Sookin' Berries

by Jess Smith

  Poor Marion could neither sleep nor eat, and was in constant conversation with her brownies high up at the Cauldron on the hillside overlooking the village.

  One night, not long after those events, two men, one called James Robertson and the other Malcolm Baxter, were passing by rocks that rise out of the Cauldron when they heard voices below.

  ‘Hold him, John,’ came a distinctive Highland voice which they recognised as a certain lad named Sandy MacNab. ‘Give me the knife and I’ll do the deed. Take care of his mouth – hold his legs and watch he doesn’t kick you. My, what a fuss he makes – grip him! Oh, what a tough devil he is! One of us could not have done the deed. I’m glad there’s the two of us, eh, John?’

  ‘Yes, Sandy. But look at the hole I’ve put in his head, and he’s not dead yet!’ John continued, ‘He can’t live long now, Sandy.’

  The listeners also recognised the second killer by his voice – it was John Comrie. He could be heard hissing through clenched teeth, ‘I wish it were over, for I don’t like death. Look, man, he still moves! Give him another stab, but watch the blood and don’t mark me with it.’

  ‘That I will,’ answered Sandy.

  There was more commotion and Sandy could be heard to shout, ‘Take that, you devil! I had plenty of trouble getting you this night, for you knew we were after you; but you’ve got it now, my fine chap, for giving us such a chase.’

  The terrified listeners then heard Sandy tell John, ‘He’s completely dead now, so let go of his legs. He’ll not speak any more of this world. Cut off his head. We will be able to take that and get what he’s worth.’

  ‘Heads these days are of some value, and this one will fetch a good price!’

  ‘We’d better get him into the cave, Sandy, and cover him up with grass and leaves.’

  The listeners would have stayed to hear more, had a female form, shimmering in a white mist, not frightened the life out of them, sending them running for their lives. To see such an apparition in the dead of night would have spooked the strongest of Comrie’s weaver men, especially one that was hovering at the mouth of the devil from hell’s water spout.

  Once James Robertson and Malcolm Baxter were back in the village, thoughts of the murder they were positive had taken place soon filled them to bursting with anger.

  ‘I think yon two have murdered poor brave Walter,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘I think you’re right. It was clear bloodthirsty murder that we witnessed. The hand of John Comrie is at work here, my man, it’s plain to see. He gets MacNab to chase Walter, catch and murder him in the coldest blood, then sends him to Perth with Walter’s head to collect the reward for it. John gets his nephew’s thousands, pockets all Walter’s belongings, and nobody would realise he’d a hand in the death. It would be the making of the greedy bisom.’

  It did not take much for this pair to conclude that this criminal deed was planned by John, because at one time each of them had been under his employment and were dismissed for theft.

  They kept a watch for the return of the two so-called killers. When they appeared, a bulky parcel comfortably tucked under Sandy’s arm, it was obvious that they had the head of poor Walter Comrie.

  Three days later Sandy was seen striding through the village on his way to Perth, whistling happily, carrying the same bundle.

  Robertson and Baxter paid a man to follow him at a distance. When he got to Perth, he was observed asking various people where the Provost lived.

  Once he’d been directed to the Provost’s stately mansion, it didn’t take long before he stood boldly on the steps leading to the front door, the bloodied bundle secured beneath his arm. Several loud thuds on the door brought an angry Provost, asking what his visitor wanted.

  ‘How are you this fine day, sir?’ asked Sandy, bowing at the waist.

  ‘What is it you want, lad?’ inquired the Provost.

  ‘I am here because your honour pays for Jacobite heads. Now can I please have my reward?’

  The Provost cast a disapproving eye over the bloodied bundle and said, ‘Whose head is it?’

  Sandy puffed out his tweed-covered chest and said smugly, ‘That damned rascal Walter Comrie, who fought like a lion at Culloden.’

  The Provost, refusing to get too close to the bundle swathed in bandages asked, ‘How can you prove to me this is the head of Walter Comrie?’

