Corrag

by Susan Fletcher

  Moy. ’Tis not near here.

  I nodded. And now?

  On what they call the buachaille. The pointed rock at the east.

  I knew it. It was the black, pointed mountain at the east of the glen. It was where I had trodden on an arrowhead, and where I’d seen an eagle preen its feathers on an alder branch.

  I did not ask why she was in the glen. Not why she wasn’t in this place called Moy, these days. I thought she is hiding. For most folk I’ve met in my life that live alone are hiding, from other people.

  Do you have henbane?

  I said ha. Folk only want henbane because of what it does—which is that it stupefies their heads, and makes them dream whilst they’re awake, and I’ve never wanted that. Cora told me. She said it owns you, once you try it—that you seek it again and again.

  Despite her puckered mouth, and her stink, I felt for her, then. I thought poor her. Being as she is. Plucking her shawl and looking for that herb.

  I have henbane.

  And her eyes grew wide, and a peg-toothed smile came.

  So, Mr Leslie, in my hut, on a winter day, I gave a woman called Gormshuil a fistful of henbane so that she shook as she took it, and whispered to it as if it could hear. Yes… But I did not give it freely—no, sir. I gave her a price for the herb. I asked for some grain to feed my hens upon, and which I might make a broth from.

  She flinched. Grain?

  It is a fair bargain, I said. Henbane is harder to find than grain, I can promise you.

  I watched her go. She made no sound, and the mist soon took her and she was gone. I thought I will get no grain for this—for what was trustworthy, in her? I doubted that she ate. I doubted that she found much joy in the world, or beauty, or that she treated people well. I half-doubted she had ever been there, in the mist—for she had been so ghost-like. But her smell lingered.

  I did get grain.

  Two days later, she came to me with a sack and her fish-eyes. Grain was in it. I peered in, smiled, and when I looked back to thank her she was gone, and a crow was in her place. Some folk say witches shift their shapes into new creatures, when it suits them, and I know this is a lie. I know it can’t be done. It is only when bones misbehave themselves, or when the falling sickness comes and women twitch. But the crow had a look to it. It tilted its head, cawed at me twice, and I fancied it was thank you, or see? Grain for you.

  It flew. I watched it fly. And when I looked down at her footprints in the snow, I wished they were not her footprints. I wished they were someone else’s.

  Say what you will. Say old hag. She looked it, and smelt like one. She was an old half-human creature who suited the winter weather—not in the way I suited it, for Gormshuil was not winter-born and saw no beauty in a naked tree. No. She suited winter for she had no green shoots in her—no hope, no love, no dreams. She was as thin as sleet can be. As sly.

  I told myself, sometimes, that she had been a child once. A daughter, and a wife.

  Once, I told my hens, she was happy—once. I must remember that. But like it is hard to see a winter field and remember it in flower-time, so it was with Gormshuil.

  WHY do I speak of her? Because she lived. Because by living, she altered the world as we all do, and who is there to speak of her? So I speak of her. And in time, perhaps you will—for she played her part in the murders, sir. Her name is worth writing down.

  We all have our stories, and we speak of them, and weave them into other people’s stories—that’s how it goes, does it not? But she did not speak of hers. She was reeky and lonesome, and when I think of her I see henbane in her teeth. She lived on a pointed mountain. She crouched by a fire with two other women whose minds were half-gone, and whose hearts were sealed up. And what life is that? A sadder one than mine was. Far more so. Full of winter nights.

  Gormshuil of Moy. You will hear many things said of her, and all bad. But not many people, sir, are all bad.

  Those winter nights. I’d look out at the huge sides of snowy rocks which grew about me, and I’d see their eerie colours—grey, black, blue. Then I would go inside, where my fire spoke to itself. But still, I felt them. In my hut, I was still aware of the mountains looking down on me. I could feel their height, and darkness. I thought of their age, of what they had seen, and as I tucked up by my fire I thought they glow…Like living things. Their frost glinted on me, and their breath was icy-cold.

