Corrag (19 page)

I
have been fretful, all night, about my hens.

Such hens. Good ones—pale, egg-coloured. They roosted in the hazel tree when it was mild, and closed their eyes with that milky, skin-like lid that chickens have, so that I wondered if they also had the sight—some second sight. In winter they nestled with me, indoors. They clucked as they slept.

Last night, in my cell, I said,
what of them now
?

I said it into the dark, so my voice came back off the walls. But truly—what of them? It still snows a little. Not as much as it did, and the snow is the watery kind—but it is still snow. Are they living? Alasdair’s hens? In winter, I fed them what I had gathered in the leaf-fall months—stalks, pods, seeds. A little fat. But now I am here, with chains on my wrists, so how can I feed them?

I fear they are starving, up in the hills.

And my goats! In time, I had goats. Three of them—with tiny teeth, and lips which burrowed into my pockets, and they scratched their heads on brambles, and where are they now? Now that my fire is out, and their shelter is gone?

I tell myself
they are living.

I say
they are just as they were. Yes.
The hens scratch under the snow. The goats, knowing I am gone and will not come back, have made their way up, up. Into the heights. They tread along the peaks with their eyes half-shut against the wind, and their coats turning white with flurried snow. They will survive. My goats will have baby goats, in the spring. Their babies will have babies of their own.

Maybe in the years to come, there will still be goats in Glencoe. Not many, but some. They will crop the higher slopes. And maybe if a person says
goats? Here? Wild goats?
then another will say to them
ah…Yes. They come from the goats of Corrag. She was a good woman who died in a bad way, and who did not deserve her burning. But she died. And these goats come from her goats, so let us remember her when we see them. Let us watch her goats, and rest a while…

I would like that. I indulge myself in these dreams, in the dark.

I will hope for them to be so.

A
FARM
? No. But it came to feel like I had more than I needed—rich, in that way. I had two hens, three goats, and an owl that told its secrets to me on some moonless nights. I had spiders that weaved, in the darkness. The stag, too, with the branches. He came back, and back.

The world breathed about me, folded in and out, and what more could be asked for?
What is better? Than being this much in the world?
I asked this, as I watched the frosts settle down, or the smoke curl up from my fire.

Nothing is better
I told myself.

There were days when I saw no people—not even one—and I said
nothing is better. Nothing is better at all.

I
DID
not want to go back to Carnoch—and I did want to. Both.

Amongst their beeswax candles, the MacIain told me this—
we have always been a fighting clan…

He was mending. He had rested, and drank, and the howling wind and weather had kept him by his fire so that he was flushed, bright-eyed. The room at Carnoch was full. It was fuller than it ever was, with maybe three dozen in there, and the air was scented with honey, and wet wool, and peat, and I could smell the hounds which scratched in the corners. I could smell people, too—sweat, and their whisky. I thought,
I breathe MacDonald breath.

Always fighting,
he said, filling his cup.
And these hills have been fought for since man first found them, and wanted them. The Irish were here before us. A man called Fionn with his warriors, and dogs. They fought many thousand men to save the glen—and when the Fionn men died, it is said the mountains grew upon them, and that even now they sleep with their swords beneath the rocks and earth. One day they will rise up again. Fight for what needs fighting.
He slowly brought his cup to his lips, and drank.

I imagined all these sleeping men.

He swallowed.
Iain Og nan Fraoch took the glen for his own, in time. He came from the islands. And he was a fine MacDonald…

All are!
said a voice. They laughed.

But are we not the finest? Of all MacDonalds? In how we live and fight?
The room settled down. Their faces stared at the Chief, and the Chief stared at them, and when he looked back to me he said in a softer voice
we are named for him. We—the MacDonalds of this glen—are called the MacIains, for we are sons of him. Young John of the Heather sired our line in this glen—with its woods and hills, and so many fish in the rivers that all he did was dip his hand…They say that on winter nights you may hear his dog, barking.

He could tell a story well, that man. That chief.

Everyone listened. Those people had heard this tale all their lives—of who they were from, and what legend is. But they listened like they had not heard it before, like part of their faith was to hear the tale of Fionn and his dogs. There were stories of Norsemen and Irish kings. A doomed love. Battles. The peat shifted itself, as it burnt.

I can hear the peat shifting. Can smell it.

B
RING
the stool nearer? I have much to say about them tonight—these
papists,
this
damnable sept.

It was the last night in December. In my little valley, I was drinking from a pool of cracked ice, like a cat—crouching down, my hands flat. I heard a horse’s nostrils, and turned, and it was Iain. He was astride his garron with a dead hind strapped behind, and he said
you are summoned. To Carnoch.

I sat back on my ankles, wiped my mouth.
Tonight?

Yes. Tonight.

Is it the MacIain? His wound? Or a new one?

The man scoffed. He shook his head, and he spoke very slowly, as if I were a simpleton—
no…It’s Hogmanay. The last day of the year? You’ve been asked, so you’ll come.

So I went. How could I not, when I lived on their land? Drank from their cattle? So I freshened myself with water, and I crushed some rosemary in my hair to be sweet-scented, and I went to the great Carnoch house, where the river met the sea. I knew my way to it, now. I passed the peak called Keep-Me-Safe, and trod beside the Coe.