  ‘To be sure – look, is this not a traitor’s head? Did you ever see eyes like that on a loyal subject?’

  The Provost, with quivering fingers, separated part of the bandages, then laughed. The object was so much disfigured that it was not possible to say even if it was a human head.

  ‘You are a fool. Have you any witnesses to prove this is the head of young Comrie?’

  ‘I don’t think it needs proof – the thing proves itself. Take it in your hand, smell the gunpowder in it, is that not enough?’

  ‘Listen, this is sheer nonsense. If there is no witness, there’ll be no reward.’

  ‘I am a fine honest man and I need no witness. My word to you, sir, should be my bond.’

  The Provost had heard enough. He gestured at a grinning town officer who was standing nearby to throw Sandy MacNab and his foul-smelling bundle out of Perth.

  ‘He’d better not lay a finger on me, or he’ll get the same as this traitor.’ With that said, Sandy put the head down on the doorstep. It rolled forward before settling at the Provost’s feet. He then defiantly lifted a fist and shouted, ‘Keep the reward. I can see a good man who does his duty is not welcome in the fine city of Perth.’ He then turned to go, leaving the Provost and his officer lost for words.

  ‘Hey,’ called the Provost, ‘take this thing with you!’ In a second the head came flying through the air after Sandy like a football.

  ‘Och, you keep it sir. Make soup for your officers’ dinner.’

  He seized the head again and hurled it at the Provost, then took flight as fast as his feet could shift themselves through Perth.

  After the man who had followed Sandy circulated the news, the tale spread like a heather fire through the folk of Comrie. John Comrie and Sandy Macnab had murdered Walter. Sandy was going to collect a reward, while John would lay claim to the goods and fortune of the deceased man. Some reasonable people said it was a ridiculous tale, because John loved that boy – one day he would be his son-in-law, for goodness sake. However, replies were as easy to find as smoke from a windblown heather fire. Tongues were soon spreading gossip that a son-in-law was one thing, but ten thousand pounds was another. Yes, John did have a love for money, and although he loved his daughter, she was spending more and more time at the Devil’s Cauldron with her elves, so how would she mind one way or the other?

  The gossips were consumed with rage, and went on wildly speculating. What if this nephew of his had survived? What would happen to the respectable God-fearing weaver if the Crown soldiers were to seek him out as a collaborator with the rebels? Oh, John had plenty of reasons to dispose of his nephew, no doubt about that. Some even went as far to suggest John had become one those cursed folk who swore allegiance to the crown.

  After great discussions behind closed shutters and latched doors, the conclusion of most people was that John Comrie had murdered his own nephew, on the pretext of a love for the reigning monarch, to show that he had nothing to do with Walter joining the Stuart cause.

  Strathearn rang with the news. Hatred built up against John and Sandy throughout the area, and people would spit when their names were spoken. These so-called respectable individuals who lived in their midst were informers and a murderers, and crown-lickers to boot.

  Soon the heather fire was spreading and a flame of hatred and revenge rose up. They were avoided; no one dealt with them; loud threats to murder them were uttered; old women cursed them with their spite for stealing the breath from Marion’s beloved. In short there was no place of refuge for John and Sandy among the people of the region.

  Poor Marion, she hardly could take it in – her own fat
her a killer. But what a crime – her very own lover lost at the hand of the one who had sired and raised her. She was lost and broken-hearted. The only place she could find solace was the Cauldron. Of her father’s guilt she had no doubt, because she too had been there on the night. She had heard the voices and recognised them, almost terrifying the life from Malcolm Baxter and James Robertson when she ran away, frightened and confused.

  She had thought over the scene on that awful night a thousand times. She made every effort to convince herself that there must be something which, when explained, would clear up the whole sorry mess. She had also long wondered why her father never shared with her any information about Walter’s fate beyond the facts known to all. Did he keep important facts from her?

