WE BURNT more lavender. I daubed gentle herbs upon her, and I did a little stitching. I think my work must have been very sore for her, but she had her son. I reckon all the pain in the world can come to you and you do not mind it once your babe is safe.
She slept. Her eyelids went down and she looked very peaceful and Lady Glencoe rose, took the bowls of cloth and blood away.
I did not hear him. But Alasdair came by me very slowly, his breath very shallow like he feared his breath might wake the pair. He moved beside her, crouched gently down. I have never seen such a look on him or any person—like all he had ever thought of as beauty had been a ghost of this. Every starry sky had been a shadow of his tired wife sleeping with their son on her breast.
This was not my place to be. Not now.
I finished my stitch, lowered her shift down. I crept to the curtain and as I pulled it behind me I saw him put a kiss on her, on her cheek. The chamber was a tender place now, and made for the three of them—no one else. I knew this was right, and slipped away.
A DANCE followed. A fire was lit—the greatest fire I’d seen in all my life was lit in the field by Achnacon, and I heard them shouting from home to home. And out came the cousins, out came the clan. There was laughter, and ale, and drums.
Lady Glencoe said we celebrate life most of all.
I understood. She touched my arm, briefly, and then she moved out into the field with the fire’s glow, the sparks.
I watched, from the shadows. I felt like being alone.
But a breath came down upon me. I felt a man standing near, so I turned. I have reason to thank you again, I think, he said—and he put his hand on my shoulder like he knew I was good, and had done a good thing. It’s a fine son she has given my son he said. You’ll have a drink Corrag.
I said thank you but—
He pointed. You will drink!
And I did. I had a drink that took my breath away, but there can be no denying how soft it made me feel. The MacIain roared by the fire, with his men, and Iain was kissing his wife by an ash tree. So I carried my cup amongst the other people. I slipped by unseen by most, for they were dancing—but a few put their heads on one side and looked at me. In my head I thought witch, but none said it. Instead they called it is a boy out across the townships, and a man with a snow-white beard was sent to light the fire on An Torr to spread word of their child’s safe coming into the world. It was more of a festival than I had ever seen. Out in the field by where the river came down through its rocks they lit a fire also and families came down from their houses, from Achtriochtan where I’d taken the pot and spoon and Inverrigan whose eggs I’d lifted. I saw great Ranald with beard, and his pipes. I saw the man from Dalness in the next glen who was lifting a boy up by his ankles, so that the boy laughed, and the red-haired family from Achnacon were dancing together—all dancing together. Some nodded to me. One lady who carried an infant herself passed by me, and smiled. She spoke no English, and my Gaelic was small, but she put her hand upon my cheek which had a thousand words in it. It was a thank you, I reckon. It was what a person does when they want to see a face more clearly—truly see it.
I’ll always remember how she did that.
Drunk? No. But many were. The women faded to their hearths, in time, with their children and left the men bawding and bragging of who fought most well, most likely, or who sang most, who had robbed the most Campbells. Iain was smiling wider than I’d ever known him to. A tacksman danced alone to the piper which made them call and cheer, and stamp their feet.
I will say this. That I think they danced to celebrate a new life, yes—but also to celebrate life, all life. For theirs was a deathly world. Winters alone could kill them, and their feuds and plots did too. So when life came in, they were glad of it.
I left my cup on a stone.
I tucked up my skirt to make its bell-shape for the climb to Coire Gabhail and had one backward glance to the house where Sarah slept and then to the moon which was shining very brightly, and then to where the fire was with the men laughing by it. Alasdair was there. He was no longer in the chamber, but was standing by the fire. He looked on me. He wore a smile, which I knew was not from seeing me, but a smile from a joke his father told and which had not yet left his face. But it left his face as he looked on me. We stared for a moment, he and I.
I knew he thought thank you. I could feel it, in his stare.