  Some people hate such thoughts. They stay away from mountains like mountains mean them harm. But what I say to myself when I see a mountain or a starry sky, or any natural thing which feels too much to bear, is what made this, made me, too. I am as special. We are made by the same thing… Call it God, if you wish. Call it chance, or nature—it does not matter. Both the mountains of Glencoe and me are real, and here. Both the moon which is full tonight and you, Mr Leslie, are here, and shining.

  IN THE days that followed Gormshuil, and her sack of grain, I saw Alasdair again. I was high up, looking down. He was by my hut, and then he circled it as if I might be hiding there. For a while he was still, thinking. He had no blades with him, and no hens. Just him—with his plaid, his dark-red hair.

  From my hiding place, I watched him go. He trod down through the gully and back into Glencoe, and I could see his marks left in the snow.

  I went down.

  I touched the rock I’d seen him touch. I heard the sounds he’d heard—the stream, my hens—and I thought, come back to me.

  My love,

  I will talk more of the blacksmith now, for he has given me plenty which I have written down, and much of it will prove of interest to my Jacobite brothers in London, and Edinburgh, and elsewhere. I wrote all afternoon, and wrote a little more on my return from the tollbooth. My hand is a little sore with it—but not so sore to keep me from writing my thoughts and love to you.

  My love—the cob, I will assure you, mends well. Indeed, I rather feel he’s liked his time in the forge, for he has a curiosity that I do not recognise. He searched my pockets with his lips which he has never done previously—perhaps the man (or a child of his? I think he has many) has been befriending him with sugar, or mint. I wouldn’t advise it, but he is a good horse who has served me well thus far.

  And if a child has befriended a cob, have I befriended the child’s father? I may have done. It seems a long while since I have met a man as honest, humble and amiable, as this. The blacksmith was eager to clean the stool before I sat upon it, as if I was quite some guest—which I am not, clearly. I am merely myself. But I was treated well—and in such a climate and in such times I am grateful for it.

  I complimented him on his work—for the cob seems far happier with his feet, than he did. And the blacksmith thanked me. He said, I take pride in what I do. Kingdoms are won and lost, on a horse’s shoes.

  Indeed, I said. A man’s pride in his work is Godly. I have always said that.

  He turned a glowing piece of iron in a fire, said not too much. For it can be a vice, sir.

  A deadly sin, as we know.

  We nodded, and thought on this for a small while. The chief of that clan was known for it. For pride. For too much of it. Did you hear that?

  I said, no, sir.

  Och—he brought the iron out—a proud man. Pride killed him in the end, I’ll tell you.

  Pride? I was minded to think that thieving and butchery was what killed him in the end—that he was punished by soldiers for a lifetime of uncivil ways.

  He said—most do think that. And that clan’s savagery is what routed them out, right enough. But their pride, sir…The MacIain was a proud man to the last. He’d not swear an oath to a Campbell, and that’s what made trouble for his men.

  I asked about this oath. For I have heard whispers of it, Jane, but no more than that—and here I felt I might be told far more on it.

  An oath. Of allegiance. Did you not hear of it? Then he shrugged, said perhaps being Irish you did not. Our King William ordered it. He might have his follies but he is no fool—he knows who the
Highlanders serve, and that they plot against him. So he called for an oath to be sworn here in Inverary, by the first day of January. That all rebel clans might pledge their faith to him, and only him. Denounce their Jacobite ways.

  I leant forward. And if a clan did not pledge it?

  They would feel the King’s full force upon them, as traitors do. And because the old chief MacIain would swear nothing to a Campbell but hatred, he rode to Inverlochy instead. Which was the wrong place. No oath could be sworn there…

  I rose, then. I stood, and came towards him. So they swore no oath? The MacDonalds were killed for not swearing an oath?

  They swore it, sir. They did. But…he shook his head—they were six days late.

  See? I learn more, daily. I learn more about this country, its ways and laws. More about William, and none of what I learn goes in his favour—it all goes in ours.

