Corrag (25 page)

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.

W
HEN
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.

Y
ES
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.

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.

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.