Highland Ballad Part 8

After some time of this she half woke, though her eyes remained closed against the bitter truth of the waking world. She clutched the pillow to her like a lover, and in a moaning, despairing voice said his name.

"Oh, Michael. Where are you?"

Where are you? Where are you?

The words resounded in her mind, growing fainter, spiralling through a dark tunnel which became a deep well, leading to the heart of the abyss. And like tiny pebbles they struck the water far below with the faintest echo of sound.

Something stirred, as if woken from a fearful and everlasting sleep.

She saw clearly, now level with her eyes, a dark and shallow pool among a copse of death-black trees, the whole of the scene shrouded by mist and lit by seeping moonlight. And in its midst, lying face downward with only his arched back protruding above the surface of those terrible waters, the figure of a Scottish soldier.

As if sensing her presence the figure lifted its head, bewildered, and stood up. A fearful, long-drawn wail split the night, whether from the spirit or from herself she could not have said, only that the face was that of her beloved, that he was in great pain, and had been struck blind. He turned wildly from side to side, trying to penetrate the blackness of his eyes. And the same words that she had sent to him now became his own, endlessly, hopelessly repeated.

"Where are you? Where are you? Where are you!"

She tried to answer but could not, as if between them they possessed but a single voice. And as he finally stopped thras.h.i.+ng, and she felt her tongue loosed, she became aware of the thing which had stilled him, so utterly that she knew he had lost all hope, confronted by the sinister, solitary figure which parted the mist and stood before him: her hated half-brother, who had stolen and crushed his heart.

All was deathly still as they faced one another in silence. Purceville drew a long pistol, and held it at arm's length. Michael was a statue, head down, hands at his sides in resignation. There was the crack of a shot, and again a frozen wail split the night, this time undeniably her own.

Mary sat bolt upright in the bed. She was trembling, and her inner garments clung to her in a cold sweat. Fully awake now, and with the sudden insight brought by waking, she knew beyond a shadow of doubt what she must do. Still fully clothed, she stepped down from the bed and lifted up the mattress.

The ma.n.u.script book was there, had been there all the while she slept.

The feel of its widow-black cover was cold and forbidding, but there was no longer time for fear or hesitation. She lit a thick tallow candle, and moved with it to the hard, bare table and chair.

Her mother was still nowhere to be seen. She bolted the door from within, then opened the book before her.

Eleven

The two men sat before the roaring fire, smoking contentedly. The prisoner put a hand to his stomach, feeling nourished and filled as he had not been for many months. The room was warm; he was safe for the night, at least. And yet something was troubling him. Nothing to do with the man, or the place. It did not even seem to concern himself.

But in some remote corner of his mind there was disquiet, as if someone he cared about was in trouble or in danger. He took another deep puff on the pipe that had been given him, unable to work the thought through.

They had remained thus for some time when at last the old man spoke.

From his patient movements and steady gaze throughout, and still more from his present silence, the younger man sensed a profound caution and wisdom. So now that he chose to speak, the prisoner deemed it best to leave his disquiet for a time, to listen or to speak as was asked of him, and to learn from the seasoned veteran what was needful.

"I don't ask you to tell me your name," he began. "In truth I'd rather not know it, since what I don't know I can't tell. But if there's some name you would be called, near enough the mark to feel it yours, but wide enough to leave safe your parentage, I'd be pleased to learn it."

The younger man smiled. "Call me Jamie."

"Well then, Jamie. For the sake of an old man's curiosity, if nothing else, won't you tell me something of yourself? The escape and such, and what your plans are now. Needless to say you'll sleep in a bed tonight, much better than that old crack in the northern cliffs."

"How did you know about that?" His mind raced; perhaps the hiding place was not as safe as he imagined. "Could you see the smoke, then?

Do you think others saw it as well?"

"Nay, lad. Fear not. What smoke there was could hardly be seen: a wisp or two among the rocks, which I saw only when I brought my skiff close in."

"Then how?" asked the prisoner anxiously.

"T'was the sea hawk that gave you away. She's got a roost up near the top, and it seems you smoked her out proper. Wouldn't land all day, just kept circlin' about and looking down. If there's one thing a beast won't abide it's the smell of smoke. Puts 'em in a G.o.d's fear, and no mistake."

"But how did you know about the hiding place? I thought that just myself and my childhood companions....."

"And of course you thought that I was never young. But truth to tell, I was. Lost the virgin there, I did, and haven't seen her since." He let out a grunt of laughter, and broke into a boyish grin. Then slowly returned to the matter at hand. "All in all, I doubt there's half a dozen as know of it, and none of them English. You're well enough there, and in the morning I'll see you safely back." He paused, relit his pipe. "But right now I'm in the mood for a story. A good one, mind. And I'm obliging you to tell it to me."

So the man called Jamie began his tale, relating at first only the barest facts of his capture and imprisonment, leading up to the ma.s.s escape as they were being transferred from one h.e.l.l-hole to another.

