Corrag (28 page)

But by morning, my fever was done with. I woke, cool-skinned and hungry, and calm, and as I checked beneath my hens for eggs I thought
it is Christmas Day.

T
HE
MacIain did leave, four days after it. I saw him.

I crouched on the eastern Sister, with a thin snow coming down onto my cheeks and the backs of my hands. I clutched my cloak to me. I saw him below, in the white—his plaid, his thick white hair which was whiter, even than snow.

He left on his horse, and three other men followed on foot.

To the rocks and grey sky, I said
hurry him there. Lessen the snow to let him pass.

Thinking all was better now, I made my way down, told my heart to hush itself—for I was tired of it talking, tired of its ache. I lay on my front, on my deerskin rug.

More snow came down, in the night.

Well. The MacDonalds of Glencoe saw the old year die away in snow, with a half-moon showing through the clouds. They drank, and kissed each other. In Carnoch, Inverrigan, Achnacon and Achtriochtan they slept by their husbands and wives with their children also dreaming, and thought they were safe. That their chief had written his spidery name on paper, and all would be well. 1692 is a famed year for us, now. For the Highlands. For all who whisper
Jacobite.

Me? Corrag?

The English one? The witch? The black-haired faery? The Spey-wife? The herb girl who lived in Coire Gabhail?

On New Year’s Eve, I was on a rock, not far from my hut. At midnight, I was with the stag. I had hoped for him, and he had come. It calmed me, to see him. Like he was waiting for the oath to be sworn, he came back down, and eyed me. I smiled and thought
friend.

And maybe his heart was tired, too. Maybe he was cold, or done with being wild—for how many wild things can be wild, all the time? I held my last apple out. I held it, said
come
to him. And as the old year died, and a new one came in, he came closer to me than he ever had before. The snow shone. It crunched beneath his hooves. I held my breath, but his breath steamed, and he stretched out his neck very slowly. When it was stretched, he pushed his antlers back. It meant his mouth was near me, and like two hands grasping, his nostrils smelt the fruit. I saw his phlegm, and wetness. His body leant a little more. He smelt, and smelt, and I saw his mouth begin to move.

There was a moment. We both knew it, and saw it—this one, small moment where he had all his trust in me. He was, briefly, tame. Briefly, he was mine—for as he opened his warm mouth and leant in, and steamed, there was no strength in him. He could not have run. He was bare, tired, and he longed for the apple which I’d saved for him, all this while.

I felt the sudden weight of his teeth upon its skin. There was a crush as he bit it. It broke in half, and he stumbled, took his half away. In that stumble, in how he dropped away, he was wild again, and he clattered on the rocks, up onto the slopes of Beinn Fhada with his heart saying
run! Run!
I held the other half. I had his dampness on it, and I looked at the apple with its small brown pips. I ate that half. For I was hungry, too. It was winter, and the apple would not keep.

He clattered away. He was fire-hearted again.

I saw his outline on the tops, and thought it was fine Hogmanay. Me and a deer. Stars. Deep snow. All this love, and beauty in the world.

1692. It will be marked down, for always.

I think I knew it would be.

You know what happened, I think. You know.

The chief of the MacDonalds of Glencoe was six days late. Six.

He rode to the wrong place. Colonel Hill at Inverlochy said
but I cannot help you! The parchment is south of here. You lost sheep…You poor man.
Or so I imagine, when I imagine it.

MacIain did sign the oath, in the end. Here, in Inverary to a man called Ardkinglas. But yes, he was six days late.

He returned with reddened cheeks and good news. He called me to tend to his chilblains, and as I crouched at his feet with dock, and warm cloth, he said
I was late, yes, but I signed it! It was made, so bring me a whisky, for that journey has frozen me up
—and he sat by the fire, and told his tale. Of Colonel Hill. Of the ferryman at Connel who said
are you the MacIain,
and trembled as he rowed. Of Barcaldine Castle, in the dark.

