Mushrooms made me think of the mare. I could see her, trying to eat them—her lips curled back from her teeth, displeased. She was for apples, and mint. And so I thought of her, too, with the apple tree. It grew near Achnacon—twisted with age, and heavy, and the freckled man who lived there gestured to me, and the tree, said pick! So I gathered an armful, grateful. Left all-heal at his door.
I STAYED from Carnoch for a long time—for weeks.
But Alasdair came to me. He knew, I think, that I was keeping far away—for he did not find me at my hut. I was picking berries on Cat Peak, and was berry-stained, and he was the colour of these autumn hills—deep-brown, and red, and gold. He had freckles from a month of sun. He looked tired. I thought him.
He kicked a stone with his boot. It’s been a while.
I did not answer.
Walk with me, he said.
So we brushed through the heather, and west. October, in the afternoon, with geese flying over and the rocks still warm from summer sun, he took me to the Pap of Glencoe, at the western end of the northern ridge. When he led the way, and I followed, I looked at how his hair was, and how thick his legs were from his life of hills and fighting. When I led, I hoped he only looked at the ground, or the sky—for I’ve never had the shape that men like. I’ve never had much that men like, I don’t think. I was aware of this, as we went to the Pap—of my smallness, of how he might be walking through the scent I left behind, of milk, and grasses, and how I probably had blossom in my hair.
The Pap was not as high as other hills were, in the glen. It rose up from the sea, looked down on Carnoch’s roofs. It had woodland, where the smaller deer were, and he said careful as he stepped over fallen trees, and thorns. I smiled, for hadn’t I seen worse? Been in worse places? I knew thorns and bore their marks on my arms. I had been cut by rocks, and torn. But he still said, careful.
Up—into the air. He was striding with those thick legs, his plaid swinging, but I climbed behind him. I did not stride. I was quick, scrambling, with my hands and feet as animals do, and I had it in my head that I was like Bran, or the wildcat I had seen. He waited, sometimes. He did not look back, but he waited—like he knew I would be slower. I reckoned all folk were slower when they walked with him.
Up, and up, and the wind picked itself up from the rocks and gusted about us, shaking the grass. I felt the wide, green space that was beneath us now, but did not look—not yet. I wanted to wait till we stood on the highest part, with the view at its best—like a gift, as views are. My hair was blowing like a bird, when I joined him. My skirts were tug tug against themselves.
I puffed out. I straightened my back and stared.
Nowhere better, he said.
I looked. There were mountains all about us. Loch Leven stretched out below, out towards the peaks which were all red or dark-coloured. There were houses, and streams, and his father’s black horse in its field. I saw the Coe—breaking white around its rocks. I saw people, and chickens. In the water, I saw shadows of fish, and weed.
Here?
This view. This hill…
I looked at him. I looked at the proud, straight nose and the forehead, which was lined and puckered from his years as a fighter, from hunting and climbing into the wind. His hair was blowing like mine was blowing. Through my dark-brown strands I saw his wet-earth red, its golden ends.
His eyes were on the view. He said, this is where I learnt to fight, on this hill. Iain and I. We’d come up here with wooden swords… He pointed. That path leads down to the far side of Loch Leven. We’d swim there, and charge up to this point. I’ve slept here.
Slept?
Aye. I’ve slept all over this glen. We all have. But the sunset from here is…
I looked where he looked. West. I always knew west. I knew it in my head, in my heartbeat—maybe our women do, or maybe all people who love the outdoors look west, no matter of their faith. We feel west. Like the mare felt north-and-west, and took me there. I thought of her, for a moment. My hair blew, and the sky beyond the loch was reddening with light.
We looked on it.
I imagined him as a boy. I imagined Cora as a child, on a half-moon bridge. I thought of all the joys and sadnesses wrapped up, side by side.
He said, I’m a different man to what I was. I know I am.
You’re a parent now.
