Corrag (29 page)

I thought to say
yes, they did
. I thought to tell him that it had been a redcoat who had grappled me, and tried to take me against my will, and who had manhandled my mare whom I’d loved, and he’d put a blade to my throat, and how much I had cried afterwards—and how fearful I was of it happening again. I wanted no claiming. I wanted no stranger’s weight on me. I wanted none of that—no man’s touch, or not from them, and not that way, and I felt my eyes feel hot and wet as I thought of this. But also, I thought of Sarah. I saw how tired her husband looked, and how much worry was in him, and I did not say it. What right had I? To say it? I kept the secret to myself.
No. They did not hurt me.

Alasdair leant forwards to me.
I am with you in this. I do not like them being here—eating our meat, and burning our fuel. But we have no choice. And my father prides himself on being a host, and a fine one too…Perhaps we’ll be rewarded for our kindness, in time?
He winked, touched my hand.
They’ll be gone with the first thaw, I promise.

He left, a little later. The hazel tree was heavy with the snowfall, and it creaked, and all night I listened to it—creaking, in the dark.

Sarah’s kin, sir. Write that down. Campbell of Glenylon. Sarah’s kin.

Like me, she did not go far, in such weather. Unlike her man, she did not wander the snowy hills or leave their house for much more than fetching water from the streams. She cared for her guests very well. She cut the salted pork, and roasted roots in the fire, and one evening she took the pork bone out into the dark for their dog. She called his name. She called it twice, and he gave a low, throaty sound, and caught the bone as she threw it.

I saw this. I stood near the river which was quiet with ice.

Alasdair had been right. I did not judge—I never had. Or if I ever had, I’d been cross with myself for it. For I had been judged all my life and loathed it—how tangled hair or a high-note voice had made them stare and talk behind their hands, and how Cora’s wild beauty had made
witch
come out. I’d been so black for that, always. And when I’d found the plum-faced man and his Mossmen in the woods, I’d learnt how truly wrong it is—to judge too quickly, or to judge at all. He had been so kind to me. I’d thought
Mossman,
and
trouble,
and been scared, at first. But then I’d sat by their fire and mended their wounds. The plum-faced one told me tales of Scotland, and his life, and maybe that lonely thief was the kindest man I’d met, for years—yet
Mossman
was all he’d be known for. They’d say
thief. Devil
. None would remember him as part of the world, with a beating heart. A friend.

S
O
I would not judge the soldiers. I told myself this. In a pail of water I reasoned with my ghostly eyes, my thin face.
Only one ever hurt you. And that was years ago…There will not be trouble here.

In a dark afternoon, I took out my herbs. I found elderflower and coltsfoot, and put them under my cloak. And off I set, passing through the boulders which hid my valley from the glen below. I skirted the burn, and the birches, and I sang an old song as I went through the knee-high drifts. It was a childhood song, which Cora would sing. She’d sing it under her breath as she stirred her pot, or brushed her long hair.

The glen smelt of peat-smoke and men. Leather. Metal, perhaps—a cold, sharp smell. I passed Achtriochtan, and I moved beneath the Ridge Like a Church which glowed in the half-light and stared down at me. Some soldiers were by Achnacon. They watched me as I passed.

It was evening, and dark, when I reached Alasdair’s house. It looked like homes do, or should—with smoke drifting up, and candlelight coming from it, and the low sound of voices. I heard a man’s laughter. Outside, a dog scratched his chin with his hind legs, and settled down. It was a good, human sight. I watched, from the shadows.

Sarah came out. She was fire-flushed, with a bone in her hand. I heard her call and she threw the bone, and as she turned to go she said
Corrag? Is that you?

I came forwards.
Yes.

What are you doing? Standing in the dark and cold? Come in!

I shifted.
I only came with herbs. Alasdair said the soldiers had wheezes, so I’ve come with elderflower, which helps
—

Never mind what you came for—come in! Warm yourself.
And she held out both her hands.

