The Last Sunset (8 page)

He was lying in a bed of straw in one of the
cottages. His arm had been dressed and bandaged and felt free of pain.

“Mary was able to get the ball out of your arm,”
his brother continued cheerfully. “We could have made enough black pudding to
feed Lochaber with the blood you lost.” He held up his leg to show his own war
wound. “I was lucky, myself. The ball just skiffed my calf. Mind you, I’ll be
left with a scar.”

Alistair tried to pull himself upright, but was
restrained by two determined little hands.

“
No. You must lie still
,” his nurse said
softly in Gaelic. “
You have lost too much blood
.”

Mary… Her name was Mary… He couldn’t even begin
to understand how this hauntingly beautiful fragment of the past could be with
him here… now. As she fussed over his dressing her long dark hair fell
carelessly over features that would normally have turned him to jelly. There
was no awkwardness about her; Alistair guessed she’d grown comfortable in his
presence while he’d been unconscious, and he found himself afraid to open his
mouth in case he broke the spell.

Colin had no such inhibitions: “All the others
have taken to the hills in case the soldiers come back. We could hear a lot of
shooting away to the west a wee while ago. Mary said she would not leave us…
but I think she meant yourself…”

“
Please
,” she interrupted then, “
if
you have the Gaelic… please, spare my house the tongue of those men…
”

Colin apologised, but it was his brother’s eyes
that held her soft gaze.

She would not leave… yourself, he had said.
Alistair knew then, amid the insanity of the moment, that somehow this
beautiful Mary of the mists was about to become a part of his life. He began to
lapse once more into unconsciousness. For the first time in a very long time he
had no fear of the darkness. Perhaps this time he would be spared the dreams…

As he drifted off, however, he heard the
distant crack of single, high-velocity rifle shots.

A rich, bovine smell drew all manner of
strange associations in Macmillan’s mind as he struggled back to consciousness.
He opened his eyes to find the fearsome shape of a Highland cow peering back at
him. Man and beast gaped at each for a few moments, before the animal resumed
its rhythmical chewing.

Macmillan took stock of his surroundings. He was
in a dank, foul-smelling byre, its earthen floor covered with straw. Beside him
his comrades lay in a tangled sprawl, like a trio of newborn calves.

They had also begun to take stock of their
surroundings.

“Get yer ass outtae ma face,” growled Rae.

“Aw, Ah wondered where the draught was coming
from.” Ferguson rose gingerly to his feet. “What is the story here, by the way?
Where are we?”

“Aw no…” Macsorley’s voice was full of anguish.
“There’s dung on ma clothes. This floor is all covered with dung. What is going
on here?”

“There’s a horse in here with us!” Ferguson cried,
his voice edged with panic.

“Look, sharrup the lot o’ yez!” yelled the
corporal. “It’s no’ a horse, it’s a cow. Now gerra grip of yerselves ’til we
find out what the score is.”

“Aw naw, Ah’m all covered in cow dung.”

“Where the hell are we…?” Macmillan murmured.
The walls of the byre consisted of rough, dry-stone blocks, the low sloping
ceiling of dried bracken. Its windows were little more than vertical slits.

“Looks like we’re in some kindae prison,”
Ferguson observed, casting an experienced eye around him.

“And what’s Morag been jailed for? Shitting
without a permit?”

“Ah wouldnae be surprised,” grumbled Macsorley.

Macmillan indicated the weapons and ammunition
at their feet. “Well, we’re definitely not in prison.” He gave Rae a long
withering look. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Aw Gawd, that’s right,” Ferguson remembered. He
backed away from his friend. “Aw hell, you’ve done some daft things in the
past, but you’ve really screwed it up this time. You’re gonnae get us all
shot.”

“It wasnae ma fault,” the big man cried, “you
saw what happened. Ah wasnae aiming at him, Ah was aiming at yon… yon…”

“And what about that explosion in the sky?”
Macsorley put in, dabbing straw at his uniform. “What the hell was all that
about?”

The images were coming back to them now in
sporadic bursts.

As Macmillan retrieved his rifle he became aware
of a faint glow edging a portion of the wall to his left. He realised he was
looking at a doorway, concealed behind a shabby curtain. He snapped into
action.

“Mac, put one up the spout, keep the safety on.
Rae, Fergie, stay here ’til we recce this.” He nodded at Macsorley, who’d moved
to cover the exit. “Follow me through, okay?”

Cautiously the non-commissioned officer probed
the makeshift curtain with the point of his rifle, before pushing the material
to one side. The faint glow became a dull reddish light, and for the second
time that day he smelt the aromatic tang of peat smoke.