I am, and I’m glad of it. But that is not why I am different, Corrag. I was different before. I’ve been different for a year, now. I changed.
With what?
With you. He said it very flatly—not at me, but at the view. You came. In you wandered with your English voice and grey eyes, and all this talk of the world which I’ve never heard before—of nature, and goodness. No talk of God, or kings. He gave a single shake of his head. I can’t recall the last time a person came here, and did not speak of those things.
I stood. I had no words.
Do you know how I was raised? To be proud. To protect everything I loved, and never give up. The stories we were given, as boys, were all of Red Angus, of warrior men and vengeance, and glorious deaths in war. If I could walk, I could fight—so our father said. And it’s true. I could. I did fight. Did you know—he turned to me—that I was imprisoned as a small boy? For my part in a raid? In Breadalbane lands. I had blood on my face when they took me. I was so proud…
You knew no other way, maybe.
Maybe. Or I had no choice. We have so many enemies, Corrag. The Campbells and the Lowlands, but the English too. William. If we don’t fight, we die—or our way of life does. Our hearts die, maybe…
We looked out. I could see the tiny ferryboat, moored near Ballachulish. In the hazy distance, there were the mountains of far places—places I’d never go. A wind moved my skirts. The clouds were blowing over us, and the colours in the sky were growing dark. My hair was lifted, too, and blew about my eyes.
We’ve been ordered to swear an oath, he said.
Ordered? An oath?
To William. To swear our allegiance to him. He pressed his toe against a rock, and it moved. He said if we swear it, we will be forgiven for all our past raids, all our past treasons against him and others. We will have his protection.
And if you do not swear it?
We will be seen as traitors and punished as such.
I thought on this for a while. I felt my hair blowing. I thought how far away such a word as king can feel, in such a place as there—the Pap, with clouds.
What will be done?
He laughed. Ah. Aye. What will be done? That is the question, is it not? Iain loathes this Orange king. He loathes all he is—his race, his faith. He says we must never swear an oath for it kills what we are. My father also thinks this way. I think it, mostly.
Mostly?
He shifted. There is a good man at Inverlochy. A man called Hill. He calls himself a friend of the clans, and perhaps he is. And he says we should make this oath, for our own sakes. But I do not know…A year ago, I’d have been more against this than all the other men. I’d have taken my sword out—fought them. I believe what they believe and I’ll not denounce my faith, or my clan—never. I’ll die before that. But this quest of ours…This way we serve James, when he’s fled away… He rubbed his forehead, sighed. Are we fools, is what I ask myself. Fools, to be resisting what feels so much stronger than us? Would we be fools—proud ones, at that—to miss this oath? He gave a wry smile. A dead man is no good to James, or God. Or to his wife.
No.
I’ve fought and fought. And if we do not swear this oath, we will be fighting all our lives—against every single shadow! My boy will be an outlaw before he can even speak a word! We’ll be done for, if we fight this king. I can feel that as clearly as I can feel this weather.
So sign it, I whispered. Make this oath.
He smiled. Ah. But what of our hearts?
Hearts?
Aye. Hearts. Don’t you crease up your brow as if I’m not talking your language—I know I am. You speak more of hearts than all
of us. You live by yours. How you said you had no king…
I was very still. I looked at him. I looked at him for a long time, for I loved how he looked. I loved his face.
We aren’t shrewd enough, he said. As a people. We aren’t… And he shook his head, as if he couldn’t find the word.
I used to stand in the marshes in England, and look at the frogs. I looked at them so much I thought I knew them, and that I might even be a frog. But then the men came for my mother, and I ran north. I had to. I won’t see them again—the frogs—but I know they are still there. They still clutch the rushes. I might not see them plopping in the water but that doesn’t mean they don’t do it—they do. They still go cleep in the evenings. They are probably cleeping now, as we’re standing here. I shrugged. I had to leave them. But they are still in me. I carry them, and I know they are as real as they ever were.