  Late at night she’d seen him sneaking out of the house. Once she could swear she saw someone of his build and height skulking near the Cauldron edge, but how could it be him? He hated the place, and had told her many times she was mad to go there. A turmoil of thoughts raced inside her head, offering no explanation of the awful events she had witnessed.

  Deeply depressed by her fear for Walter’s life and suspicion of John and Sandy’s guilt, she felt that life had nothing left for her but to find solace in the brownies’ dens, beside the Devil’s Cauldron.

  Sitting on a ledge of rock overlooking this fearful hole, she began to think more and more about how little she had to live for.

  ‘How often have I conversed with my invisible friends in this pleasant place? How often have Walter and I laughed at the echoes of our voices as they joined together and sang of our love in the branches of laburnum hanging over the cascade of dancing waters? My heart is sore, and without love I cannot live. Find my soul, and bring me into your world, little men of the forest. Under your spells join me together again with him who was so cruelly murdered.’

  She teetered over the brink, but try as she might, the courage to jump to her death failed her.

  From then on Marion wandered aimlessly, reciting poetry and singing mournful ballads to her imaginary friends. The nice folk of Comrie wept for the poor lassie’s broken spirit, wondering what relief could be found for the sad, unfortunate, mad girl.

  Marion was just broken-hearted, however, not mad. One evening, when the moon was shining clear and bright, she tiptoed to and fro, praying and listening for one single sound that would allow her to communicate with her unseen friends. Then she heard something. From the bottom of the dell, where the water was weakest, she heard a voice. Someone was singing a low, sad song. How often had she passed this spot and thought she heard the voices of tiny magical creatures. Now they had come to her in their singing. At last she thought they were reaching out, calling for her to join them. She was riveted to the spot.

  ‘That is not the Spirit o’ Rolla, the voice is too sweet and soft,’ she called out loud, hoping to get a response.

  ‘It is not,’ answered the voice. ‘It’s me, my lady, Sandy MacNab. Now, why don’t you go away home and be with people who love you. Your father needs you and the hour is late.’

  For a single moment in the midst of her misery she had thought that the brownies were contacting and communicating with her. All her life she had prayed for a word from them, but perhaps folks were right. There were no little men; she was a fool. Without a word, she hung her sad head and directed her steps homeward.

  John Comrie had other things on his mind, however. All of Strathearn was baying for his blood. Thinking that if things should turn nasty it might be better for Marion if she was elsewhere, he moved her out of her home and put her under the protection of a neighbouring farmer. He thought it wiser if he too hid from sight until circumstances calmed down. In this he was right, because after he had disappeared, enraged villagers set fire to one of his properties.

  Word of these matters soon reached Edinburgh and a letter was sent by the Lord Advocate commanding the Procurator Fiscal to investigate. The commanders of the Government army, anxious to quell remnants of scattered Jacobites who might be eager to start another rebellion, weren’t keen to send soldiers to Comrie, but were told it was their public duty to uphold law and order.

  Walter Comrie had been murdered. If it had been because of his involvement at Culloden then that would have been acceptable to the authorities. However it seemed that the crime was committed for no other reason than evil greed on the part of the Comrie weaver named John and his companion MacNab. If the crime of murder was proven against them, then they would face the might of the law and Walter’s wealth and property would be given over to the Crown, which would please the Government.

  The Procurator Fiscal set about a court action. It was held in a packed church hall. Malcolm Baxter and James Robertson were examined first; and these bold lads had no hesitation in stating that they had definitely heard John and Sandy kill a man on the night in question. They were witnesses to the fact that his head was cut off, carried through the village in a bag and then taken to Perth to claim the reward.

  Sandy was questioned first. ‘Well, Sandy,’ said the Fiscal in a serious tone, knowing how cunning and obstinate this bold lad could be, ‘Is this true?’

  ‘It is, but there’s little use in speaking about the head now, when the evidence of it being Walter’s is destroyed. It was the bonniest head of a traitor, when I offered it to the idiot Provost, as you could wish to see on a summer’s day.’

  ‘Aye, aye, but did you take it to Perth and request a reward?’

