The Blood Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  I sighed. I did not wish to speak of Elspeth. A question waiting to be asked her shade, and I had no heart for the answer. Not yet, not yet. I said what I dared.

  “Young. Smart. Head burned with red hair. Heart burned with God’s love. Taught her to read. Adored hymns, hated poetry. Irish. Lilting brogue. Remembered all creature’s names, flirted with each. Blushed pink at swear-words.”

  “She was your mistress?” asked Lalena. She spoke the word lightly, in woman-of-the-world ease, inquiring casual. She would follow with an observation about the weather, then inquire as to how Elspeth performed in bed.

  “What a word,” I told to the river. “Mistress. Mate. Courtesan. Whore. Paramour. So many choices to name the body you take to bed. If you don’t take them on the floor, anyway.”

  Suddenly I was angry at the river. “I hate the power we give ourselves to use others. I hate the idea that any person is a thing for another’s purpose. To label and use, to fight or fuck or put in a wheel to turn for a mill. No, El was not my mistress. El was just herself, and came to my bed easily as she sang to the sunlight in the kitchen, or fed scraps to strays.”

  “You sound like Uncle,” sighed Lalena. “Forever going on about what chains a name puts upon a body. Makes him quite angry.”

  “I’m angry at myself,” I told the reflected clouds. I hadn’t realized till I said. The clouds scudded on, smug. They’d known all along. “Your uncle is wise. Just now I used words to chain the truth. Shall I free the truth for you?”

  Lalena eyed me, then turned back to the river. Edging away from the philosophical bear, growly in his mood.

  “Elspeth was not mine, because I never gave myself to her. I am no fool. True lovers must surrender themselves, each to each. Ah, I was too proud. Too cowardly to give myself. That’s what I do. I keep myself. I survive.”

  “Coward,” I accused the river. “And hypocrite. Forever shouting how the rich use the poor, grind them, bind them with chains of law to the fields and factory floor.” I turned to Elspeth. I mean, I turned to Lalena. “I was no better than those I denounced. I was Elspeth’s employer. Her idol. I took advantage of my position, my reputation, my experience, pretending our bed could be a thing shared twixt equals.”

  Lalena cocked her head, solemnly weighing the confession. At length she concluded deliberations, delivered judgement.

  “Are you joking, you great idiot?”

  Her attitude annoyed. No matter how perilous Lalena might be; she was a snip of a girl without the battle-right to wear wise old looks. Or give them to another. “I’m really not the jesting sort.” I took a breath of night air, calming myself. I was being absurd. Time to riposte.

  “Now tell me about Chatterton. No longer the fire of your heart?”

  She looked down the road, where the others were yet to appear. She tried a sigh, a shake of the head. Still dissatisfied, she ran hands through hair, sending it flying in sign of frustration. Soon as she ceased, it settled back to parallel lines of blond. She let it be, asked the river, “Do you know what it is like, to want to love when everyone fears you?”

  “Yes.”

  Stamp of foot. She put face to mine, growled. “Do you know how infuriating you are?”

  “Yes?”

  “Ach, be quiet.” She backed away, returned to the flowing water, arms folded. “Chatterton came to our clan after he did, well, what he did. My father decided to mate Cousin Chat and myself like two interesting lines of dogs.”

  I pictured the offspring. Fearsome creatures for sure.

  “We became friends of a sort. My first friend, in truth. Ah, Chat had no fear of me, nor my father nor the clan nor devil nor God. But he had no interest in my hand or person either. My cousin wanders in a dream of, of that girl. Heart-shaped face, waves of hair, and so on. A figment of his addled brain, like enough.”

  I recalled the story from the ancient mariner Light. “Then Chatterton killed your father?”

  Lalena returned gaze to the river. “Da declared himself unimpressed. He decided Chatterton was a mewling sop undeserving to join the clan. He mocked him, and got a nod. Slapped him, and got a smile. Put hands to Chat’s throat and found himself upon the high feast table gutted like the Christmas goose.”

  I could picture that. I did not want to, but I could.

  “Chat fled south, though it was judged fair killing. There was no love of the clan for its laird. His mother, my gran, was one of the cold brides from out the east, and he took after her ilk. But Da’s passing left me to be Lady of the Clan. Who to be my groom?”