Inside, there were many faces. It was a hot, peaty room which made my eyes prick, and I rubbed them. I took down my hood, for it was hot in there. And I saw four, young-faced soldiers sitting in a line, with meat which they gnawed upon its bone. I saw MacDonald men, also—two from Inverrigan, and the balding man of Achnacon who had said
will you dance?
to me once, at Hogmanay which felt like a long time ago. They also ate. There was whisky. The fire smoked, and in the dark corner I knew the baby slept, and Alasdair leant against a wall, away from the fire. His head was back, as if sleeping. When I came in, his head lifted up.

Sarah said,
Stay. Eat a little food.

I only came with these…

Like he knew what my herbs were for, a soldier coughed. He wheezed into his fist, swallowed hard. He blinked a little, and waited—for perhaps his lungs would wheeze again. But they did not, and he went back to his meat.

I heard that they had coughs, and elderflower’s fine for that. And coltsfoot—bruise it and put in water, and drink it, and
—

She thanked me. She took the herbs, bustled. I shifted by the door with the soldiers looking at me.

A man from Inverrigan said,
you have fuel enough? In that hut of yours?

I smiled.
I do. Thank you.

Food?

Enough.

A soldier said,
English? You’re English?

I nodded. Alasdair rose then. He stepped over pots, and boots, and a cow-skin rug, and came to me. He said,
you’ve brought herbs for them?

Because you were right. About judging them. They’re people, and they have coughs, and not all folk like the winter months. I was wrong.

Behind him, the Inverrigan men spoke Gaelic to each other. The soldiers spoke English. The baby gave a single, bird-cry.

Stay for food. Come by the fire.

I shook my head. I shook it once, quickly, as if a leaf had fallen on me. He understood. He knew I could not stay, and he knew why. When I looked past him, into the corner, I saw Sarah lift their baby up and heard her say
little bird…
—and I am hardy, but not always. I looked back at him and said
I must get back now.

Some things are hard, even if they are right. Even if you know they are the proper, decent way. I was glad to have left herbs for those men whose lungs and minds had not known Highland winters before. It was kindness. And kindness is worth showing.

My hearth still glowed in my hut. This small, thatched home of mine smelt of chickens, and a soft herb-smell. It felt like I had been away from it for longer than I had.

I
TOOK
herbs elsewhere, in those last days. I went to Achnacon, with lavender, for I knew the lady there was fond of its smell. In a thick blizzard I went to Inverrigan with rosemary—for it cleanses a room very well, and I knew they had plenty of men in there. The boy who had shared honey with me was asleep on the floor, mouth open, and there were muskets lined up by the parlour wall. The captain, this man called Glenlyon, was sitting at its table with Inverrigan’s sons, and they played cards amongst them. His eyes were button-dark. He looked up at me, as I entered, but I did not look back. Instead, I pressed the rosemary to the lady of the house and whispered its uses to her. She nodded. She looked tired, and old, and I thought
be well
as I left her.
Cleanse the air. Be well.

And I took eggs to Achtriochtan. The wife of Old Man Achtriochtan took them in her hands, nodded, and she ushered me into the heat of the room. I did not seek this. I did not hope for food—only to provide it, for I knew they had killed their last hen for these men, and Achtriochtan’s bones were old. But she pushed me to the fire, kissed me, said
eat!
I counted seven soldiers there. Achtriochtan took his pipe from his mouth. He boomed, clapped his hand on my shoulder.
Sassenach!

He smelt of oats. I remember that.

He told his poems by the fire, and it did not matter that they were Gaelic words. I felt I understood them. I knew enough. I felt enough.

I left a fistful of peat outside Iain’s house. It was not much to give, but it was a little—and little things can help more than we know.

I
WAS
soothed, for a while. I looked at the wide, white, empty Rannoch Moor and thought
yes. All is well
. I found a comfort in the simple tasks—milking my goats, or stroking the oily coats of them—or in the simple beauty of short, winter days. Deer left their tracks. An eagle feather showed itself in the snow, and I lifted it, kept it.