  ‘I did say it was Walter’s head, but the Provost called me a liar. He said it could have been anybody’s head. Now that is plain, is it not?’

  ‘Not to me, Sandy,’ replied the Fiscal. He now saw that Sandy, not having got the reward, wished for some reason he could not well understand, to leave the matter in a convenient state of doubt. ‘But you can surely say whether or not it was Walter Comrie’s head?’

  ‘I refused to get involved in a debate with a fine gent like the Provost of Perth by saying it was, when he said it might not be.’

  ‘Look, Sandy, if we can’t say whose head it was, then can you please tell us where you got it?

  ‘I cannot remember where I got it. It’s a long time ago, and I haven’t a mind going back two days, never mind two months.’

  ‘Well, was it off or on the body when you got it?’

  ‘Off, to be sure.’

  ‘So where was it before you got it?’

  ‘On the body, where else!’

  ‘Did you see it on the body?’

  ‘I don’t remember; but there can be no doubt that it was once on the body, so don’t waste your time asking me again.’

  ‘Where is the head now?’

  ‘Where any dead thing should be – in the grave.’

  ‘Who buried it?’

  ‘The Provost of Perth, when I gave it to him with my compliments.’

  ‘Thank you, Sandy, you can go.’

  At the summing up, the unanimous decision was that Sandy was a wee bit daft, so they let him go. John, however, though he was not in court, was convicted of murder. Walter’s properties were handed over to the Crown. To punish John it was decided all his properties, houses, goods etc would be put up for public auction. Of course no one would dare touch the belongings of a murderer, therefore his effects too would follow Walter’s to the crown. The next step was to commit John to jail.

  Throughout all these events no one gave poor broken-hearted Marion a thought. The ruin of her parent, poverty, misery and the loss of her future husband had proved too much. The clouds were ever-blackening – she had to go and find her wee brownies.

  Just like the shipwrecked mariner whose eyes scanned the horizon for the sight of a sail, she hoped and prayed that the voice she had heard would sing to her once more from the Devil’s Cauldron. She stood stiff and silent, and just at the same time in the evening as before, a sound of sweet singing drifted up from the chasm to fill her heart with love for the creatures of the forest.

  ‘Oh, my dear little ones, you call me, you
call me,’ she cried, ‘and now in my darkest hour you beckon me. Here I am. What shall I do? Open the secret passage into your world and I shall willingly join you forever.’

  She waited, but nothing, no sound followed to help the maiden in her sad plight. Hours she waited, and at last, exhausted, she sat down. As her heart grew ever heavier and her spirit despaired after all that had happened, she whispered to her imaginary friends, ‘You are cruel to me, for all the faith I have had in you. How many times, when at school other children made fun of me and my Walter did too, I have defended you all through my life. But look how you support me! Here I am, left alone with no one. You don’t exist, I am mad! Is it not enough that my joys have been ripped from me, and now, with this flickering smoky flame of life, you take my dreams? All I had left to look forward to was to share eternity with you, my friends, yet you mock me from your mossy caves and briar bushes. Is my soul to fall upon a feather and find no resting place?’

  She rose and went back home, where she found officers taking an inventory of the house and its contents. They sealed and locked every desk and drawer. A crowd had gathered to ridicule and laugh at their once trusted friend and neighbour. Many cried that he should be drowned in the Earn. Marion thought that if the mob had found him, it’s certain he would have met a watery grave.

  Some days later an advertisement appeared in the village, stating that John Comrie’s effects were to be sold in eight days. In the village square the crowd was informed that the said Comrie had been apprehended in Crieff, and was now in Perth Jail.

  That night, round a great bonfire, followers of Charles Edward Stuart danced in delight that Walter’s murderer was caught. An effigy of John Comrie was then paraded and burned.

  Marion sought her usual place of consolation, turning her back on bells and trumpets and the rest of the uproar. She looked back only once to see the whole village lighted up by the fire. She was going to leave everything behind to join her friends. This time she would not come back.