This is what I told myself, as I made my way home. I skirted the bogs and brushed through the trees, and thought of how he’d kissed her cheek—a slow and proper kiss. I looked up at the stars. By my hut, the owl called out to me, saying all is right, and is as it must be—which it was. A new life was in the world. A woman was a mother now. A man was a father.
I CRIED a little, in my hut. Only a little. I was tired, and to see a birth is so wondrous and strange that most of us cry, at it. It is beyond words, I think. It is what all the beauty is, in the whole world—that. New life.
I slept by the goats, and one of them licked me, and this made me cry a little harder. But in time I found my sleep.
It is a comfort—it is. It is a comfort to think of that birth, when there has been so much death. So much death came, to Glencoe. There was so much blood, later, that I trod through or knelt in, and it made me think of the first frail call of their son. His voice took its place in the world. It became part of it—as much as wind, or soil. And I will always remember how he felt, to hold, how he fitted against my collarbone, like there had always been a space there that only a baby could fit, or fill.
He survived the massacre. Sarah strapped him to her, with a blanket. I saw her running into the blizzards with other women, other bairns, and Iain shouted Hurry! This way! I saw them, and thought they are safe… But then I thought where is Alasdair? He is not with them and he is not yet safe.
I race ahead. I go too far.
WHEN I hear MacDonalds of Glencoe I think of the fire by Achnacon, and the dancing. I think of what I felt amongst them, which was how they were one being, one creature, and just as I had helped to birth Alasdair and Sarah’s child, so I had delivered a child which was all of theirs. It felt that way. The joy of it was in that field. The knowing that death was always near, but here was a life, made it joyful. I will always think of them like this. The fire’s glow, and the pipes.
In the days afterwards, he came. I was standing in my valley, feeling the first drops of rain. At last, it was raining, and the thunder rumbled out, and I looked down to see him walking through the grass.
His hair was wet, and his shoulders were, and he said such things as he is beautiful…His feet…His eyes… And when he spoke of his boy, he held out his hands, as if he was holding him. I was glad. I was glad of his happiness—for he was bright with it. I was glad that all was well.
I said so. I said, I’ve never seen such beauty as that. Him. You are lucky.
Yes. Thank you, he said, for what you did. His hair grew dark with the rain.
Alasdair left, and as he left I thought, what a light you are. What a gift—to where you are, to the ones who are with you.
I felt it very simply—no grief, no deep wish.
YES I shall be fine. I’ve heard myself today, and I know I’ve not been spirited or talked like I mostly have. I’ve been low in my heart, like a stone. It is not my death which lowers it, or not so much—it is the loss. It is the simple loss of what I never had, and will not have.
But I will be fine. I will think of what did come to me, and this will hearten me. How can I be ungrateful? You have come. I am so grateful that you’ve come, and so I will think of you for a while, and then perhaps of rivers, or sunsets in Glencoe. Of my mare.
Have I ever thanked you? I do, now. I am grateful, Mr Leslie. I am glad you found me, for it makes all less hard.
Be warm tonight. Stay warm.
Jane
I will not write of her tonight. I will not tell you what she spoke of, for it will take up ink, and time, and light—and I have little of these th
ings. What I will write of is what I should have written of long ago, or spoken of. We are two trees with out branches entwined, you and I—yet there are secrets we do not talk of. One secret.
My love. I do not want to distress you. But tonight all I have thought of is you, and our lost girl. Our little girl, whose birth and death was almost five years ago. I know—that you have asked for us to leave her be, and not mention her. You have said that to keep her unmentioned is to lay her to rest—but we think of her, do we not? I remember. Don’t think that my faith and duty have taken my memories of her away. They have not. I did not see her as you saw her, but I remember your own face. I saw your shame, and sorrow. We have never spoken of it.
We are fortunate to have our sons alive and well you said. Most women lose a child or two. It is God’s way.