  She laughed. “I looked the suitors up and down, and ha! they turned bride-white at the thought of wedding and bedding me. So I went searching for the only man who ever saw me as someone past the name, past the blood, past the idea of a mad thing.”

  She shook her head at the river. “Looking for Chat, I found someone just as dangerous and twice as mad. A courtly loon who a saw a me I’d have to seek in sunlight.”

  That last puzzled. When had this fellow entered the story? “Who?”

  She put hands to head again to shake frustration from her mind. It would fail. It came to me as revelation: Her hair absorbed all the order of her existence. All her sanity went to the separate strands of her hair.

  She gave up again, sighed. She leaned over the railing, listening to the flow of water and time. Then pulled back, considered me. Licked lips wet. She moved sideways, put mouth to my ear, ready to whisper. Ah, I knew well what words she would breathe. She would suggest we slip into the tree-shadows, there to deal with each other as equals. She would grant me her woman’s body, not in blood-lust but shy desire.

  Her lips touched my ear, tickling. “There are several men beneath the bridge,” she confided. “They are about to attack.”

  Chapter 22

  In which a bridge is finally crossed

  The usual business. Strike first, or wait, preparing one’s footing? A quick retreat had its charm. We could dash to the horses. Though that exposed us to what lurked under the bridge. Why hadn’t they attacked when we watered the beasts?

  I eyed Lalena, she me. I listened. Water flowing beneath. Crickets, an owl, the bark of a fox. Wind in the rushes of the river bank. Frog song, night-birds. Naught else. I doubted her several attackers. Figments of her disturbed nature. I leaned over the railing, addressed the dark beneath the bridge.

  “Gentlemen, if you would come up from the river, the lady won’t have to get wet.” I considered. “At least, not wet with water.”

  Lalena’s eyebrows ran so blond and thin, they had only theoretical existence by night. But the eyes grew rounder, the mouth opened, and I decided that the brows had stood in surprise. Then came my turn to adjust features.

  “Why, it’s Cousin Elena, bloody Helena, mad Lilly, bad Lalena,” chanted a voice from beneath our feet. I drew sword. “Red Anna bright, still dressed at night? How unusual. But who stands beside her?” the voice asked itself. “I cannot tell from the footstep.”

  Damnation upon my idiot head. I should have believed a scout. ‘Enemy in the woods’, they faithfully report. But the fool commander scoffs, because no enemy are marked on the map in the officer’s tent.

  “That’s no family heartbeat,” the voice decided. A strong, clear voice. Accented. French? Water and stone arches added a theatrical boost. “Just some meal she’s brought herself. Run, little meal!”

  A suggestion to be considered. There the horses waited. Did the girl beside me have aught to fear from footpads in the night? But they’d named her. These were family. Dangerous as her, perhaps.

  I touched her shoulder, pointed towards the horses. She shook her head, bit her lip. Did her teeth seem longer? I turned away, drew sword, leaned over the railing to peer down into the dark.

  “Tis a lovely night for a swim,” observed the voice, now directly behind me. Hands grabbed my shirt and belt, threw me over the railing into the water for a wish.

  I slashed as I flew, cut something. The creature cried out. Then I
hit water and kept to a dive in the direction of the flow. Cold. Good, that meant the water had depth. I dove downwards, away from what might wait beneath the arches. The speaker had come up the other side of the bridge, while we gazed below. How so silent, so quick? Magic of the family, one supposed. Lalena would be facing them alone. Was she in danger? Billy and the others would be coming down the road soon enough. Chatterton. The lot of them could handle a small army. Unless they fronted attackers of their own kind…

  I came up for air, found footing towards the bank. Two sets of splashes behind me. I did not turn, but rolled forwards. A blade passed overhead. I came to my feet, standing on muddy ground, studying who followed.

  Two figures, dressed in black. Faces painted white, like the antique Elizabethans on Dealer’s walls. Hands in white gloves, glowing soft by sickened moonshine. They did not speak. One stood before me, waving hands as though weaving the night-air. The other edged to my left. The one fronting me stood as a fencer. So also the other. Madness. I saw no blade on either, just those waving hands, the goggling faces.