The cow smelt it too and waddled towards the
opening. Rae and Ferguson jumped out of its way as if they’d been ambushed by a
predator. Macmillan allowed the cow to squeeze through the doorway and then
followed on behind.

Man and beast emerged together into the smoky
depths of what appeared to be another, larger cattle shed. To his left he could
see daylight through a small window and around the edges of a badly-fitting
door. In the middle of the floor a smouldering fire gave off equal amounts of
smoke and flame. As Macmillan’s eyes adjusted to the gloom he could make out
pieces of rudimentary furniture. From the blackened rafters hung an assortment
of fish and game, curing naturally in the sweet smoky air.

The building appeared to be uninhabited. The cow
knew differently, however. Lowing softly, it lumbered towards a little recess
at the far end of the building, where Macmillan could hear hushed voices
shooing the animal away.

“On your feet, whoever’s there!” he yelled.

Immediately the whispering ceased.

“Come on, out with ye!” Macmillan barked, his
rifle at the ready.

Still there was no movement from the shadows, other
than the contented swishing of the cow’s tail. Macsorley added his voice then,
in words that were lost on his corporal. Moments later four nervous figures
began to emerge into the smouldering glow of the peat flame, clinging together
like hinds cornered by wolves. The cow moved forward with them, as though it
too were part of the family group.

Leading the little cluster was a man of about
sixty. He was small, stocky, with long silver hair and flowing beard. He was
dressed in the ancient Highland garb of tartan plaid, or
phillamhor
; the
brightly checked patterns pleated above the knee to form a kilt, with the
remainder of the material brought over his left shoulder and fastened at the
breast.

The others were all women; the oldest in her
mid-forties. Macmillan guessed the two younger women were aged about twenty and
twelve respectively. All were dressed in shawls weaved in individual tartans,
which hung attractively over dark, calf-length dresses. True to his profession,
the corporal’s eyes lingered over the shapely form of the older girl.

By now Rae and Ferguson had also made their way
through the opening. Rae introduced himself, a smile of bright interest on his
face.

“Hello there, darling, how’s it goin’?”

The girl took one look at the latest intruders
and shrank back into the shadows.

“What are they, Corp? Tinkers or what?” asked
Ferguson.

“Of course they’re not bloody tinkers!”
Macsorley hissed.

“What the hell is going on here?” Macmillan
breathed.

“Are they… you know… are they, like, real? Ah
mean, they’re no’ like that other lot we saw?”

“They look real enough.”

“What was it you said tae them Mac?” Macmillan
asked.

“Ah got learnt a fair bit of the old Gaelic when
Ah was a kid. Ah told them no’ tae be scared. That you were only shouting like
that because you were more afraid than they were.”

“Ye said what?” Macmillan could see the girls
looking fearfully in his direction, and decided not to pursue the issue.

“Don’t they speak English, then?”

“Doesnae look like it.”

“Can you translate for us?” Rae asked.

“Ah can try. Ah only remember bits and pieces,
but.”

“Good. Ask the doll if she’s doing anything the
night,” said Rae with a suggestive leer.

“Right, give it a break!” barked Macmillan.
“Mac. Get them tae talk if you can. Try tae find out who they are. See if you
can… if you can…” He shook his head. “Just get them tae talk, okay?”

Macmillan and the others stood in redundant
silence then, as the ancient tongue of Glen Laragain found its voice once more.
Macsorley spoke softly to the little group, occasionally stopping to correct
himself, as half-forgotten words and phrases came back to mind. At first his
audience stared dumbly back at him, but eventually the soldier began to draw
some response. Occasionally one or other of the women would offer a reply, but
mostly the dialogue centred on the old Highlander.

At last Macsorley turned to his comrades, a
stunned look on his face.

“What did they say, Mac?”

“You’re not gonnae like this, Corp.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Macsorley used his beret to wipe the sweat from
his face. He took some time to compose himself, as if he was having difficulty
translating his message into English.

“This place is
an tigh dubh
,” he began,
“a black house.”

“Ye mean like a croft-house?”

Macsorley shook his head. “This house would be
part of a township; like a farming community. Each family would’ve kept a cow,
for milk and butter and that. During the winter, or when it was sick, it
would’ve been housed in the
tigh dubh
.”

“What about that lot?” The corporal indicated
the inhabitants, who’d begun to recover some dignity now that the danger seemed
to have passed.