But why did we not speak more of it? Why did you feel ashamed? What shame was there? In the days and weeks that followed you shook at my touch, like my touch pained you—or you felt that I should touch other, better things. Lives pass on, Jane. Our daughter came in strangled, and blue, but some must. Some fail in our eyes, but not in the Lord’s.
Did you ever think I loved you less, for it? I worry that you think so. It was hard to speak of our loss to you, for I feared to speak of it may widen your pain beyond all measure. But I will write it now. I will write what I did not say, in words, and should have done from the moment we knew: I do not love you less. I love you more, Jane, for it—for your firm little face which you showed our visitors, when your heart must have been broken. You were so frail in those weeks. But you still lifted up your chin, offered tea.
There is no blame. I know you, my love—I know you blamed yourself. I saw you in the garden, staring at the grass, and I know you saw it as your fault that our daughter was born sleeping. It was not your fault. It was God’s will that the only life she knew was tucked up, beneath your skin. That, alone, is a good life.
Speaking of a death does not worsen it, or change it. Our daughter does not suffer again, when we speak of her. Our girl is gone—but let us talk of her? Let us give her a second life, of some kind?
Be gentle with yourself. Do not try to understand God’s mystery, or wisdom—which none of us can know. Do not count the years, as I know you do. We have four sons of such strength and curiosity that I thank the Lord daily—more than daily. Four sons, and such a wife as you. I can ask for no more. I never even dreamt of half of this, half, of you. Jane, be gentle with yourself.
I read my Bible in a different manner, these days. The pages are damp which makes the business harder. But whereas I have mostly looked for guidance, it is not guidance I seek now. I look for proof—that my secret thoughts are noble, worthy ones. For I am having strange moments, Jane—I think as I have not, before.
“The Lord’s unfailing love and mercy still continue, fresh as the morning, as sure as the sunrise” (Lamentations 3:22–23).
I will eat supper now, and to bed.
My everything is yours—even from here, in Scotland.
Charles
VII
“If the virtues of it make you fall in love with it (as they will if you be wise) keep a syrup of it to take inwardly, and ointment and plaister of it to use outwardly, always by you.”
of Bugle
I talked of births yesterday. I spoke of a new life as my own is nearly done. I talked of all the blood and mess, and out he came—a new MacDonald, with his mother’s cloudy eyes but the red hair of his father, and I was so glad he was living. I was glad of his tiny pink hands.
I am not so low today. And I did think of all the goodness I had seen, and felt, in my other lives. I counted them, and passed the night this way. I told myself that I have saved lives—I said make for Appin and do not trust these men, and those words of mine saved life after life after life.
But I race ahead. I have not spoken of that, yet.
Births, and a little one, and did I ever hope for that? I can’t remember doing so. I have no memory of dolls, in Thorneyburnbank, or of listing names for my ghostly, unmade child. I do not think I ever thought of being a mother—for love must happen first. A man would have to love me, and take me as his wife, and undress me by a fire—just him, and I. That is the way. He would have to move upon me, and fill me, and we would put so many kisses on each other we would have to stop and smile. This is what I hoped for. I hoped so hard that I might know love, and feel it, but I did not think it would come to me. I never thought of children. It felt like a hope too far.
But now that I am dying, I am allowed to think of it. Can you imagine it? Me? All round like a blackberry with a baby inside? I doubt I could walk. I would stand, and fall forwards like old folk do. And how would I push the baby out, as I am? I am tiny. I am a mouse. The Chief MacIain said why does a child tend to me because he thought I was a child. Most have thought it, too.
I reckon I was not made for it. I have to tell myself this—that the world did not give me a shape for mothering. A heart and a head, yes—but not a body like Sarah’s body was. It makes me a small part sad. But I nod, and understand it—we are not all the same, and I am glad we’re not. I like the differences. I liked the plum-faced Mossman, and my tooting horse.
But I imagined it, and do. I dip my toe into fancies which will never come to pass, but what harm can come from it? Chained up? I had a daughter whose ear I would whisper stories to. I’d show her a dewdrop caught in leaves. Her father would dangle her by the feet till she laughed, and laughed.