There were more people in that single, oak-walled room with its fire and beeswax candles and whisky and glass than I’d seen in all of Hexham, or in all my travelling days. I could see nothing but people, at first—waists and bellies and forearms. I was brushed by their plaids, got trodden on, and they were laughing and drinking and I thought
leave. You are not for here. Go back outside to the ice, and sharp air.
But as I turned to go a fair-haired lady came by me, and smiled. She took down my hood. She said
don’t hide those eyes…
And she smoothed my shoulders, winked, moved on.

After this, I felt I was seen. With my hood down, I felt they were turning, and looking down at me. My cheeks grew hot. I gave a shy smile to the man from Inverrigan, but he only stared. A cup-eared boy called me
faery,
as I passed, and an elderly man smacked his toothless gums as I slipped by, like I was for eating, and I wished I hadn’t come at all—for there were so many people, and so little air, and why had I come? I wasn’t a MacDonald. I was dirty-nailed, small.

But the MacIain came. He strode through his people, gathered my cloak in his fist and said
my Sassenach! My English doctor who has no king…
And with one hand, he lifted me into the air.

All night, I sat by his side.

The other folk sat on the floors, or on chairs, or on the great table itself which brimmed with food and whisky cups. But he’d lowered me onto a stool by his side and said
should I not feed my healer? Keep her well? Ha!
From there, I peered. I looked upon the faces. The bear of a man whose egg I once stole carved up a leg of roasted deer, and laughed. There were children from Achnacon, squirming and fighting with sticks, and two women were whispering with linen curraichd on their heads, and Iain was kissing a rosy girl by the fire and a half-drunk man was playing a pipe and two men were quarrelling in Gaelic until their wives made them stop and Bran the dog was chewing a bone and a huge bear-man called MacPhail fought a man outside, so they both came in bloodied, but then they shook hands and drank. I stared and stared—because there was so much to see. So many lives.

Alasdair looked over the rim of his cup at me.

The MacIain said
have you ever seen such a people? As these?

I said
no.
It was truthful.

No gatherings in England? No fine house like mine, to gather in?
He was pleased at how I shook my head. He grinned, said
there is no greater clan than this…We are small, but we fight with heart and honour.
With his hand raised to silence the room, he said,
we have always been a fighting clan…

And he told me of heather, and Fionn.

T
HERE
were bannocks and barley-cakes and cheese and atholl brose. There was the hind, roasting, and more ale than I’d seen, and a cup of corn whisky which Lady Glencoe pressed into my hand and said
drink
. I nodded, brought it to my lips. But it made me cough from smelling it.

And there was music—the lively kind, which they danced to, and clapped to, and some pottery was broken to a cheer which made Bran bark out, and I saw Alasdair laughing with men, and children drowsed on their mothers’ laps. A bristly man came by me and said,
a dance, wee beastie?
He held his hand out. But I did not dance. I stayed sitting, with my whisky. I saw the colours whirl, and the plaids swing, and when the jig ended the MacIain called out Gaelic words which hushed the room down. They settled—on chairs, or on each other. And a softer music came. It came from the fair-haired lady who had said
don’t hide those eyes
to me. She stood in the half-shadows, held her hands across herself, and sang in such a frail, ghostly voice that it made my skin tighten, and my eyes felt strange. It made me think of Cora—for she had sung, once.

It was a Gaelic song. But it was a love-song, I knew that—from how she sang, and how they all listened with glistening eyes, like my eyes.
Love of Scotland,
I thought—not of a person, but of a place of air and wild land. Its rocks. I felt it was this, and when it was done, she seated herself by Alasdair. She pulled his arm about her, nestled against him. He kissed her hair.

I looked down. Bran put his head on my knee, and blinked, and I told him he was a very fine dog, a very fine dog indeed.

T
HE
clock struck as I patted Bran, as the candles burnt low.

1691 was the year, now. And the MacDonalds of Glencoe raised their cups, and said a prayer—which I reckon was like how most prayers are. I reckon they asked for God’s help this year, for a good harvest, for health, for courage in war. All hearts ask for these things, in their way—no matter of faith, or language.

I asked for them too. I sat on my stool and asked the world for food for my hens, and love, and good skies, and to keep these people safe—for they’d never thrown stones, or said
hag
at me.

For a while it was a quiet room. But then the pipe roared up, and the MacIain shouted
more whisky, here!
And there was more dancing, more songs.

I
LEFT
. I gathered my cloak about me, and slipped away. It was late, and I longed for my hut—its hush, the hens.

I ducked under the door and put my hood up. I heard my name.

Corrag?

He was in the doorway. He had come up behind me. One hand was on the eaves like he was testing them for strength, and he rested his forehead against that arm. His other hand was by his side. He said
are you leaving?

Yes.

He looked very boldly at me—not blinking.
We’ve never met,
he said.
Not in a proper way. Nor did I thank you for mending our father. We all thought that was his end, with that wound, but…
He smiled.
I’m Alasdair Og.

Og?

Aye. It means younger. Named after the MacIain. He is Alasdair, too?

He is.
He put his head on one side, as he looked. He saw me trying out
og,
in my mouth. He said,
you’re Corrag, I think?

I am.

There’s been plenty of talk about you, did you know?

I hadn’t known this but I wasn’t too surprised. Women like us cause tongues to chat in shadows, and always did. Maybe I blushed. I know I gathered my cloak about me, as if to leave, for my own tongue was unsure of what to say to him with his blue eyes on me.

But he spoke. He said,
what brought you here? Of all places?

Your brother said I was summoned
—