by Jess Smith
‘Son,’ she told Bruar, ‘listen to what I say and never forget it. In time I was going tell you of the “promise”, but I hadn’t planned it so soon. Your father is the last of our family’s line. In the ancient burial ground by the Parbh below the lighthouse there is one plot. It was destined for him, but because he laid a hand in anger upon the Balnakiel Seer he has forfeited it to you, his eldest. Whoever you marry she must see that you are buried in that old graveyard. You know where it is, for I have taken both of you many times. That is how it must be. And another thing, although he’s promised the drink hasn’t passed his lips for years, watch for its lure. Not even a priest of the church has enough will-power to resist it when the desire for it is strong. Drinking is like cleaning a cloudy mirror; suddenly a grand image will appear, but it only exists in the drinker’s head. The image looks dull again when the drink is gone. That’s why many fall victim to its charms.’
The youngster understood little of these words at the time, nor did his immature thoughts rest on anything beyond the excitement of a wide, open road that was waiting for them. He wanted to see and breathe the newness of the southern Highlands, a prospect that was so much fun to one who’d been no further than the few miles either side of his auntie’s croft.
But how different would be the sting of reality. They were used to a warm bed within the sheltered walls of that low-roofed croft, with the sea winds to its back and mountains to the front. These were to be denied to them; from then on they would live the ancient ways of their late mother, a hard and bitter life in which the elements would take their toll on two pampered boys. That was how it had to be; their father had decided, and from that day on his word would be the rule of the family.
One final conversation between sister and brother was about that scar. He said he’d fallen over a clump of heather upon a sharp rock which missed his throat by an inch, striking his exposed cheek instead. He leaned forward, planted a warm kiss on her cold brow and whispered, ‘I was sober at the time.’ She just shook her head in disbelief, reminding him, ‘A tiger keeps its stripes, brother.’
Next day after breakfast, the boys said their farewells to the only mother they knew. After saying goodbye also to Heather the cow and running from the nipping beak of an old red cockerel, they set off with a father who had until then been like a ghost from some recurring nightmare. Would he prove to be a hero, or maybe like that spirit from a bad dream come back to haunt them?
TWO
The next ten years saw them constantly wandering from place to place, living under canvas and eating from hand to mouth. They slept beneath summer skies, filled with stars or rain clouds, and they were familiar only with Mother Nature’s goods, her fish from the streams, fowl and rabbit from the heather moors. She filled their bellies and covered their bones with strong muscles. So into manhood grew the once petted boys, who became expert in all ways of survival. No thanks to their wayward father, though. One thing did turn out to be true; those wise words from Aunt Helen when she warned of their father’s fondness for alcohol. Its lure at times became too strong for him; he’d slip away, find a dingy drinking den and be without reason for weeks. If not for his sons, God alone knows in what state he’d have ended up.
In lieu of pay for work they’d be offered a derelict building, unroofed but with four walls to keep out the bitter chill of winter winds. They regarded this as a godsend. But this was only while work was available. More often they made do with a bracken-stuffed mattress and rough tent for cover, little else. Life hardened the young men. Sometimes they’d seek out their father from some flea-ridden den and drag him home semi-conscious, simply to add body warmth to a midwinter bed. Otherwise they might have forgotten his existence, rolled up their bundles and headed north.
If Helen could have foreseen the way her brother would drag the boys from place to place without so much as a thought to their wellbeing, she’d surely have murdered and buried him deep in bogs of peat.
In the areas of thick forest around remote glens in Angus, by moorlands teeming with grouse overlooked by snow-capped mountains they found enough work to sustain them for several months. For many years past Rory had camped there; being sober at the time he lingered for a peaceful summer, but did not stay for winter. Now he had brought his family into its bosom, severe and harsh, at the coldest time of year. If it were not for the rows of dense conifer trees and a high stone dyke circling their campsite, nature’s ferocity would have taken no prisoners.