Alasdair looked at me. He looked down upon me as if I was not there—like he was seeing through me. It was a strange look, and a deep one. Maybe he saw those frogs.
I tell you this to say that we all make our changes. Everyone does. I left those frogs, for my own life’s sake—but I still love them. They will always lick their eyes with their tongues, like they did. And if you swear an oath, your heart will still be your heart, Alasdair. How can they take your heart away? Or kill it? They can’t. I blushed, looked away. I heard my words, my foolish talk of frogs. That’s just my way of talking.
He said, Aye, I know. It’s a good way.
It’s prattle.
He smiled.
All I try to say is that we change—over and over. But I think our hearts are our hearts, and cannot be governed—not by kings, or oaths. Not by our own heads. I shrugged. They are too strong.
In came a wind. I tried to catch my hair, which was blowing strongly now. I caught it, and tied it at the nape of my neck. Strands still fluttered, but I’d tied most of it.
You think we should swear the oath, Sassenach?
I eyed him, half-smiled. How can I say? ’Tis your oath to make, not mine. All I know is that nothing—not an oath, or a promise, or any king—can change a person’s heart. It feels what it feels.
Aye. Maybe it does.
My skirts snapped on themselves. His plaid shook in the wind, and for a while we stood there side by side, watching the sun sink down. The light was gold and red. It spread over all of Scotland, and shone upon our faces, and I knew how he would look if I turned to him, now. How I might look, if he also turned.
Once, he said, you said I’d made you feel wrong—for being here, for having come. I never meant that.
I smiled. I know.
And we said no more, but I was happy. I was so close to him that the hairs from his arms brushed my own arms, and we had spoken of hearts, and it was a red-coloured, breezy, beautiful world. I thought I am meant to be here. Here. I always was.
He said what are you thinking? At this moment?
Of its beauty. Its age. All this age…
We looked out at the peaks. We looked, and looked, and I thought of all their wisdom—of the sights and breaths and troubles that had passed beneath each mountain, of the years which had rolled by. More years than I could think of. More sights, and loss, and wishes. All my places have been old, I thought. Caves, or valleys. Forests. Sands.
He did not turn. Age?
Of here. These hills. They have seen so many lives. They’ve seen wars, and births, and love, and sorrow, and all the deer. All those feet that have trodden on them…
I thought I heard him smile—the soft, quick mouth’s sound when a smile is made. Aye. They’re old. And they’ll still be here—when we’re dead and gone. When we’re dust, and forgotten, there’ll still be the Pap of Glencoe.
I looked down at my hands. Briefly, thought of the realm. I thought of the ones I loved, who were in it now. I closed my hands up. I said, you will not be gone. You live, in your son. You have a line, now.
Nor will you.
Me?
Be gone. He looked straight ahead. I’ll remember you.
IT WAS my happiest place. My happiest time. Being in a place of wind, and setting sun, and sun upon the water—and being there, with him. Standing so close to each other that I could feel his warmth, and he could feel mine. The Pap of Glencoe, and us. I have never liked kings or queens, for I think no one person is ever better than another, or not in the world’s eyes—but on the Pap, I had felt like it was only him and me. That is was us, and all this beauty. With the autumn, and height, and hearts.
I knew it would not happen twice. It came, and was gone.
In time, he said, it is late. We must go down.
I followed him. We took the path we had come up on, and I saw my old footprints in the dust. I saw the bramble he had caught his plaid on, and the rock he’d helped me over, and all these things seemed a long time ago.
When we came to two pathways in the grass, we stopped.
I’ll leave you here, I said.
He studied me. He stared, and as he did a wind picked up. It brought in a raindrop. I felt it on my bare arms. Then I felt one on my nose, and my scalp, and each drop seemed so loud—heavy, and fat. I looked about me. I looked at how the rain shook the leaves it fell upon, and how flowers held each drop, and the sky was growing dark, now. I closed my eyes, briefly. When I opened them, he had a raindrop on his cheekbone, and his hair looked wet. He was still staring. He lifted his hand, and brought it to my face, and slowly moved a strand of hair back, behind my ear.