I am not a mother. I will not be one. And that is a world I’ll know nothing of, which makes me ache a little in the empty hours, in the rainy days. But it does not make me less of a person, less of a girl, or a witch. I pulled Alasdair and Sarah’s baby, into the world. I saved lives, which will make more lives, which will make more. In a hundred years, there will be many people who would not be living were it not for me. For Corrag.
Who?
She was a small thing that lived in the hills. They burnt her on a stake in Inverary for her words, for helping us. Those wild goats come from her goats.
So she died for us?
She did.
Maybe I am the mother to a hundred thousand things.
I kept from Carnoch that month. I chose my own company again, or that of my goats. I hoped for the stag, but these were airless days, with the rocks being warm to touch and the heather in bloom. So he kept high up. He kept where a thin wind blew the flies away, and I did not see him for a long while.
Perhaps I missed him. Or maybe the wild creature in me wanted the wind and the wide views, too—for I was often up, up. It was the time for scrambling—for the old summer light was clear, and sharp, and every rock seemed bright to me. I could feel them, and see them. I watched how their shadows moved across the glen floor. I might leave my hut in the morning, with the dew still on the grass, and not return until the evening was down. I could smell autumn, then. Its cold, leafy breath was on the air.
What a gift you are…I thought of him, on my walks.
I thought of the baby, of oaths, of God.
On a heavy day, I went to the Dark Mount. The heather was dry, dying, and it caught my skirts as I climbed its slopes—tugging the bushes, and rustling, so that they heard me coming. Doideag said, aren’t you too kind to be here, with us? Too clean? Sharp piece. I heard her jaw click, as she spoke.
I look for Gormshuil. Is she here? And like this might open those red-veined eyes of hers, wherever she slept, I said I have henbane for her. I showed it—dark-green.
Gormshuil came. She crept out from stones like a beetle, and righted herself. Henbane?
Yes.
Then you’re after a thing, she said. Meat?
Not meat.
I walked with her—not far, and not down, for I liked the breeze and the view of the moor. But we walked, and I felt the silence. I said, what can you see?
See?
There is so much I wish I could know, I said. The child’s life—will it be safe, and long? Where is my
stag? What will come of this word Jacobite, and will the winter be bad, and how might I—
Stop? What you feel?
I faced her. Wise old crone that she was. With her puckered mouth and her cunning eyes. Teach me? To have the second sight?
Gormshuil smiled at that. She showed her pegs, and wheezed. The sight? To be taught?
Yes.
It can-ee be taught. What comes will come. What you see is what you see, wee thing, and it will come to pass…
What will? Pass?
As if this was a fool’s question, she frowned. All of it! All comes and goes.
What comes? Tell me? What will go?
She smelt the henbane in her fist. Kings are back and fro. But I’m not sure Orange will stay Orange…
William? I shook my head.
Och, she said. And she looked away from me as if she was not addled and reeky, and sad. She looked over the moor, briefly. It is not always a gift, Corrag. Not when sad things are ahead.
Sad things?
She turned back to me. She had the old witch-eyes again, and the mocking look, and she lifted a finger up to my nose, pressed it. I think a wolf will howl its name. A lion will roar. And that is all I will give you, nosy tiny bairn. You bring me more herbs—and soon.
Autumn rolled in. I knew the autumn smells. From my first life, my English days, I knew its sharp, wet, earthy smells—and that this meant berries, and fruit. So the turf grew, the baby grew, and so did the people out on the hills, bent at the waist. We scratched ourselves on brambles, and inked up our fingers with blackberries and sloes, and plucking the mushrooms up from the wetter parts. The women did this. I saw wives and daughters, with their hair tied back. I thought, once, I saw Doideag of Mull with her gums and sad eyes, but the eyes can be fooled in misty weather.
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