Rory was curled up in the darkest corner of the tent, growling at the snowstorm ravaging through the glen. He’d found a drinking buddy by the name of O’Connor, a big Irish tinker wandering through the area, and had asked him to pitch his tent next to theirs. Both men had earlier drained a bottle of potcheen distilled by the Irishman out of devil knows what. They’d planned to visit Kirriemor, the nearest town. Down there was a drinking den where local men, ploughmen of the land, gathered, and some others—low women, the kind O’Connor desired. The local men were notorious both for their hard working and their drinking. The women, wild and without scruples, filled their beds; there were more than enough reasons for the nomadic men to linger.
‘Curse that blasted snow,’ bellowed Rory. ‘Is there no food? I’m at death’s door with the hunger!’
Bruar answered, ‘I’ll skin a rabbit in the morning, but for now shut your mouth, father, and give us all peace.’
From a boiling kettle Jimmy poured his father some tea, which was gratefully accepted. ‘Thanks, my boy, you’re a fine son, not like that bugger there who spits on his own father.’ Jimmy shook his head. ‘You deserve all you get, craving drink; no wonder Bruar scolds you.’
‘You remind me of your mother—a gentle-spirited angel, never raised her voice, not once. But him,’ he stared at Bruar, ‘too much of me, that’s your problem.’
‘Heaven help me then, eh Jimmy?’ Both boys smiled at the comment as each strained their eyes, trying to play a card game around a flickering candle to while away the storm, ignoring Rory’s simmering disgust at the dreary, storm-filled night.
As the hours ran by the storm intensified. Rory, wide awake and cold sober, called to O’Connor. ‘Hey, in the next tent, how do you fare?’
His neighbour, obviously unable to sleep for fear of his tent taking off into the snow-heavy sky, called back, ‘Well now, I have never felt such a force of wind in all me life. May the Holy Mother keep a watch on any poor soul out in this, they’ll be stone dead if they’re not sheltered, to be sure. The ground will be well buried when that stops, and we’ll see a few lean days in its wake.’ The Irishman muttered on incoherently, and in time fell silent. Rory called out to ask him if he wanted to join them in their tent, in case the howling wind stole his.
Silence followed. This bothered Rory, so he moved clumsily past Bruar’s feet to get closer to his neighbour’s canvas home; his son shoved him back. ‘God, man, can’t you go to sleep? Leave him where he is, there’s enough rank smells in here already. O’Connor’s fine.’
‘Mind your tongue, boy, I’m still your father and I’ll have a bit of respect. Are you alright, man?’
There was something wrong, because if anything the Irishman was renowned for his runaway mouth. His voice was usually a match for the best of storms, but now not a murmur came from his abode. Rory raised his voice, but still nothing.
‘Maybe he’s swallowed his Irish tongue,’ Jimmy joked.
Bruar laughed loudly and said, ‘With a bit of luck, eh, brother?’
‘I swear you two buggers have no shame. Now get out of my way, I’ll have to see if he’s alright.’
‘Oh, sit where you are, I’ll check him.’ Bruar stretched a woollen balaclava over his head, slipped one foot outside the tent-flap, but before he took another breath he felt something slump against the tent and slide down the canvas.
‘What, in God’s name, is that? Hell, I’m staying put. That must be a ghost, for no living thing could survive this night!’
Rory buttoned up
his jacket. ‘Stupid lad, there’s no such things. Now get out of my way. I’m more concerned that a bough of that creaking oak that hangs over us has just dropped its load of snow, and maybe the whole bloody tree will be next to come down! Or have you considered that it might be a lame deer; one that could feed us for a month.’
Before another word left his mouth there was another thump against the tent; a weight dented the canvas, then rolled down. All three now darted outside. Snow, powered by a high northerly wind, blinded them. Hands groped in the pitch dark and soon found, not a broken branch, but a body! In a flash it was dragged inside. Bruar quickly brushed clogged snow from the blue nostrils of the small figure, while Jimmy removed frozen, ice-matted gloves, and began rubbing life back into thin hands. The three of them pulled off a sodden wool coat to see that their intruder was a young female. Instinctively, Bruar began rubbing furiously at her shivering flesh with warm hands. ‘Come on, lassie, open your eyes. No, don’t sleep, there’s a brave lass, tell us your name.’ Over and over he rubbed, and kept prompting: ‘Good lass, what was that you said? Speak now... tell us who are you are...’
