The Highwayman's Curse (5 page)

“I
ona, liquor for the lad!” said Thomas.

The girl looked at me hesitantly from beneath her river of red hair and handed me a cup, near full of whisky. I knelt by Tam, and, first looking at Jeannie so that she would see I meant no harm, I tipped the cup slowly against his lips. She saw my meaning, and lifted his head, using one finger to open his mouth. The fumes waked him somewhat and he looked into my eyes with an empty gaze, seeming nearer death than I wished him to be. The liquid slipped down his throat and he choked and spluttered. Jeannie held his head fast with one strong arm, his mouth open with the other. With much spilling, we slowly poured the whole cup down Tam's throat, though much was lost along the way.

It took two cups of whisky before his eyes closed and his body went soft, a smile on his thin face. Already his breathing was easier, though I knew this would not last for long. The whisky was for one purpose only – to make what was to come easier. For the boy, and for us as we listened. For I would not have the child scream as I set his bones.

As well as its use in relief of pain, it is well known that whisky or any such spirit is fair powerful for bringing a person out of collapse. And I think a boy could not have been nearer collapse than Tam.

Now I told Jeannie what I needed. “You must hold the child's arm above the elbow. You will need to be strong, as I must pull the bones away further than they were meant to go, before I can set them by the feel of them. Are you able to do this?”

How I was able to command this older woman in such a way, I know not, but from somewhere came the strength. From necessity, I suppose. And because they looked to me to do what they could not.

Jeannie nodded, glad perhaps to be told what to do, to be acting instead of listening to the arguing of the men. She tucked a strand of dusty orange hair beneath her cap, and wiped some sweat from her brow. Her eyes looked tired and dull, the skin beneath them dark and sagging, a deep line etched between nose and mouth. I could not tell her age but I suppose she must have been around forty-five or more.

I turned now to Bess. “Be ready to tie the arm as we did before. Will you do that?” She nodded, and looked at me without smiling, though without anger either.

Everything was in my hands.

Jeannie settled herself on the other side of Tam, kneeling, placing a folded cloth beneath his head for comfort, and held him by the arm above the elbow. Bess and I began to untie the bindings. Men shuffled positions behind me, muttering. I looked not at them and I tried to put them from my mind. A dog scratched itself near by and the fire hissed and crackled.

Kneeling on the hard floor, I laid my hands on Tam's deadened wrist. Its coldness was shocking, its greyness ugly. No lifeblood flowed in it at all. This was a limb which would rot and die for certain, if I could not straighten it properly. I knew little enough how to do it, but I could visualize those displaced bones and surely it must be a matter of common sense how to pull them straight. Common sense and a deal of resolve.

I must save the arm and thereby the boy's life. There lay our only hope. Without that, we would find ourselves drowned at high tide.

Dizzy specks swarmed across my vision. Unable to quell my panic, I took my hands from Tam's wrist. “More whisky,” I said. Moments later, a cup was placed in front of me. Taking a deep breath, I took several large mouthfuls, gasping with the shock of it. And, in the spinning amber haze that followed, I took Tam's wrist again.

Quickly, firmly, I pulled the hand towards me.

The boy moaned, and a line of drool came from the corner of his mouth. The reek of whisky was everywhere, its heat still in my head, somehow separating my mind from what my hands were doing.

It was as though I watched myself from above. I saw myself cup the broken arm beneath my hand, watched my fingers feel for the edges of the bones beneath the swollen flesh, felt them slide apart as I pulled his wrist again. I felt a space between the edges, was aware of Tam writhing beneath me, though oddly I heard no sound, only the rushing in my head and my own words, “Be still! Stay quiet! I have nearly finished.” I think Bess turned her head from what I did with my fingers; I know her eyes were narrow as slits, her mouth clamped shut as though she would keep a scream inside.

With a crunch which I felt but did not seem to hear, the bones slid onto each other beneath my fingers, fitting like a jagged stick, safely, straight. “Now,” I said to Bess and, while I held his arm steady with both my hands, she tied the piece of wood to him again, her fingers fumbling at first but soon finding their way. And now, though I know not why I did this except either by some instinct or because of some dim-remembered saying from one of my father's kennelmen, I placed my hands on the boy's upper arm and shoulder, massaging the life back into it. And I would swear I saw some colour return slowly to the pallid flesh.