He said, you…
I made a sound. I shook my head, stepped back.
Be good to every living thing, said Cora, when she lived. I had promised her, and I liked Sarah so very much, so I made my way along the side of the Pap. When the storm came in, it struck the backs of my hands, and dimpled the mud, and the Coe was very loud and white, and when I was nearly down in the glen again, I paused. I looked back. He was so brown-coloured—his clothes, boots, his damp hair and the dirt on his arms—that he looked like the hills. He looked so much like the hills that I could barely see him. He was like the earth. He was part of the rocks and old heather, the old ferns. I could only see him when he moved. When he stood still, and did not move—which he did twice, as I was watching—my eyes lost him, and I wondered if he was not there at all. I wondered, too, why he might slow, and stop. I didn’t know. I thought there is a deer, or he looks at the view, or I thought that, maybe, perhaps, he was looking back, as I was looking back. I was also in brown colours. I was damp-haired, with dirt on my skin.
So. Oaths. I half-believe in them. Or rather, I believe in them if the heart is what makes them—not the mouth. I believe in deep, honest ones. I believe in the ones which you know you had made many years before, in your empty bed.
Do not love. And I’d said no. I will not.
But that was my mouth, speaking. That was my mouth saying what she hoped it would, so that she said good girl, and kissed me good night. Yet all the while my heart was saying, I will! I will! I will love, and when I do, I will give my whole life for it. I will give myself up. I will love, and love.
So I believe in the heart’s oaths. They are the ones we should live by—for what life is worth living, with a stifled heart? None, that I know of.
PROMISE me you’ll come back to me?
I do not have long. Not long—not now.
Jane
The thaw is quick, and clear. It is truly upon us—burns are running, and I have seen my first bulbs pushing up from the ground, and buds on branches, which are things she would notice and take pleasure in. So I have her in my mind, when I walk.
She talks—we talk—of oaths. She says there are two oaths that we make, in our lifetime—those with our intellect, and reason; and those with our heart. There are the oaths we choose to make—and those that are made for us, by our bodies, or nature, or God. Is she right? Two weeks ago I would have scorned this, and derided it, and called it madness or witchcraft as most people would. But now, I listen to her. I liste
n to her, for I know she will not last. She will die. And I am the only one who might be left to speak of her.
She swore an oath to her mother that she would never love a man. But her heart made an oath that it would, it would—and no rationale might stop it.
What oaths have I made? Here is a question. She did not ask it of me, but I ask it of myself. I am sleepless, and writing this by a candle which gives a poor light, and I ask what vows I have made in my life, and if they were chosen or not. My faith? I did not choose that. It came upon me as a boy, and for all the troubles that a faith may cause or undergo, I have never lost it—I know there is a God, and I know He sees me as I write this letter, that He also sees Corrag, and that He sees you, my wife, who sleeps as I write this under the blankets in a south-facing room. I did not choose my faith. It chose me, and my heart knows it—and for all my days I will have this faith in God, and in goodness. I am certain of that. But my profession, Jane? That is different, I think. I think it was set before me by my father, and expected, and I chose to enter into it, and to preach, and to write as I do. I made an oath with my head, for when have I ever enjoyed speaking before crowds? My hands shake with it. But I do it, and I am fine with the rhetoric, and an orator who receives such compliments that I almost blush—I am lucky, I know. But did I learn it? Rather than have it, by nature? Perhaps.
What would my father do, at this moment?
How would he feel?
He would not allow his feelings to have come to this, I am certain. He’d have trawled the Bible to find enough to quash any compassion—for King James and God are his purpose, and his faith is written down in ink. He knows, and feels, and it was his head, I think, that made an oath to God—his head, which led him. But I am not him. I am my own man.
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