With sudden jerks of her body, followed by fists thumping the air, the lassie’s small frame jumped back to life. Her frightened head turned to her rescuer; eyes staring wide, her hands found his warm face. ‘Mammy and Rachel, where, where is Mammy and Rachel?’ she screamed.
They stared at each other in horror. Somewhere out there, where the murderous storm ruled the night, were two others. The young woman fell back into Bruar’s arms and slipped back into unconsciousness; instinctively he tore off his clothes and covered her with his warm body, while Rory and Jimmy donned every article of warm clothing they had and set out to find the girl’s family.
Each footstep sank helplessly into drifts as they called out to the strangers, who by now were probably frozen solid by the stone dyke, which was their only guide. Rory’s hunger for drink was striking and gnawing into his cold innards, which helped convince him their rescue was a futile bid. He was about to signal that they should turn back when a voice, weak and shivering, gasped out the words, ‘Over here!’
Jimmy pushed his father towards some gale-lashed trees, ‘There they are, come on!’
Sinking into deep drifts of snow, panting with the effort, they dragged themselves and struggled until they found the two small winter travellers huddled together. Whoever the girl was who’d braved the storm to find help, she was certainly endowed with the bravery and heart of a wolf. Before setting off, she’d built around her mother and sister a house of snow. The rescuers, their determination renewed, gathered the frozen pair and made for home quickly.
It took a lot of rubbing frozen limbs and the devouring of gallons of hot tea before a new dawn brought an end to the storm. Thanks to the brave efforts of the rescuers through a long night, a mother, Annie, and her two daughters, Megan and Rachel, had survived.
That morning, once the initial shock at being among strangers had subsided, and thankful to be alive, Annie began to tell the sad tale of why she and her daughters had left a good wintering ground and were forced on the road.
Rory declared that it was a stupid act, heading out onto the roads with winter coming, but he soon discovered it wasn’t through their choice. Annie’s man, John Macdonald, the head of the family, had suffered a fatal back injury while leading a string of horses off the mountain. It had been a successful day of deer shooting and the ponies were heavily laden with deer when one horse reared. John tried to stop the beast, but it bolted, dragging him from the narrow path. Both man and horse plummeted down, striking a rocky outcrop below before tumbling another hundred feet. No one could have survived such a fall—it was a terrible death. His employer, a stern, hard-hearted man, reacted to the accident without sympathy. He simply declared that without a strong male to help with the work on the estate, they had to leave the Glen Coe campsite.
Megan, trustful of the one who’d saved her life, snuggled close to Bruar. Through the night his body had given her warmth, and that comfort helped her. She’d curled her arms tightly around his neck, refusing to part from him, until the moment when she heard her mother’s shaky voice telling the reason why they had left a good wintering camp site. She rose from her warm bed, still angered by the memory of their previous landlord. Trembling on wobbly knees, and with hands curled into fists, she hissed, ‘We’d already a strong tent erected to face a long winter in, but he insisted, that stout-bellied pork pig of a laird. He said that without Daddy we were just useless women, and to make sure we went, he put fire to our tent!’ Her green eyes stared in anger as she went on, ‘That bastard will be dead now, because I piled the curses on him! He never even left us to mourn our loss!’
Annie, small and frail, hushed her daughter and leaned over to touch Rory’s big hands as they were folded across his chest. ‘We owe you and your boys here a debt of gratitude. All I had, apart from what we buried back at the dyke side, were just little family trinkets, and I left these in Glen Coe. But I’ll pay you back—I’ll work for you, do a bit of cooking or whatever.’
‘No need, woman, we’d have done the same for any poor soul trapped in a snow storm.’
