by Alisa Adams
Induced by the magic of the archaic rocks, Mary’s mind took her back to that day. While she had sat on a horse with Murtagh, her assigned protector, she had thought that she could discern the change from the glens and crags of the Lowlands as they gave way to the more rugged ravines and peaks of the Highlands. It was a magical land of immense natural beauty. The scenery had taken her breath away. The flora and fauna had captivated in such a way that it had held her in its grip, as if luring her forth with hypnotic strokes.
From the mesmerizing glow of the near sunset on the western horizon to the raw beauty of the eastern mountain range, and all the vastness around and between, to her surprise, she had felt wonderful, exhilarated even and craving the adventure that had taken her farther and farther away from home, from England. Alastair, like his homeland, had conquered a place in her heart from that day forth.
Mary’s eyes snapped open again. She twirled on her feet. In moments, she was walking around the tower, taking in all and everything around her. She behaved as if she was trying to find that which she remembered from all of those years ago. Her feet came to an abrupt stop. She had her back to the loch and stared at the landscape to the east. She needed something to tell her that all would be well.
A moody mist shrouded the snow-caked mountain peaks in the distance. Moorland, rushing burns and a few steely gray lochs defined this fairy-tale wonderland that did not feel forbidding despite the advent of the autumn. On the contrary, the setting sun had bested the clouds in dominance over the sky, again stroking her cheeks with pleasant warmth. It gave her strength and somehow made her forget the message the rocks were trying to impart.
And then… there they were once again: the serrated rocks of old claiming her mind and dragging her away. She snapped her head away from the physical image. The sun miraculously appeared to make its final dip to the horizon in that very moment. The skyline beyond changed from spots of white with blue and yellow to a searing red breaking the white of the clouds as if it was covering them in blood.
“Oh, my God… there is to be a catastrophe. My boys… my husband march to disaster,” hissed out Mary, the air from her lungs shooting past her barely parted lips.
“Mary, ye have not said much in days… What’s the matter with ye?” asked Skye, fidgeting in her seat.
“Hush now,” responded her mother, Freya. She too eyed the lady of the clan with a worried expression on her face. “Get on with yer sewing, daughter.”
Skye promptly lowered her head to the cloth she balanced on her lap within a circular fixture to keep it in place. She speared through the pattern of a thistle with her needle.
“Ouch,” she cried as if in response to her mother’s harsh reprimand. “I hate this. I should be in England with the men and not here.” She sucked on the tip of her index finger that she had pierced with her needle.
“Stop talking like that. Ye are a lady, and ye have had the same instruction as yer sister since ye were but wee lasses. Off to fight the war with the men…” Freya spat her displeasure. “It’s yer da’s fault that… training ye with that sword of yers all of the time. Ye should have paid more attention to yer sewing.”
Effemy, Skye’s sister, smiled to herself. She was the complete opposite to Skye in every way but maybe their long blonde hair that shimmered in imitation of their mother’s. Also, they shared the same sparkling blue eyes. And that was where the comparisons ended. Where Effemy radiated sweetness and ladylike grace from an elegant round face, Skye effused the fierceness of a warrior with a certain female fecundity and meticulous splendor. But both of them were beautiful in their own different ways.
“Mother, I have had enough of this. I am off to find a clansman who is willing to do some sword practice with me,” said Skye, making to get up to her feet.
“And what of the plaid ye are making for Brice when he gets back, eh?” probed Freya. Her eldest daughter stopped her motion at the mention of her love’s name.
“Yes, Skye, ye are to be his wife and ye are responsible for these things now,” said Effemy sweetly. She never looked up from her work. She was making a laced gown for herself. Brice’s auntie, Elizabeth, had shown her how it was done because Effemy was so impressed with her English clothing.
Elizabeth too sat in the Great Hall with Mary, Freya, Effemy, and Skye. They had done that most days since the men had left for Perth. Mary had thought it a good idea to keep the spirits up amongst the women. On most occasions, all of the wives, sisters, mothers, and daughters of the men who had left with their laird sat with them sewing and chatting and more often than not drinking wine or ale.