  But the one to the left cast a moon-shadow showing a thin line. Ha, a foil painted black. All but invisible by night. While the one before me held no blade, for all he waved and lunged. Was he mad? No, for he kept out of reach of my blade, standing calf-deep in the muck of the river. He meant to draw attention, while his fellow edged closer.

  The man before me capered, made a wide sweep of a feint to slash my face with air. I ignored him, parrying the blade of the man to the side, riposting beneath the white face.

  Came a gurgling cry. I leaped upon him, found the white hand, seized the blade. Thin steel, a proper foil. I laughed. The remaining creature cried out, rushed in splashes upon me. He held left hand high, grasping an invisible dagger for my heart.

  The right hand troubled me. It held back shy, while the left screamed die. I parried the right. A real dagger, black-painted, dropped to the water. He leaped back but not before I’d crossed his throat with my new foil. He collapsed into the river, white face gurgling to the mimicking moon.

  I splashed up the bank, hurried towards the bridge. Past the horses, who whinnied in idle greeting. War horses were never so calm. To what night-theatre had these beasts grown used? I rushed upon the bridge.

  Someone tiptoed in the shadows behind. While before me stood Lalena, in the company of a bright-colored personage. In kilt and shirt patterned of Harlequin diamonds. He wore a black mask granting him the slant-eyes of a devil. They did not to turn at my approach.

  No, they were fixed on Lalena’s bared breasts. He had her shirt opened, her chemise down. She stood trembling, staring into the distance, while he brushed idly at her with a paddle-like tool. A stage-clown’s prop, with metal shine. Edged. He spoke without turning, Paris accent lacking the charm of brogue.

  “Will someone finish this fellow off?”

  Now the fellow creeping behind made a stamp of foot upon planks, to disguise the attack of those holding to the outside of the railing. Did these fools know no trick but distraction? I ignored the stamp, slashed the nearer attacker as he leaped the railing. He screamed, tumbled onto the bridge, white face bleeding red. From the far railing came another, white hands raised to throw an invisible boulder upon my head. I faced that while the stamper tiptoed to my side. I parried his black-bladed knife, took him through the guts. He screamed, the boulder-thrower reached behind himself, pulled an unimaginary pistol. Painted black, as to be expected.

  He took my thrown short-sword in his face. Not the point, just the handle, but he staggered. The gun fell unfired. The man scrabbled to find it, realizing the disadvantage of dark weaponry in the night. I lunged, finished him. Turned back to the Harlequin, who now worked an idle hand to lower Lalena’s riding pants. He struggled with the buttons, as one does. Still she stared in the distance, trembling.

  “Mon Dieu, but you are annoying,” he said. To me, or to the buttons of her pants? I felt unsure. I picked up the pistol. Was he having a tryst with Lalena? She with him? Something more wrong than mad here. Lalena’s face struggled to speak. I decided I would kill him, then inquire if I was intruding. I pointed the gun.

  And I stood in absolute dark.

  “You would have done better to let my servants show you death,” said a voice. It came from no direction in particular. It was the dark itself speaking. “There is nothing to be feared in life, compared to the truth of dreams. Come, fellow, let us see your hell.”

  A green light sprang about me, a drowning in corruption, and I stood at the bottom of Le Despoir, the pit of corpses. I gagged, stared into the faces of old friends. That opened-mouth skull had cheered my final climb. That brooding corpse, churning with mice, was the man I’d beat to death with a leg-bone. I turned upwards.

  The Harlequin stared down. “Sacre nom de nom,” he shouted. “Man, you walk with a hole of horror in your soul. Are you so sick as this, and yet want to live?”

  “A dream,” I said. Lalena had entered my dream in the inn, easily as she’d entered my room. A family gift, it seemed. Here turned to weapon. Fine, for it was my dream.

  “I stand here often, Monsieur Clown.”

  “J’suis Harlequin, you peasant,” scolded the man. “Clown is a different role.”

  “I am Seraph, and my role is simple enough.”

  My dream, no one else’s. And not at all my hell. That was a farm house, a girl throwing a ball to a dog. Here? Bah. I came here often, to order thoughts. Now I pictured the dead Watcher above, hand extended, moving behind the Harlequin.

  He scoffed. “What role do you play, little pet for vampires? To be eaten by my family?”

  I shook my head. “To find my footing. To survive. And then, to strike back.”