His coldness saw her draw away her hands. Embarrassed, she turned to Rachel. ‘Will you go back and fetch our bits and pieces, my lassie.’ She spoke also to Megan about gathering sticks for a fire, but could see that her eyes were fixed on Bruar’s face and she hadn’t heard a word. Before she had time to repeat her request, a gasp came from young Jimmy. ‘Father, we clean forgot the Irishman—do you think he’s alive?’
‘Lord, so we did! Hell, boy, I don’t know.’ They threw open O’Connor’s tent doors, which flapped wetly at each side of the tent as they dived inside. ‘What a smell in here! I feel it’s a cold dawn for him, father,’ said Jimmy, covering his mouth and nose with both hands.
A filthy mound of grey blankets parted to show the red, bleary-eyed face of O’Connor. ‘That, my dear young fella, is no the smell o’ rotting flesh, it’s the aroma o’ me socks—I burnt the buggers on me stove. I was about to join youse last night an thought I’d heat me tootsies first, but wit me feet cosy I fell into a deep sleep. I woke two minutes ago from a lovely dream where I was rescuing damsels in distress from a high tower, and God, did I not nearly burn me tent down—the bloody tings were smouldering and it’s a blessing they didn’t fire the place.’
Jimmy lifted his eyebrows as he turned his head away from the foul-smelling place and said, ‘Your dream had a hint of truth to it, because see what we have in our tent.’
O’Connor crawled inside, and what a shock he got seeing the three females huddled together like little rabbits. ‘Well now, wid ye look at this? If I’d been awake, all you women could have shared me bed.’
‘With that stink not one would have survived—they’d be gassed!’ For that remark, Bruar got a slap across the head with a wet bonnet.
Throughout the day, everybody was busy trekking the path back and forth and building a proper tent for Annie and her daughters. By the day’s end they’d a fine abode erected close by, yet not too near; Annie insisted that a little distance would allow privacy.
For whatever reasons, Rory had little time for the newcomers to the campsite and kept to himself. He was unlike his eldest son, who could not keep away from them, and had already bonded with fifteen-year-old Megan. He loved the way she said things, her way with words; silly turns of phrases that made him smile. For the first time in his life he had found a friend, one with sea-green eyes that flashed amber when caught by the winter sun, a girl with a slender frame yet already blossoming into womanhood.
Rachel, her older sibling, cleaved to Annie, and although grateful to her rescuers, offered little in way of conversation. Yet it could be noticed she did soften in Jimmy’s company.
The winter continued; Annie, not a well woman, spent most of her time inside her tent or huddled close by her fire. Rachel was not as vibrant as her younger sister, who told tales of monsters and banshe
e demons, entertaining all who listened around the fire when night brought its giant shadows. The older sister had a dislike for the culture of her birth, and spent long hours nagging her mother to find a proper home. Megan, on the other hand, was as wild as the fox and just as cunning. Bruar was aware that from that first night when she had lain frozen in his arms a deep attraction was drawing them closer; her nomadic beauty filled his dreams and daily thoughts.
Rory too noticed his son’s attraction for the fiery Megan and voiced his disapproval, but when he was asked why, the answers were sparsely given. ‘She’s too young... untrained... she has a bad tongue...’ The young man put his father’s negativity down to nothing more than his distrust for anyone unless they shared his ways with the booze. But then Rory said, ‘Those Macdonalds are uncouth—your mother who knew of them told me that.’ Bruar cornered his father, asking why his mother would say such things, and demanded to know. But Rory refused to say anything, and soon Bruar, filled with his attraction to the raven-haired beauty, forgot about his father’s remarks. A warm spring soon cleared the frost from the dykes and pushed out buds on the waiting trees, adding to the tide of emotion growing between the young pair.
Time on the small campside ran onwards uneventfully. Rory and O’Connor continued drinking when spare money came to them by way of odd jobs from farmers. At times no one would see them for days, then loud intoxicated voices would herald their return from wherever they had been drinking.
The highlander’s sons resented his behaviour, but it had been a long time since they, as children, waved goodbye to Aunt Helen. Her wisdom had indeed proved to be accurate, yet in their own way they hoped that sooner or later their father would realise the errors of his path.