That late afternoon, like the days after the tower incident, Mary had insisted that no one enter the Great Hall. She had sat at the high table, staring into nothingness. When Elizabeth had entered along with Freya and her daughters, they had tried to coax some response out of her. None had come.
Mary was lost since that fateful and dreadful day on the tower. Her usual positive attitude had vanished into thin air. In its place was a constant glumness that hung around her person like a vile vapor. She hardly ate, and she spoke even less. It appeared that something had claimed her soul and taken it away to a dark place.
“Mary, can ye say something to Skye? She’s behaving like a laddie might. Ye couldn’t possibly want yer boy to marry a laddie now, would ye?” said Freya, inviting a small chuckle from both of her daughters and Elizabeth, who had come to like Freya and her daughters a great deal.
Mary looked up slowly from her sewing. Her eyes appeared like empty islands of listless brown swimming in milky meres. She cleared her throat. “If she goes there, she will die,” hissed out Mary. She promptly lowered her head to her work that consisted of a patch of red thread sewn into a ball and looked like a blotch of blood.
“What do ye mean, my Lady?” asked Skye with concern etched onto her features.
“Aye,” intoned Freya. She too, like her two daughters and Elizabeth, had stopped their sewing and looked at Mary.
“Sister, you are frightening everyone here. Who is going to die and where… What is it that you mean?” Elizabeth got to her feet and slowly walked a few paces in her sister’s direction.
“Come no closer, Elizabeth. I cannot…” Mary had a feral grimace on her face.
“Cannot what, Mary? I am coming closer, and there is nothing you can do about it. I may have been a bad sister to you for years, but I want to right that wrong here and now. You need me more than ever, and you will speak to me even if I have to force it out of you.”
“No… you will never manage that.” Mary no longer looked angry or savage. Instead, a placid nothingness covered her face as if she had been transported to someplace safe. Something had shaken her out of her dark abode; the power of the rock alter was losing its potency.
“You forget that I knew you as a child. You always used to get like this when you were frightened.” Elizabeth stepped closer still.
“No, no, you cannot remember.”
“Oh, but I do. Remember when we were on our way to see the Earl of Wavel… your then betrothed… after Christmas. You were disillusioned then; you thought your world was coming to an end. You never thought you would find love… ever, and not even when I told you of gallant knights with their lofty ideals. You were lost in nature then too. Like the day you came down from the tower.”
Freya exchanged hopeful glances with Skye and Effemy. It was the first time in nearly a week that Mary had spoken more than a few words. The only thing she had said when she had returned from the tower that usually gave such solace was, “It is over; the land, the stones, and the sun spoke. I saw it… My life as I know it is over.” The memory still stuck in Skye’s mind like a tumor. She had never seen her future mother-in-law act so despondently.
“Do you think that you know all of the answers? You didn’t back then, and you don’t now. What you feared never happened. And what you dreamed did. The Earl of Wavel died many years ago after he married another young noblewoman. He gave her childr
en and her eldest son is now heir to the title.” Elizabeth cleared her throat as she slowly lowered her right arm until her hand touched her sister’s shoulder. “But you…”
Mary looked up. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words passed her lips. Her mouth snapped shut, and she continued to gaze into her sister’s eyes.
Elizabeth squeezed her shoulder lightly. “There is no need to speak all of the time, Mary. Let me do it for you this day. I know that you always carry the heavy burden of motherhood and ladyship and you perform your duties with courage and integrity and love. You are a fine wife to Alastair, and he loves you with his very being.”
Mary smiled wanly. A single tear cleared her eye and dropped from her lashes onto her lower lip. She let her sister wipe it away with her finger. “You did not end up a fat earl’s wife. No… you got what you always dreamed of.” Elizabeth smiled when she saw understanding appear on her sister’s face. “You got Alastair. I do not know him well, but I saw when I first came here that he is a noble man. Most of all he is a brave and cunning man.” Elizabeth lowered herself before Mary until her heels touched her hams. “A man like that will protect your sons and return home to you, Mary.”