For some long moments, we watched, all of us. I stood up and felt the blood rushing to my own feet after I had knelt for so long.

I know not what the reason is for any of this – whether some miracle of God, or that the boy would have recovered even without me, or whether perhaps I have some hidden skill in medical matters – but the boy lay quiet and peaceful now and, though fast asleep, yet with a rosier complexion and smooth breathing. I think perhaps he needed only to sleep and the whisky gave that to him. Perhaps sleep took away his mortal fear, quietening his heart and soothing him. I believe it was not anything else I did.

Whether in truth it was my action that saved that boy's life mattered little, for his family thought it was. And I was happy for them to think so.

Tears were in Jeannie's eyes, as she looked gratefully at me before lifting Tam and lying him down more comfortably in the box-bed. She covered him with warm blankets as he muttered in his drunken sleep.

Now the strength went from my legs and I found myself on the floor, my head spinning.

“Give the lad some food!” called Thomas, picking me up and slapping me heartily on the back. And very soon I was being led to the table, where a wooden plate with a steaming meaty substance was placed before me and another for Bess. I had not eaten since the day before and it was difficult not to gulp the whole plateful without pause.

I know not what that food was, but it was tasty indeed. I think it had oatmeal and some finely chopped meat, lamb perhaps, with a thick dark gravy to bind it together. Heavily salted it was, and with a fiery taste. This was what the girl had been stirring when we arrived. I tried to look my thanks at her but she would not glance my way. Well, I have indicated before that I did not like her and I did not.

A piece of doughy cake was placed beside me and gestures made that we were to wipe our plates with it. I did so, and took much pleasure from the crumbly, savoury stuff, rich with the taste of toasted corn or somesuch. It was warm and comforting, and at the end of it I felt a great deal better.

Still my head ached from my earlier injury; still it spun with the effect of that and the whisky; but I felt now no fear and my stomach was full. I had reason to be content, after so much danger.

I could not tell what was to come, but it could not be worse than what we had faced. Bess's black eyes seemed once more to smile at me. She looked tired, though, very tired, with shadows above her cheeks, her face pale as opal, her hair straggly and limp. And her lips, usually so red, were now bloodless.

“On your head be the consequences,” she had said. But I had saved our lives on this occasion. I had been right to come here, and if it had been a close thing, then close things are what make life worth the living.

Now, perhaps, we could begin to live our lives?

I thought perchance we could stay here a few days and then move on. I thought that we could rest, eat, give the horses time to recover from the journey, and then leave, proceeding to whatever life might have in store for us.

But it was not to be.

I
marvelled at the behaviour of the men that evening. They had been so ready to kill us, but now seemed to have forgotten our presence, as they huddled on stools at the far end of the room, away from the fire. It was as if they did not take our lives seriously – it had mattered so little to them whether we lived or died that our escape from drowning did not stir their emotions.

I suppose now they talked of the old man's death and what they might do about it – but I could hear only parts of what they said. The argument between Thomas and Red seemed forgotten. Red had returned from outside, with a rolling gait, seeming forgetful of what had happened, though at no point did he come to thank me as the others had. The other men took me by the hand or slapped me on the back, until my face was tired from smiling back at them.

Though they might seem suddenly to be our friends, I did not trust them as yet.

The boy of my age, Calum, was not there. He had been sent outside for some reason I did not know. Mad Jamie, too, had gone, back to wherever he came from, I presumed.

Iona sat by the fire. She was deftly weaving willow to make a basket, when Jeannie handed her a slate and instructed her to copy out some lines from a huge black Bible. At first, she grumbled, but Jeannie had said something about Sunday being a good day to write words from the Bible and she had gracelessly taken the slate and begun to write. I wondered at this – that in such poverty, a girl would learn to read and write.

The old shepherd's corpse still lay on the trestle table at the far end of the dwelling, near where the men sat now. I had heard mention of waiting for the minister – their word for churchman, I guessed – to come, but I knew not when that would be.

There was much I did not know or understand.

Whereas before we had been held as captives, now suddenly we were treated as guests. This seemed strange to me, though I was too tired to wonder at it. Perhaps they wanted me to tend to Tam when he should wake. And what had Jock said about Bess being small enough to go down to the cave? What did they plan for us?

What if we wished to leave? Would they be so agreeable then?