  He meant to reply with something drole. Clearly a stage performer, at ease in improvising. Alas, shoved from behind all he could think to declaim was comic scream. I stood back from the splash of corruption. He gasped, as we all do when first landing in this world. He struggled to stand, fumbling for his bladed paddle.

  I had no foil nor blade in this vision, but a hand reached up from the muck, proffered me a familiar leg-bone. I took it, thanking Dante. “Best keep to your own dreams, clown,” I said, and struck Harlequin upon his diamond-patterned hat.

  I stood on the bridge again, the Harlequin fallen before me. My hands held the black pistol, not a leg-bone. More in curiosity than violence, I fired into his knee. I pictured it using some magical black flame. Perhaps an imaginary bullet?

  But no, it flashed the usual fire, sent the usual lead through flesh and bone. Harlequin screamed. Lalena shook herself, gazed in shock at her opened shirt and falling pants. Looked at the writhing man between us.

  “I am family,” he moaned, in pity for his sudden fall. “You cannot.”

  She glanced at me, then back to him. Her eyes widened, turning to black pits rivaling Le Despoir itself. Her half-naked form trembled. Whether in fear, or red desire.

  “Run,” she whispered. Same as I’d told Cousin Flower.

  “My servants!” screamed Harlequin. “Secours! Secours!”

  Lalena rushed to me, arms out. I raised the pistol to strike her, stopped myself. She thumped into my chest, pressed against me. Trembling. We stood so together, while Harlequin called for aid, for pity, for vengeance.

  “These things creep inside one’s head,” she whispered. “Like insects into the sleeper’s ear.” She turned and spat at the moaning man. He stared up at her from his devil’s mask. “And their servants are mocking shadows.”

  “Family,” he repeated. She nodded, and gave him a kick that sent him flying halfway across the bridge, bounced bone-crunching against stone.

  Clip, clop. Here came horses. With one arm, I held Lalena. With the other, I raised foil to what approached. Ah, of course. Stage right: enter cousins. More horses from the other end of the bridge, stage left. I watched the cousins’ entry, they being the nearer. One foe at a time.

  Billy River and Mattie Horse rode into moon
light and dramatic tableau. Then stopped, to take in the night-show. Here stood Lalena half-dressed in my arms, upon a bridge where three white-faced figures lay dead, a fourth writhed and gibbered in harlequin dress. Billy River whistled. Mattie cursed. From the dark beyond, Chatterton laughed.

  Stage left: newcomers entered the bridge clip-clopping in pretty music and a stately lack of hurry. Colors were concept by moon’s light, but I thought them dressed same as Billy and Mat. Blood Tartans, bearing sharp grins for swords. Some women among them, in riding pants. The red clan, come to find their wandering lady.

  I began fastening Lalena’s buttons, lamenting the act. Behold the first woman I’d ever spent more time dressing than undressing. While I redid the shirt, she worked the fastenings of the pants; unfathomable things. She muttered something.

  “Hmm?” I asked. I was pressing her close, so that I could search by moonlight for one single hair daring to cross the line of another. I began to shake, myself. One often does when a fight is over. It is no easy thing to be thrown into dreams. Also I was soaking wet in cold wind seeping across the northern border.

  She pushed me away, took my hand. Stood to my side, so we faced horse and riders best we could, left and right. I wondered did she mean us to attack? I’d want my hand back for that. She answered loud, for the river and the night and the moon and the clan to hear.

  “I said, Rayne Gray, that I accept your proposal.”

  Ah. That. Well. I did not turn to her, I kept eyes and blade upon her family. Still, I lifted Lady Lilly-Ann Elena Mac Sanglair’s hand, gave it a kiss.

  Chapter 23

  The doings at Melrose Abbey

  Dealer spoke true. The good stuff is always in ruins. Pity he didn’t walk with me through the sunlit arches, the roofless chapels of Melrose. He would have expounded long and loving upon the strange statues, the swirling patterns carved in wall and step. I could have asked the meaning of that crouching creature perched on roof-cornices, what story lay hid in this frieze of tragic figures fleeing the moon. I walked in a forest of symbols, ignorant of the things symbolized. Here were stone people named by roses and thorns, dogs and stars, swords, hearts, skulls… these signs shouted to tell of the person beyond the worn stone.