  How hated that Glencoe tribe must have been, to be mauled in such a way! How strong and impressive a people they must have been, to have warranted such hating. I can only think that there were smiles in London and Edinburgh when they heard of this lateness in taking the oath—for is this not treason? An act of defiance against this Orange king? If they needed a reason to maul them, here it was. If they sought an excuse for routing them and taking their land, then yes—pride gave it. Six days did.

  I walked home from the forge feeling alive, Jane, and hopeful, and I am minded to write to King James himself, in France, to tell him of what I have learnt, thus far! It feels such news. It puts blood on Dutch hands.

  But a blacksmith’s word is not enough. He was not there, in the glen. He did not know the MacDonalds or live amongst them, and he did not see the murders with his own eyes.

  I am a different man to the man who rode into Inverary, shivering and old. I wrote of my hatred for witch. I wrote scornful words, and damning ones, and did I not support her coming death? By flames? I am different, now. The thought of her death troubles me—I cannot lie, or pretend otherwise. Corrag speaks of goodness, largely, and beneath the knots and dirt and blood I see how delicate she is, how frail. She speaks, too, of her fondness for a man called Alasdair—the Chief’s second son, and a rogue of some standing (though not in her eyes). What a tiny, lovesick creature she becomes, when she mentions his name.

  I am lovesick, also, for you. We are alike, then—the prisoner and I. We wish for the touch of one who is far away, and in our quiet times we both think of their face, their voice. Do you miss me, as much as this? And do you think, my love, of our loss? Our daughter comes to me each night, as you do. My greatest fear is that you grieve on your own—that you weep for our dead child in the dark, and alone.

  My heart is with you. It is nowhere else—it is with you, and does not leave your side.

  What strange days these are. I worry in them, and change. I have spent much of the day with my Bible on my lap. “The Lord says, I will bring my people back to me. I will love them with all my heart” (Hosea 14:4). What does this mean, now?

  Ever-loving

  Charles

  IV

  “The old conserve mixed with Aromaticum Rosarum is a very good cordial against the faintings, swoonings, weakness and trembling of the heart.”

  of Rose

  I have been fretful, all night, about my hens.

  Such hens. Good ones—pale, egg-coloured. They roosted in the hazel tree when it was mild, and closed their eyes with that milky, skin-like lid that chickens have, so that I wondered if they also had the sight—some second sight. In winter they nestled with me, indoors. They clucked as they slept.

  Last night, in my cell, I said, what of them now?

  I said it into the dark, so my voice came back off the walls. But truly—what of them? It still snows a little. Not as much as it did, and the snow is the watery kind—but it is still snow. Are they living? Alasdair’s hens? In winter, I fed them what I had gathered in the leaf-fall months—stalks, pods, seeds. A little fat. But now I am here, with chains on my wrists, so how can I feed them?

  I fear they are starving, up in the hills.

  And my goats! In time, I had goats. Three of them—with tiny teeth, and lips which burrowed into my pockets, and they scratched their heads on brambles, and where are they now? Now that my fire is out, and their shelter is gone?

  I tell myself they are living.

  I say they are just as they were. Yes. The hens scratch under the snow. The goats, knowing I am gone and will not come back, have made their way up, up. Into the heights. They tread along the peaks with their eyes half-shut against the wind, and their coats turning white with flurried snow. They will survive. My goats will have baby goats, in the spring. Their babies will have babies of their own.

  Maybe in the years to come, there will still be goats in Glencoe. Not many, but some. They will crop the higher slopes. And maybe if a person says goats? Here? Wild goats? then another will say to them ah…Yes. They come from the goats of Corrag. She was a good woman who died in a bad way, and who did not deserve her burning. But she died. And these goats come from her goats, so let us remember her when we see them. Let us watch her goats, and rest a while…

  I would like that. I indulge myself in these dreams, in the dark.

  I will hope for them to be so.