I had barely strength to remain awake. On the floor I sat, resting my head against the ragged wall, soothed by its cool stones. Bess sat near by on a stool. I could see her looking towards the old woman every now and then.

The old woman for her part sat on the floor by the fire now, her legs crossed like a young child at play, staring into its flames and muttering every now and then to herself. “I curse their heid an' all the hairs…” she would say. If she meant not us, it was not clear whom she meant. I only know I did not like her words, or her voice, or anything about her.

Jeannie lay on the bed beside her grandson, leaning on one elbow, and stroked his hair as he muttered in his drunken sleep.

She looked over at me once, and at Bess. “I thank ye again. The both o' ye. I ken no' how ye came to be here, but I thank God that ye were, for Tam's sake. 'Tis a sad day, but Old John was ready for the next world. And there's nothing that weeping can heal.” She threw a look towards the old woman. “See Old Maggie, she doesna even grieve for her man. She understands nothing. She lives only in the past, and nothing from today makes a difference to her. Blessed she is.”

“What of her cursing, her anger at us?” I asked.

“She speaks not o' ye. She curses the men who killt her father and mother for their faith, and who deformed her face as ye see it. Seven years old Maggie was when the King's men tied her mother to a stake and drowned her in the rising tide, along wi' another woman. They shot her father as he prayed. And then they took a burning sword and burnt her face. A wee child – would ye believe it! No' even English they were, nor even Catholic – just soldiers who would do all their masters tellt them.”

“Why? What had they done?”

“They would no' sign an oath o' duty to the King. Their duty was to God above all others but the King would no' have that. Our forefathers had a Covenant wi' God and they called themselves Covenanters. Brave they were, though much good it did them. Now, we have other ways o' fighting agin a King's government.” She nodded towards where the men sat. “Ye'll see soon enough. And if ye take my advice, ye'll do what they tell ye. Ye are either wi' us or ye are agin us. And they will put ye in the cave if they think they canna trust ye.”

Bess had been silent during this time and I knew not if she listened. But now she spoke. I saw her hand go to her throat, where she touched the locket beneath her shirt.

“Seven years old? And she has carried her anger so long?”

“Aye, and more than eighty years old she is. But 'tis a kind o' madness has taken her mind. She can no' say what she had to eat this morning, but she can tell ye what her mother wore as the tide drowned her.”

“All in white, an' never weeping,” said Old Maggie now, staring somewhere into the rafters, her thin lips quivering. “An' the soldiers shouting, ‘Repent!' but she wouldna. No' my mother. Brave she was, braver than any. Curst we are now. Curst that we were no' pure enough.”

“No, Maggie, we're no' curst.” Jeannie spoke with a weary patience, as though she had heard this many times.

“No' ye!” the old woman snapped. “No' ye. Ye are no' o' my blood!” And she began to rock again, muttering, “Curst we are.”

Bess moved to sit nearer to the old woman. She stretched her fingers to touch her hand. The woman started, looking suddenly at Bess, seeming a little frightened.

But Jeannie was speaking now. “Dinna fret yourself, Maggie. Ye're no' curst. And ye ken I dinna like ye to speak like that in front o' Iona and wee Tam.”

Now Old Maggie blazed, her eyes bright and her body leaning forward, her bony finger pointing at Iona. “Curst she is too, like all the women o' my line.” Suddenly, she stopped and her face became like a child's, the back of her hands rubbing her eyes. “I am going tae sleep.”

Iona stood up and left the dwelling quickly.

Jeannie called to the men, “Billy, help me get your grandmother ready for bed. She will sleep here wi' us tonight, no' alone in her own cottage. She needs her sleep, do ye no', my love?” And Old Maggie nodded. As Jeannie carefully climbed off the bed, avoiding the sleeping Tam, Billy came from the group huddled at the other end of the room and walked towards us, his huge frame rolling, and yet with perfect balance and ease. Gently, he took his grandmother beneath one arm, while Jeannie took the other, and they led her slowly from the dwelling.

Jeannie was a woman who would do what needed to be done, I could tell. Such women, I see now, hold the world together, while men rip it to pieces with their wars and their false justice, always claiming God as their guide.

Why could my mother not have been as strong as these women? But the women of my mother's sort, high-born and soft, were worse than any man, for they did nothing, only took their easy lives and thought of no more than scent and silk and servants. This I had come to understand.