“The
bodach
; the old guy; his name is
Domnhuill
Beag Camshron
; Donald Cameron tae you and me. That’s his wife;
Mhairi
,
and his daughters
Ishbel
and
Shona
. He says he also has two boys,
but he wanted to emphasise they’re no’ away with the army. They’re away hunting
venison.”

“The army?”

Macsorley looked apprehensively at his N.C.O.
“Prince Charlie’s Jacobite army.”

There was a long, horrified silence, which was
eventually broken by Rae’s studied response: “What a loada rubbish! Bonnie
Prince Charlie? You’ve translated it all wrong, ya dumplin’!”

Macsorley shook his head. “It’s like Ah said
earlier; this isn’t a croft-house; the old guy’s never heard of the word.
Crofts didn’t appear until later in the eighteenth century.”

Macmillan could see the old Highlander
whispering at his family. Their expressions indicated they were having equal
difficulty accepting events.

“So this is all real?” said Ferguson. “These
people; they’re no’ ghosts or that? They think they’re living in… in… seventeen
sixty-four?”

“It’s seventeen forty-six, and that’s no’ what
Ah’m saying! It’s no’ them that’s the problem, it’s us! They
are
livin’
in seventeen forty–six… This is it! This is the real thing! God alone knows
what we’re doing here!”

Rae shook his head angrily. “Aw, this is all
rubbish! That’s probably dope the old git’s burning in yon fire! Ah’ve had
enough of this. Ah’m getting tae hell outae here!” He pushed his way angrily
out of the house, almost taking the door off its hinges. Immediately he came to
a halt, moaning softly: “Aw, God Almighty.”

Gone was the assault course that had been gouged
out of the glen. Gone too were the ruins that studded the landscape. Before
him, nestling in archaic splendour, lay a scattered hamlet of thatched
cottages, each sending a little trail of peat smoke into the soft morning air.
As far as the eye could see, the land showed every sign of habitation. Amid the
pastoral clutter chickens, goats, cattle, sturdy little ponies grazed.
Cultivated ridges snaked upwards into the cloud-covered hillsides.

“Have you ever seen anything so wonderful in all
yer life?” said Macsorley, his eyes bright with excitement.

“This is no’ happening,” Rae mumbled.

“Did we do this?” whispered Ferguson. “We didnae
do all this, did we?”

“Chentlemen, you will forgive my lack of
hospitality,” a soft, heavily accented voice interjected.

All four turned in surprise to find the old
Highlander standing behind them. His womenfolk still hovered nervously on the
threshold of their cottage.

“It is not ushual for visitors to be entering my
house through the byre.”

The soldiers gaped in mute astonishment.
Encountering this phantom was one thing; discovering he could talk was like
communicating with the dead.

“Yes, chentlemen, I have the English, myself,”
the old Highlander went on. “ ’Tis a wise man who learns the tongue of his
adversary, is it not?”

“Who… eh, who are you?” Macmillan mumbled.

“As your young friend informed you; I am
Domnhuill
Beag Camshron
of
Achnacon
.” He bowed elegantly. “And yourselfs,
chentlemen? You wear the breeks of the Lowlander, but I am thinking you are not
King Cheorge’s men…?”

Macmillan shook his head, his eyes as wide as if
he was confronted by Lazarus. “Corporal Andy Macmillan, from Stirling…”
Mechanically he held out his hand, which the Highlander grasped.

“Macmillan, you say? From Stirling? An unushual
home for such a fine name.” His alert eyes took in every detail of his strange
visitors. “Now there is a queer thing… And would yourself be kin to the
Macmillans of Loch Arkaigside, at all?”

“Aaah don’t think so…”

Their interpreter held out his hand. “Private
James Macsorley, from… eh, from
Muirshearlach
…”

The old Highlander’s face lit up. “Macsorley… from
Muirshearlach
? Och, but of course, yourself hass the red hair of
Muirshearlach
.
You are welcome to my home, young
Muirshearlach
.” He turned to the
remaining soldiers, who stood like mute oxen, awaiting orders. “And your
friends?”

“Private Archie Rae, frae Paisley…”

“Private William Ferguson, frae Irvine yer… er,
yer Highness.”

“Paisley… Irvine… Ach, well, never mind,” the
old man murmured disappointedly. “Och, but I am forgetting my manners.
Yourselfs must be tired, and hungry, after your… ah, your chourney here?”

Food had been the last thing on their minds,
although none of them could remember the last time they had eaten.

Macmillan smiled. “That would be very kind of
you Mister… er, Mister Cameron. Ah’m afraid we’ve no way of paying you for
food, but…”