“Aye, Mary, my Mungo will let nothing happen to any one of them,” said Freya, getting to her feet. “Alick and Bruce are there with him.” She took a deep breath as s sob threatened to overwhelm her. “I believe in our men… they will come home to us.”
“My da loves yer boys like his sons and yer man like a brother,” said Effemy proudly, thinking of the tower of a man she called her father. Whatever Mungo did he always made sure that both of his daughters felt as if they were his favorites. Effemy felt herself the luckiest girl in the whole world to be able to call such a man her ‘da’.
“Aye, and I love them all and my Brice most of all. He promised me that he would return to me. He said he was to be my husband and I’ll be damned if I let the rogue release himself from that promise. Crivens, dying’s not going to help him. If yer son does not come back to me, he will wander around heaven with his manhood safely back on earth with me. I promise ye that,” said Skye with her usual brashness.
Mary’s eyes welled over with tears. She reached out and hugged her sister to her bosom. She buried her nose in her hair, relishing that familiar scent that reminded her of when she was young. Her entire frame began to wrack in heaving convulsions. It had Skye, Freya and Effemy glued to the spot, their eyes open and threatening to be as big as saucers.
“That is the funniest thing I have heard in ages,” said Mary, sniveling and pulling away from Elizabeth. “You are the right woman for my son, Skye. And I already love you like the daughter I never had.” Her gaze shifted to her sister. “Thank you.” She stroked her cheek. “I just don’t know how I put up with life without you all of these years?”
Elizabeth smiled back at her. “I do… You had your man, your sons, and these fine ladies.”
With those words the ladies coalesced into one another, amalgamating into a whimpering huddle of happy female sobbing. When they broke away after much crying and hugging, Mary told them about what had happened the day she was up in the tower. Her telling invited much shivering and not a word of interruption from her eager auditors. When she was finished, all of those present lost all restraint, and an uncoordinated discussion ensued that had no particular purpose or structure other than that it lifted the veil of melancholy that had once hung over Castle Diabaig.
“Now that is a happy sight,” said Caitlin, walking into the Great Hall with her usual purposeful stride. Murtagh’s wife was a buxom woman with brownish-blonde hair and a fierce but comely appearance. “Now… does that mean we will be having a banquet with the ladies of the clan tonight? I have been hearing much gossip, and they are worried about the main lady of the clan.”
“No need, Caitlin. Please thank them for their concern. I was lost for a few days.” Mary jiggled her shoulders. “I worried for my husband and my boys.”
The expression on Caitlin’s face collapsed into softness of sentiment and the sharing of communal concern. “I can understand that, my Lady. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of them all… yer laddies, Freya’s laddies, my Laird, Mungo…” She sobbed. “And my Murtagh. That skiving, no-good lout of a man. Always wandering about with that mate of his, Mungo. All they do all day is lurk about the kitchen door in the hope of a scrap.” She sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to see the two of them waiting just there – hope on their faces. Impatient to get their thieving paws on one of my pies.”
“Oh, come here,” said Mary, stepping off the plinth and walking up to Caitlin. She took her in her arms. Soon the other women joined in and the entire spectacle from before recommenced.
That very evening the Great Hall was full of women. They spoke of their men and compared their bravery, and naturally, as women do, they mentioned their occasional acts of foolishness as well. Kegs of ale had been opened. Wine barrels unsealed and placed at the disposal of those women sitting at the high table on the plinth. The food consisted of primarily fish in the form of salmon and pike but also Highland beef was on offer; accompanied by whatever vegetables the land had yielded prior to the onset of autumn. Bannocks festooned the tables along with pretty Scottish autumn blooms. All in all, the Great Hall was a predominantly female affair, a fact that was evident because of the shrill shrieks and high-pitched womanly voices.