  A FARM? No. But it came to feel like I had more than I needed—rich, in that way. I had two hens, three goats, and an owl that told its secrets to me on some moonless nights. I had spiders that weaved, in the darkness. The stag, too, with the branches. He came back, and back.

  The world breathed about me, folded in and out, and what more could be asked for? What is better? Than being this much in the world? I asked this, as I watched the frosts settle down, or the smoke curl up from my fire.

  Nothing is better I told myself.

  There were days when I saw no people—not even one—and I said nothing is better. Nothing is better at all.

  I DID not want to go back to Carnoch—and I did want to. Both.

  Amongst their beeswax candles, the MacIain told me this—we have always been a fighting clan…

  He was mending. He had rested, and drank, and the howling wind and weather had kept him by his fire so that he was flushed, bright-eyed. The room at Carnoch was full. It was fuller than it ever was, with maybe three dozen in there, and the air was scented with honey, and wet wool, and peat, and I could smell the hounds which scratched in the corners. I could smell people, too—sweat, and their whisky. I thought, I breathe MacDonald breath.

  Always fighting, he said, filling his cup. And these hills have been fought for since man first found them, and wanted them. The Irish were here before us. A man called Fionn with his warriors, and dogs. They fought many thousand men to save the glen—and when the Fionn men died, it is said the mountains grew upon them, and that even now they sleep with their swords beneath the rocks and earth. One day they will rise up again. Fight for what needs fighting. He slowly brought his cup to his lips, and drank.

  I imagined all these sleeping men.

  He swallowed. Iain Og nan Fraoch took the glen for his own, in time. He came from the islands. And he was a fine MacDonald…

  All are! said a voice. They laughed.

  But are we not the finest? Of all MacDonalds? In how we live and fight? The room settled down. Their faces stared at the Chief, and the Chief stared at them, and when he looked back to me he said in a softer voice we are named for him. We—the MacDonalds of this glen—are called the MacIains, for we are sons of him. Young John of the Heather sired our line in this glen—with its woods and hills, and so many fish in the rivers that all he did was dip his hand…They say that on winter nights you may hear his dog, barking.

  He could tell a story well, that man. That chief.

  Everyone listened. Those people had heard this tale all their lives—of who they were from, and what legend is. But they listened like they had not heard it before, like part of their faith was to hear the tale of Fionn and his dogs. There were stories of Norsemen and Ir
ish kings. A doomed love. Battles. The peat shifted itself, as it burnt.

  I can hear the peat shifting. Can smell it.

  BRING the stool nearer? I have much to say about them tonight—these papists, this damnable sept.

  It was the last night in December. In my little valley, I was drinking from a pool of cracked ice, like a cat—crouching down, my hands flat. I heard a horse’s nostrils, and turned, and it was Iain. He was astride his garron with a dead hind strapped behind, and he said you are summoned. To Carnoch.

  I sat back on my ankles, wiped my mouth. Tonight?

  Yes. Tonight.

  Is it the MacIain? His wound? Or a new one?

  The man scoffed. He shook his head, and he spoke very slowly, as if I were a simpleton—no…It’s Hogmanay. The last day of the year? You’ve been asked, so you’ll come.

  So I went. How could I not, when I lived on their land? Drank from their cattle? So I freshened myself with water, and I crushed some rosemary in my hair to be sweet-scented, and I went to the great Carnoch house, where the river met the sea. I knew my way to it, now. I passed the peak called Keep-Me-Safe, and trod beside the Coe.

  There were more people in that single, oak-walled room with its fire and beeswax candles and whisky and glass than I’d seen in all of Hexham, or in all my travelling days. I could see nothing but people, at first—waists and bellies and forearms. I was brushed by their plaids, got trodden on, and they were laughing and drinking and I thought leave. You are not for here. Go back outside to the ice, and sharp air. But as I turned to go a fair-haired lady came by me, and smiled. She took down my hood. She said don’t hide those eyes… And she smoothed my shoulders, winked, moved on.