochs. I called them half-nights. I called them this, for what else could they be? I could see my own hand, in them. I could lie in my hut with a ghost-blue light outside, and not sleep for it—so I would wrap my arms about myself, tuck up against my knees. In my knees, I found a darkness.

  Yes, sir. Half-nights. And if I still could not sleep, I would take myself high up to the northern ridge and sit, and smell the damp, earth-clean smell of summer nights, and dew, and feel the slight breeze, and watch the strange half-light upon the rocks, and trees. I thought of the clan, sleeping. I thought of my goats, curled up. Or half-dressed, I lay in burns—with their water coming down on. I felt the world turn, and time pass by. I took myself up the Dark Mount, on such a night—very quietly, testing each stone before I trod on it. On its peak, the women were sleeping. They lay about like children—neatly, and on their sides, with their mouths open. I heard them breathe. I saw how truly human they were—their knotted hair, their dirty hands. Doideag’s feet were wrapped in her shawl so I thought her feet get cold at night, and I felt so sorry for them, then. What lives had they had? What life was this?

  I walked and walked at night.

  And once, Mr Leslie—just once—as I crouched on the ridge as the nights drew in, and an autumn air blew in, I saw a green light. It was frail, and very faint. As a moth’s wing does, it fluttered where the earth met the far sky, and I looked at it, and looked, and wondered if I dreamt it. It was like no other thing. I said Cora? For I thought of her. I thought it was a trick of hers, perhaps. Or I thought of her sitting, on that cool half-lit ridge beside me, her hair drifting as mine drifted, and watching this green light. I asked her, what is it? This northern light? But she could not answer. She was in the realm.

  The MacIain spoke of it. Once, by his hearth, he spoke of this green light—so I knew it was real, and seen by other folk. He said God was with the Glencoe tribe, and with all Highland men, and this was His word to be seen, in the sky—a gold-green breath, a moving light. See it, and be mindful. Of God’s power.

  So he said.

  Me? I was mindful when I saw it. I was mindful of all my fortune, all my special days. I nestled there, and knew that to see such light, to see any strange and secret beauty is a gift, softly given. I reckon there is beauty in knowing this, as well. I am not much, sir—but I felt very beautiful sitting on the ridge, with the night breeze shifting and that greenish, northern light. I felt wise. Blessed.

  I thought Cora, briefly.

  But mostly, I thought him. Him.

  LATE summer. The goats, like me, couldn’t sleep. Their tails thumped the dry floor, and I felt the draught from them. I heard their tails, and I heard my name.

  It was Iain, and I knew what this meant. Corrag.

  I said, yes.

  We hurried. Maybe that was the fastest I’d ever moved without my mare—the ground was quick beneath me, and I did not slip or slide or worry I might. His plaid snapped back on himself as he ran, and we ran through the shadows, between the walls of rock.

  Their house in Carnoch was hot, and low-roofed. The room was dark with peat-smoke, and people—and I said where is Sarah? Alasdair was there. He stood by a cloth that hung from the thatch to the floor, and he came to me, said the child will not come…

  The child will, I told him.

  Sarah was lying on her back in her shift, and was whimpering under her breath. I pushed the men out. I was sharp with them, said I want you gone even to Alasdair. I pushed them back towards the door and pulled the cloth back down to give Sarah some secrecy. It was only her, me and Lady Glencoe with her white cap there. This was a woman’s place now like all birthing chambers should be.

  Sarah, I said, let me look.

  I tended to her. I took out my herbs and moved through them, and said to Lady Glencoe will you burn this? Or put this in water. Make her drink. And we moved together, we moved easily, and she brought in more candles which I laid by Sarah’s feet, and her waist. Sarah let out a wail. She was wide, and sore-looking, and I said I will help you. I promise I will.

  Lady Glencoe asked me, have you been at a birth before?

  Once. A dog’s.

  A dog’s?

  I glanced at her. It is enough. You are here, and I am. We will help her.

  A dog’s?

  Lady Glencoe was a good nurse—how she took the herbs I asked for, ground them or watered them as I asked her to without saying a word at all. She pressed poppy onto Sarah’s gums for the pain, and we together washed her parts. She burnt lavender in the candles so their smell cleansed the room and
might make the mother some calmer. Rub her belly softly I said, which she did. And I said you must try to push now, Sarah—for inside her, I could see a little chick-wet head. It was dark-coloured, and bloodied. She pushed very bravely. She pushed and I said that’s it and Lady Glencoe stroked her hair and whispered in her ear and poor Sarah wailed more than I ever had in all my life—such a despairing wail too like she was done with it all, this breath was all she had left in it. I said push, and I felt sorry to see all that blood, but the baby must come out. And then, it was there! There it was, the head, and I could see a little ear, and I called out I can see the head, Sarah! You must push again to which she said I can’t and both Lady Glencoe and I said you can so she took in a huge breath and cried and this push was silent, with her jaw clenched tight and she raised her head up so I saw how damp and pale she was, like she was cold but I knew she was burning hot and I put my hands about the tiny wet-haired head and whispered push and then out it came, pup-slick, and I was holding a baby. I was holding a pink and filmy thing with its cord by its side as it is meant to be and it had a face, a tiny screwed-up face with a nose on it and a little mouth and I pulled it up to me, held the boy against my own chest like he was mine, like he fitted very well against me so that for one small moment I was his mother and he was my son and I tapped his back and rocked him back and fro.

  Cry, I whispered to him, you’re here.

  Then it came. It was a frail, bird’s wail, like he was lost and frightened and wanting his proper mother. He wanted her smell, and to be held by her. So I carried him to Sarah. She was half-dead, desperately pale, and I placed her son in her arms. I said Sarah? Look. You have a son. She had life enough to see him, to smile in a way I have seen no person smile. She brought her arm forwards and took him.