But as the memories and emotions rose up in their fullness before him, he found that he could no more pa.s.s over them quickly than he could forget them. The wounds were too deep, and too many, for that.

So gradually, without himself realizing the change, he spoke in greater length and detail of the trials and fears of that time, and of his desperate struggle not to be broken, or to lose sight of his dreams and yearnings, no matter how black his world became. Even his childhood, and his pa.s.sionate love for the girl, found their rightful place in his tale, so much so that his throat often swelled or shut tight, and he was unable for a time to go on.

But go on he did, far into the night, while the old man here and there nodded his understanding, or gave a timely word of encouragement.

Until it had all come out, and he slumped back in the chair, exhausted, his face wet with tears.

Then without further speech the old man rose. And taking down a candle from the mantle he showed him to the bedroom, where he gave him his own bed to sleep in. Then with the young man safely at rest, he returned to the fire to think through all that he had heard, and decide what he must do to help him.

Because this same weather-beaten mariner, who was never to be seen making dramatic gestures at the church, or heard to raise his voice in righteous patriotism at the tavern, who himself had so little in the world, was then and there willing to risk it all to restore a single life to fullness. Without being asked, or telling himself that he was good or kind to do so, he felt the simple, organic stirrings of compa.s.sion in his aged heart. And expecting no greater reward than the warmth of the feeling itself, he determined to do all he could to guide this lad back to safety and freedom.

Simply put, he had vision enough to see another human soul before him, and courage enough not to turn away. For such was the spirit of his kind.

Twelve

She had found what she sought: a chant to raise the spirits of the dead. In terror at her own resolve, yet no more able to restrain herself than to stop her heart from beating, she put the book beneath her arm, wrapped a thick cloak about her, then lit and lifted the torch that she had found.

The night was still and cold as she stole from the hut, with traces of ghostly mist already forming in the hollows. The moon shone full and hard, dimming the surrounding stars with its halo of pale white.

She made for the Standing Stone, as dry as bone, where the power was strongest, older than the hills themselves. She felt that she moved not of her own accord, but as a puppet upon the strings of some higher (or lower) being. The reading of those dark, soul-splitting words had done its work on her. She moved as if entranced---eyes wide, mind dark and dulled. Only very deep, in the roots of her being, did the heart remain intact; and she realized that no matter how strange the vehicle, or how terrible the consequences, this was a thing which must be done. She must reach out to him with living hands, and in death or in life, calm the tortured spirit of her beloved.

The Standing Stone was just that, an uncarved granite tusk, thrusting up from a high shelf which overlooked the ravine. She approached it slowly, her senses returning. It did not need the reading of ancient lore to make her stand in awe of it, or believe in its dark powers.

For this was a place known throughout the countryside, to be wondered at by day, religiously avoided by night. It was said that the ghosts of William Wallace and Mary Stuart could be summoned here by those possessed of the black arts, as well as murdered warriors and chieftains from the grim, violent times before memory.

She trembled at the sight of it, as everything beyond fell away, shrouded by mist and distance. It was as if she stood at the edge of the living world, opening upon the vague and endless sea of Death's Kingdom. Her one desire was to turn and flee, back to the world of daylight and living flesh. And yet she must not only force herself to look upon it, but pa.s.s beyond, and standing in its far shadow, to call upon the very darkness from which her spirit palled.

She stood motionless, her resolve wavering before the onslaught of doubts and questions. Was she doing the right thing? Might her actions not only do them both further injury? These thoughts interlaced with a raw, gut-level fear for her own safety.

Yet strong as these forebodings were, there lived inside her something stronger: the love of a single man. The thought of Michael alone and in pain, was more than she could bear. She took the final steps, and stood on the sloping ground just beyond..... It.

The ravine opened before her, its steep sides leading down to the flatted heath below: a narrow vale of silvered gra.s.s, withered shrubs and speckled stone, here and there marked by solitary trees which rose up from the wreathing fog like pillars in a flood. The same fitful breeze which had carried it from the sea beyond, moved the vapory shroud across the scene in ghostly patterns: here and again clearing an open stage, only to wrap it once more in its cloak of white invisibility.

But this she took in with her eyes only. More acutely than any other sense, she felt the Stone behind her, a glowering menace, an evil force aware of her presence. She steeled herself to turn and face it. Then braving its deepest shadows, she wedged the torch between it and a smaller stone, half crushed beneath.

And with this action, thrusting stubborn light into a place of darkness, she found the courage needed to perform the grim task ahead.

Kneeling in the dank ground with her back against the Stone, she shook off the cold shudder that ran through her at its touch, and opened the book before her, turning to the ribbon-marked page.

Holding his image ever before her, she began to read aloud the chant.

The words came haltingly at first, unwilling, then stronger, slowly taking hold of her until it seemed another, far older woman spoke through her: that she did not need her eyes to recall the words or sound their meaning. The voice rose and fell.

By the Standing Stone, as dry as bone Through ancient tales to walk alone By moonlight stark, to spirits dark We call to You Their way be shown.