It was ripe with trouble, that journey. There are scoundrels out there. Is there meat, woman? But
—he sipped his whisky, sighed—
I made the oath. I was there. Tis done now—and we are safe from the King’s wrath…

W
HAT
is six days? It is so little.

Never mind that he had written his name—for can’t a name be scored out? Six days made it nothing. Six days meant that all who hated the name Glencoe could look up from their bureaus, smile at the news.
Late? By six days? Then they must be punished…

Rebels. Traitors.

That gallows herd…

S
UCH
hatred in the world. Such sadness.

My mother always said there is no Devil. Only the devilish ways, in a man. And she walked in landscapes of wind, and height, and grass for these places could not hurt her—not like people could.

D
O NOT
love.
For hate is never far from it.

Like light, it needs the other—the dark—to be called
light
at all.

T
here is less blue light—much less blue. For the first time I have seen it—how the cell’s daytime light is paler, thinner, and I know that the last snow is gone now, or nearly gone. Melted. I reckon there are the small green shoots, the buds like fingertips and an earthy smell—rich, and cool. And hear that? Not a
drip, drip.
It is a faster sound now. The snowmelt runs.

I know this running sound. I have heard it before in other, lost places, and in those places I knew that it meant my season was closing down for a time, and the spring was flooding into the land—with its filled burns and flowers. Boggy ground softened. Rocks felt warm. And I liked these things—these changes, which spoke of warmth and blue-sky days. But this rushing water and paler light means more than that. A different warmth. Not blue skies, but black ones—filled with the smoke of burning me. Fiery me. Me blazing like homes did.

I used to feel a little sadness, at seeing my weather go—at winter curling up, like furry creatures do when they know that winter comes. The season pressed its snout to its belly, slept, and I’d think
then goodbye, for a time.
I have knelt in marshes and thought,
till next year
—for winter always comes back, does it not? Like all seasons? In comes the frost. Then the ice. Then the snow.

I say
goodbye
to it now. But properly. For I won’t see another.

When it comes back, will you see it for me? Will you breathe against a wall of ice, and watch how your breath steams back for me? Crunch out on snow? Sit by fires?

Look how pink your cheeks are. How wet your shoes are.

It has been a long winter, I know. In the glen, it was long. It was thick frosts which creaked underfoot, and the
crump
of snow as it fell from my roof. I’d stretch in the mornings, breathe that air.

And the soldiers came in this weather. On a February day they came in their bright-red coats with their polished muskets and cold cheeks. Knocked on the Chief’s front door.

W
HAT
was on my mind that day? I think nothing was. Or maybe it was the small things I’d been looking at—my clouded breath, and a cobweb with droplets on. I know a thin snow was blowing, pricking my face, and my hands were very pink so I turned them over, looking at their pinkness. I was neither happy nor sad. I was just as I was. Sitting on Keep-Me-Safe.

Then, I looked up. In the distance, I saw a line of red. It moved along the shores of the loch, past Ballachulish, and on. I squinted, and thought
what is so red? And moves like that?

And I knew it was redcoats.

Soldiers.

How did you know it was soldiers which would murder us? Who has told you? Or maybe the whole world knows, now—that it was soldiers who came to the Glen of Coe. With muskets. With smiles.

It changed the glen, of course. All those tall, redcoated men with their Lowland voices and snowy boots which they stamped, in doorways, and with their jokes which I did not hear, but I heard the laughter from them. I was not there to truly see it—how the MacIain greeted them. I was minded to think he’d have roared his dislike and banished them, for he hated all things which had William in it, or by it, and these were William’s men. I thought he might draw out a sword or two. But he did not roar. He saw the falling snow. He saw their cold faces, heard their bellies growl.

He welcomed them,
Iain said, when I saw him three days afterwards.
Gave them meat. Lodgings.

He welcomed them?