Tam, meanwhile, began to stir, groaning. I went to him, not knowing if this was the whisky or a worsening of his condition. He opened his eyes and groaned again and gagged. I turned him gently so that he lay on his side, his good arm, and I reached for a tankard and held it by his mouth. He gagged again, but at first nothing came from him save thin, bubbling spittle. And then, indeed, he did vomit a little, as I held the tankard by his mouth.

It was the whisky. He would suffer a sore head in the morning but he would not die. Now I dared hope further that we would be safe. As I stayed by him, reassuring him and adjusting the cloths where they bound his arm too tightly, Bess turned to Iona, who had returned from outside with a large jug of water. Calum was still away and the men sat and talked quietly at the other end.

“Iona, what did Maggie mean about the women being cursed?”

Iona did not look at Bess but her answer was clear enough. “She is mad, aye she is. She says I'm cursed. Well, I am no'! She does no' even care that her husband died today!” She did not cry, but her eyes were bright and I thought tears were not far away.

“Iona!” Jeannie was back, leading Old Maggie, with Billy helping. They had, I suppose, been out to the latrine and were now going to put the old woman to bed. “Where's your heart, Iona? She doesna understand, ye ken that well.” Iona's face clouded.

“Aye, I understand,” said Old Maggie. “He drowned at the stake, for he would no' repent.”

Iona looked away with a slight shake of her head. For a moment I thought less badly of her. What did she have to look forward to in this place? She was surrounded by madness and filth and men who drank whisky in quantities and the best she could hope for was to marry into another family who might be no better.

“Iona, take our guests to the well and the latrine. And then find them some blankets. We should sleep soon.” Wordlessly, Iona took a long metal stick, pierced it through a clod of peat from a pile, lit it in the fire, and walked out with no more than a glance at us. We followed. I carried the tankard of Tam's whisky-reeking vomit. I, too, would do what must be done.

It was by now nearly dark but it seemed early to be going to bed. However, I would not argue, tired as I was. Still my head thumped slightly behind my eyes.

I breathed deeply in the fresh twilight air as we walked across the yard, our way lit by the blazing peat torch. Curlews called above us and the smell of the sea came salty and dry.

“Tell us about Old Maggie. Why does she say you are all cursed? You don't believe in such things, do you?” I asked.

Iona spoke freely now, outside, away from the undercurrents of anger inside. Still she did not look at us and there was an edge of bitterness to her voice. “When I was wee, I used to. I used to dream o' terrible things happening to me, every night, as soon as it was dark and the shadows came. But now, I dinna know whether to believe or no'. By day, I dinna, but by night…” This I understood all too well.

“And why does she say you are cursed?” asked Bess. I sensed a dislike in her voice, as though she had little sympathy for Iona.

“She said one o' the soldiers cursed her, when he was taunting her mother and telling her to sign the oath. Then, many years later, the gipsies took her only daughter for a wife. And her youngest grandson, Hamish, my uncle – the one who would no' have ye killed on a Sabbath – had a daughter who died only four days old and another is blind. My two other uncles, Red and Billy, have no children, nor wives neither, and nor does Mouldy. So she thinks the women o' our line are none o' us pure enough in God's eyes, because the soldier made her impure by touching her as he did, and so we deserve our curse. And my father has one daughter.” At this, she pointed to herself. “So Old Maggie is waiting for something bad to happen to me. And if it does, she'll no' be weeping – she'll be pleased to see her words come true.”

Silently, I rinsed out the tankard in well water. It was a story with power and yet it had begun merely with the cruel and ignorant words of a soldier. And belief in those words had grown it into a story with the strength to hold for generations.

“The soldier merely used the words of a curse to frighten her mother so that she would give way,” I argued. “It has no power.” Bess said nothing and I could not tell her thoughts from her face in those shadows.

“Aye, but the women in her line have all come to a bad end,” said Iona simply. “It must have power. I try to tell myself that it means nothing, but I canna help but fear it.”

The peat torch sent its smoke swirling around her head, lending her a ghostly appearance, sending black shadows across her face, and I shivered. It seemed to me that Old Maggie had lost her heart and held only onto her hatred. And her hatred was keeping the curse strong.

A curse may be a powerful thing. I knew that much. It holds even the wisest man in its grip and in the darkness and the wavering shadows anything is possible.

That is its power.