They are Sarah’s kin…

I knew this. And I had seen their faces, heard their coughs.

But still—despite it all—my heart felt unwell in the dark, silent nights. Still, I did not like these soldiers being in the glen. I did not mean to judge them, and I try to like all living things until they hurt me—for bitterness is a sad, pained thing. But I did not like how the beasts the clan had hoped to keep living for another year had been killed, to feed the soldiers, or how much fuel was being burnt. I did not like the redness of their coats against the snow.

I liked the MacDonalds, though. So I gave them gifts—in their final days.

Coltsfoot. Peat. An egg.

One more thing you should know, sir. One more.

It was late, late in the day. The snow was thick, with a crust upon it so that it glinted in the dying light. Like eyes, I thought. I had been by Loch Leven. I’d picked seaweed from the shorelines, slipped shells and razor-clams into my pockets, and I made a basket from my skirts which I filled up with weed. Gulls wheeled. I stood and looked, for a time—for the mountains were very black, against the sky, and the loch was silver-bright. Eilean Munda slept, and I thought of its buried people. For a while, I was peaceful as I stood there.

I turned for home beneath a winter sky.

Every window I passed was candle-lit. The air smelt of smoke, and the soldiers’ leather. Their horses shook themselves in the byres.

And with my clinking shells and wet skirts, with a few frail snowflakes drifting through the air, I thought of Cora. I thought of my birth, in such weather—how she must have steamed, and hissed, and how she heard the church folk singing as she roared, so that her voice split. I had come out. And she’d looked down, said
witch
before my true name.

I held my skirts up, with the weed in them. And as I went, I heard a voice. Not Cora’s. I was past the Carnoch woods, and near the river’s bend. The light was nearly gone, but the farm at Inverrigan was high on the hillside, bright with life, and candles, and soldiers’ songs. I stopped. I listened to it. Was the voice from there? But it came again—much nearer.

It is here. To my left.

I stood very still. I waited.

The voice came again. It was a man’s voice—a frail, singing voice, so frail that I wondered if it was a dead man’s soul, as I’ve heard they can whisper.

I heard branches rustle near me, and a clap of water like a foot had tripped into the Coe. I heard a curse. A hiccough. A Lowland voice.

Not a soul. A real person.

And I thought
go, Corrag. Get home.

But as I hitched my skirts a little more and set off towards my hut, he called to me. He heard the
crunch
of my feet, and said
who is there? Who is in the dark?
He spoke plaintively, like a child. He struggled as he spoke, for I heard the trees shifting, and snow came down from them. I stood very still, did not speak. I held my breath, half-frightened.

Are you a spirit?
he asked.
Are you here to mock me? Are you here to punish me further in this
—he tripped—
snow?

We were both silent, for a moment or two.

Then I heard a branch break, and he stumbled, made a boyish cry of pain. There was the soft, heavy thud of a person sitting down. A sniff. A sigh.

You’re a ghost…
he said.
I cannot see you, but I can feel you…

And as I stood in the darkness, he cried. I heard him sob a deep, drunken sob—a heartfelt sob, and it had loss in it, and sorrow. Those were the sobs of a lonely man, a drunk, and we listened to it—the snow, the rocks and I. We heard him say
Glenlyon…
We heard him say
maul,
and
fire.

I took a step to him. I peered into the dark, and saw him—his clouded hair, his button-eyes. In his left hand was a bottle. In his right, I saw a parchment—dark, amongst the snow, and in a spidery hand.

I left him.

I crept away. I trod through the whiteness with his song in my ears—his drunk, mournful song and his heavy breath. There are old songs which Cora said the last of people sing—the last, the lonesome. It is their way of grieving, of soothing their cold hearts. And I thought
he sings such a song,
I was certain. I pitied him, as I made my way up to my hut. I pitied him, and his heavy song. I thought
keep him safe. Calm him.