Aye. What else might he do? ’Tis foul weather, Corrag, and they need quartering.

But they’re William’s men
…I did not understand.

And Iain sighed, like he often did with me. Like he had no patience for this dull-witted English creature he said
did we not sign the oath? To William? We’re no outward threat to him or his men, now—nor are they to us. And it is the Highland way—to offer shelter when asked for it.
His garron shifted beneath him.
Did we not offer it to you? All those months gone?

They had. I nodded.

Then you cannot protest
.

I turned from him, and went, and I remembered his words.
Outward threats. Oaths
. I knew that Iain’s reasoning was proper.
There is no danger
I told myself, treading over the ice. And they were smartly done, I saw that. They had their crimson coats and their shiny boots and some had curled, snow-topped wigs. They clanked with their metal. They blew on their hands as they stood in the glen, looking up at the mountains.

There is no danger. All is well.

But still I was not truly calm. Still, there were so many changes in the glen, so many shifts in its air and light, that how could I like it? This coming of men? What, I wondered, of the rocks? What of the tiny, animal lives? It troubled me deeply, despite Iain’s words. With my uneasy sea inside me, slapping itself against my sides, I eyed the soldiers. Holding my breath, I crept like a cat through the snowy parts. I slunk my way to Achtriochtan, and saw a soldier by its loch, making it his privy, and I did not like that. On my dark daytime walks, I saw heavy-booted footprints in the snow by Achnacon where cowslip grew in spring, and would this mean no cowslips? When the spring came in? I chewed upon my bottom lip. I did not see my stag for a week—more than a week.

I worried.

I worried for the glen. I worried for the rocks and water. I worried for the air, and grass, and deer, and that the families would give all their salted meat and smoked fish and turnips to these men, and so starve themselves much later. I worried the way the soldiers called from house to house, through cupped hands, would make a shelf of snow break from the ridge, and thunder down, and claim a human life or two. I worried they would stay, and never leave.

A
ND
I had old dreams, of course. I knew what redcoats were. I thought I had left them behind in the Lowlands, on a summer’s night when my mare was still living and my skirt had caught on a bramble, bent, and then freed itself—so they’d looked up from their fire, and…I had left it behind. I had not dwelt on it, for why dwell on past troubles? I had survived it all. But now there were redcoated men in the valley below, and I was sore with remembering the weight on me, the
hush now
. The
pop.

I kept to my hut. Missed my mare.

Not all redcoated men are villains, Mr Leslie. I knew it then, and I still know it. But didn’t Mother Mundy hate all reivers, for always, once her body had been entered on a fiery, autumn night? Not all reivers did what that one had done—but she hated them all anyway. By my hearth, I thought of her. I remembered her face like it was before me—lined, blistered, hairy, sad-eyed. I wondered how she was, and reckoned she was dead, now—her rape and gummy mouth boxed in the earth, and gone.

Such thoughts made me kick stones, and feel lonesome.

Not all soldiers are cruel, Mr Leslie. Most are not.

But I did not like them being in the glen from the start, and that was that.

I stayed in my valley, mostly. I would not take myself out of there, by day—fearing the past, and the future, and all in between. Fearing my own self, maybe—for I would look upon my body in my bathing pool and be troubled by its smallness, its muscle, and scars. I saw my own frailty—like the web that a spider makes in corners, I was strong in some places but gossamer-thin, and gossamer-white, and strange. Amongst the clinking ice, I stared. I thought
Cora made this. I come from her
—and this softened my worries, at times. She had been such a wild, fighting piece. She was in me, and near me, and as the river fell down like glass into the pool, and roared about my ears, I thought I heard her voice.
Be strong. Wise.

Love the world, Corrag. Concern yourself with trees. Hills.

I shall.

Good girl. My ghost-baby.