The fire in the hearth crackled and spat, providing light and warmth for the reveling diners. Down the entire length of the hall iron sconces had been lit; they were fastened to the wall above the tables. Their luminance was dainty, almost romantic as the small individual flames danced about with stroking flickers. The whole atmosphere in the Great Hall was cozy and festive. The scent of roasting meat and alcohol could be smelt throughout. And above the high table hung a chandelier that the Scots called a hart-horn. It was made of a deer’s antler. Small candles were attached to it giving light for those below.
“I am so grateful to you all for getting me out of that vile slumber. It felt as if I saw them… It was so real, the blood, their faces… I don’t know really,” said Mary, taking a large gulp of wine.
“Hush up now. You have spoken of it enough this afternoon. We are here this night to celebrate your men and sons and not think them dead,” said Elizabeth, sternly.
“Aye,” said Freya, who sat to Mary’s left. “Our laddies are strong. How many times have they fought against the Sassenachs, eh?” Mary shrugged at those words. “So many times, that’s how often,” continued Freya.
“Must we speak of war this night. Let’s enjoy ourselves a little. That Sir Peter of mine must be having a splendid time. I am certain he doesn’t lose a moment’s thought on the war. I haven’t seen the man in days. I just hope he hasn’t hunted all of the game in the laird’s lands,” said Elizabeth, thinking of her man-at-arms who had eagerly taken up Alastair’s offer to hunt.
“Yes, you are right, Elizabeth. It wouldn’t do to put all of Caitlin’s efforts in preparing this feast to waste because I had some kind of silly vision. I saw what I saw and felt what I felt because I miss my Alastair and the boys,” said Mary. She held back a sob. “And one of them will be gone for years… My Callum goes to Rome.”
Elizabeth stroked her sister’s back. “It will be all right. From what I’ve seen and heard about your youngest son, he will do just fine… you’ll see.”
“I do hope so. A single black cat passed across the road on the eve before my Callum left with the others. It does not portend well.” Mary shivered.
“You’ve been living here for too long. Scottish superstitions are starting to rub off on you,” said Elizabeth. She had never stopped her rubbing of Mary’s back. “Callum will be fine,” she reassured her once more.
“The people around here believe in them. And they have done so for generations. For example, there is an old monastery not so far from here. Nobody goes there anymore because it is believed to be cursed,” said Freya, joining in the co
nversation.
“Why’s that?” asked Elizabeth with a wry grin on her face.
“Because it is believed that the monks that lived there all died of some strange ague brought on to them by the wrath of God. It happened to them because they did not forsake the Devil. It is rumored that they tried to tap into the Devil’s power to increase their importance in this land,” said Freya, her eyes twinkling in the fire and candlelight. She shrugged nonchalantly. “Those naughty monks failed in the end. Yet, still to this day and even if we have no clue what really happened there, children and grown-ups alike will go nowhere near the place. Naturally, some wee ones, especially boys on the cusp of manhood, will have trials of courage who can get the closest to it but that is about as far as it goes.”
Elizabeth clapped her hands together. She did not believe in such things. “This is all so exciting. Back in England, only simple folk and children believe in ghouls and monsters. It’s all poppycock if you ask me.”
“Ye would be wise to heed our folklore, Elizabeth,” said Freya in a menacing tone. She took a deep breath. “There’s another one – one day, not that long ago, a small boy took a boat out into the loch beyond the castle without his parent’s permission. The sky was clear as the water in the burns when he left. Not a cloud bedecked the sky. The laddie’s mother and father were worried sick, though, because of his age. Boats were sent out to find him. In the meantime, the sky had turned dark and menacing. Clouds started to blot out the sun, and a storm was on the horizon. No one had much hope for the wee laddie because rumors spread throughout the burgh that he did not…” Freya swallowed deeply for effect. “… say a prayer to the almighty and touch the stone in front of the church before he left.”