I tried. I made a dish from my hands beneath the waterfall, and drank. I brushed my goats, and spoke to my hens. And, once, I stood at the end of my valley, where a thinner fall of water had frozen blue, and its coldness made my breath steam back at me as I blew upon it, and I remembered my poor mare’s tail which was torn, by that soldier. Whisky, and a redcoat, and she had galloped with me as I’d cried
go! Go!

I could feel the ice’s coldness on my face.

I closed my eyes, breathed. To the waterfall I whispered,
bring Alasdair to me? His face? And words?

The world hears these little prayers.

So in time, he came.

H
E CAME
as I trod down the sides of Cat Peak, towards my hut, dragging a branch for the fire. I did not see him. I imagined him, instead. I paused, looked down at my hut and imagined how he’d look if he was standing by it—red-haired and rough-skinned, with his wet-wool smell. He might be waiting for me. He might look up…I scolded myself, and walked on.
He is not there
—only a chicken was, and the hazel tree with its branches of snow, and the dimpled snow beneath it where some had fallen from a branch when a small breeze had come.

But when I reached the hut, he was there. The real him, the breathing one.

You’ve kept away,
he said.

And I saw his half-smile. Smelt the wet-wool.

W
E SAT
inside, where the fire was strong, and he took a cup of water which was hot with herbs in it. I thought he looked tired—as if the bairn was taking sleep from him, or he had his own worries. His hair was long, now—thick, and loose upon his neck. The long winter had darkened it, so it was a deep earth-red. Nearly peat-coloured. His beard was also dark.

Why are they here?
I asked.

They say that the garrison is full, at Inverlochy. They’ve asked for quarters and food, for a time.

How long?

As long as this weather lasts. Who knows how long?

Do you have enough food for that?

We will make do. We have herring, still. Salted beef.
He looked down at his cup.
We have four soldiers with us, in our home.

Four?

There are some at each house—from our cousin in Brecklet to the eastern end
. He smiled.
Some are just boys…The weather makes them wheezy. Their sleeves are too long for them, so Sarah has sewed…

He saw me, watching.

You fear them?

I blushed. I looked down at the fire, unsure of my words. When I spoke, my voice was barely a voice at all.
Yes. There are so many. There have never been so many people in the glen before, I reckon…Stamping all over it.

You fear them for what they’ll do to the glen? The plants?

Yes.

He shook his head.
The glen has seen worse than some soldiers come by. It’s had battles and famine. Rain upon rain.
He eyed me.
You think they’ll hurt you?

Inside me, I flinched. Maybe he saw this.

I spoke to Iain. He said you were fretful.
Gently, he said
why?

They are soldiers.

But they have come peacefully. They are civil-mannered, as are we.

They are the King’s men. That word…

He shook his head briskly, said
is this the same girl? The one who trusts the world so much? Who talks of heart and faith as much as she does? I thought I was the one who was hasty to judge.

But
—

Alasdair said,
Sassenach. I know. I know what life you’ve had. I know that you’ve run from trouble, and that this trouble has mostly come from men, but these are soldiers…We have sworn allegiance to the King they serve. Why would they harm us? Why now? Are we not on their side?
He blew out a hard breath, looked into his cup.
If we had refused to give them shelter, what then? Our oath would have been forfeited, and we’d have felt the Dutchman’s wrath for it. Or they’d have pulled out their swords, forced it upon us…
He drank.

I know.

It will help you,
he said,
to know that they are Sarah’s kin.

Sarah’s?

Aye. The man who leads these soldiers? He is a Campbell. Robert Campbell of Glenlyon—and Sarah’s cousin by blood.
Alasdair shrugged.
I’ll admit he’s a drinker, and plays cards too much and too badly—but he is still kin. Still a decent man—or as much as a Campbell can be. Why might he harm us? Her?

I looked down.

In a softer voice he said,
when did you stop trusting? I thought that was your way?

It is my way! It is. But I have met soldiers before.

He paused. For a while there was no sound but the fire, hissing. In a darker, slower voice he said,
And they hurt you?