by Jess Smith
Serenely, holding a cotton hankie to her eyes, Helen held back her tears. She’d shed plenty over the years for her wayward brother. Father Flynn intoned in Latin the fitting words, as the men stood respectfully in silence, waiting with spades to cover up Rory, the wild drinking man whose love of the water of life and lack of respect for himself had proved a terrible downfall.
Looking across the land as if for a fleeting moment she saw Rory, Megan repeated to herself the words she’d heard all those years ago: ‘You can book into Hell Hotel, but you can never leave.’
Megan couldn’t watch as the men struggled with the coffin. It proved too heavy and after seeing them drop one end and have to jump in to straighten the thing, she decided to get away. Pulling a black cardigan that Helen had loaned her across stiff shoulders, she ran off without a word. Avoiding the path that went past the far end of the graveyard, she set off across the sand dunes which seemed endless. She didn’t want to be there, all that holy stuff about repenting and forgiveness stuck in her throat; she felt stifled. But noone thought her actions disrespectful; the past war was still raw in many hearts.
On she ran until she came to a spectacular view of cliff tops, above which black and white birds hovered and dived. The sight made the hair rise on her neck. Their freedom and power over the wind made her wish she were a sea bird like a puffin, diving with folded wings among rugged rocks with such agility; then to rise with wings outstretched, hovering on air thermals.
Funeral garment now wrapped about her waist, she set off to explore that wild and wonderful place that her man had spoken of with such vivid words. In the past she had longed to see this place, hoping they could come one day. And now here she was, seeing it in all its splendour, thanks to the dead body of his father. Each step drew her eyes upward, as yet more birds held themselves steady in a powerful wind. It whipped up her hair and the frayed hem of her skirt slapped her legs. Every so often, without warning, the ground fell away, displaying a gorge of such mammoth depth it left her breathless. She walked, skipped and ran, climbing higher before falling back into long, coarse grass and staring upward until the sky’s brightness brought tears. Far below, on her left, a swathe of countryside lay between one village and the other, and from her high vantage-point they appeared like tiny dots on the edge of the world. To her right, almost as far away as any eye could see, stood a high lighthouse, and she wondered if perhaps that was the ‘Parbh’. She could just make out how near the cliff edge it was. Exhausted with the responsibility of recent days, she found a secluded spot to rest.
‘If you stand upon that rock over there you will see the Hvarf. I mean Cape Wrath. The Vikings called it Hvarf, meaning “the turning point”.’
Megan, startled by the man who’d appeared, it seemed, out of nowhere, rose to her feet.
She rubbed her eyes. ‘What did you say?’
‘The Cape of Wrath. The invaders, those men of Norway, had their own name.’
‘My Bruar told me all about the Vikings,’ she said.
‘Oh, that he would, and seeing as he was from these parts, I’m sure he did a good job!’
Her strange companion faced her, and all she could focus on was a space in his head! Not the long reddish beard or the sharp jawline, but that empty hole that once housed a sea-green eye. The Seer of Balnakiel, who had flitted in and through her nightmares, stood with her on a cliff top. Who else could it be?
He sat down on grassy rocks, motioned her to do the same. As if in a trance she obeyed, clasping hands over shaking knees.
A strange silence fell across the sky; it grew dark and cloudy, and the birds flew in to rest on cliff ledges.
‘Do you believe in the stones?’ he asked.
‘I have no time for that stuff; I am a Glen Coe tinker. And I have no time to be in the company of a pig-evil man who told big Rory his wife was dying. You could have helped him. Even if it was known to you she would die, you still should have shown compassion.’ She made to stand, run away, but his bony fingers clawed her back down to the grass.
‘You look to the creatures of the sky for prophecy.’ His voice was slow and thoughtful.
‘Why do you know this?’ she asked sharply.
‘I know many things, child. Now calm your heart and listen, for there is not much time and your road is long.’ He took a handful of stones from a cloth bag, shaking them before throwing them on a patch of sand. When they settled, he studied them and said, ‘Bruar sleeps not below the soil, but above it! You have to leave this place. Forget too, the old doctor in the glens. In the land of the King he waits. The way of a tinker lassie is the road, you’re not a sheep to be kept in one place. Find him, bring the man home.’
She touched his flowing garment; it felt like spider’s web. He was almost transparent. Shaking with fear, she asked if he was a ghost.
Silence followed, and for an age he ran his hands over the stones muttering in a strange tongue. Puffins joined seagulls at rest on the precarious ledges below.
‘Megan,’ he said, pulling her up to stand beside him on the very edge of the cliff, ‘I hear voices, I must go. Listen, for this is the last time we shall meet; heed my words!
‘Run lassie, find your man, he sleeps above the earth, not below, fast go your way, like the stream, winding forth blindly, yet always aware of treacherous waterfalls cascading over sharp rock. Mind how you flow, wild child of Nature: go on until the great tide frees your tired limbs and the hidden sun shines for you once more. Embrace the warmth of him who waits in the shadows.’
‘Megan, are you alright?’ She heard a voice calling her name, but her eyes were closed tight and would not open. When they did, it was Father Flynn putting an arm under her head and lifting it up. ‘Come now, there’s a good girl, drink this.’
It was whisky, and when the sharp taste slipped onto her tongue she almost choked.
She sat up to find her grassy rock seat was gone and replaced by a soft eiderdown bed. She was back in the bedroom of the small cotter house, and by her were the priest and Helen.
‘Where did he go?’
‘Who?’ asked Helen.
‘The old man with a red beard; he’d one eye!’
‘You don’t mean old Balnakeil?’
‘Yes, yes! Him who lost his eye to big Rory! I met him away up the cliff tops and he told me things... Who took me home? Did I faint or something?’
‘What did he tell you, this old man? Have you forgotten walking home alone and going to bed? You’ve been resting for an hour or so.’
Megan had no memory of leaving the Seer or coming back; she was frightened. ‘He told me that Bruar wasn’t dead, that’s what he told me!’
Helen sat close, held her hand and said, ‘The Balnakeil Seer could not have spoken to you lassie. Not today or yesterday or any other day. You see, he’s been dead these past five years!’
The words hit her like a bolt of wild lightening; she grabbed and emptied the glass of whisky in one swallow. ‘I tell you, as low as my dear mother’s grave. I saw that one-eyed man. He was as real as you. Some place far away from here, my Bruar waits, and I will have to find him! Call me mad if you want, but I’m certain that the Seer came back from the other world with a message.’
Helen was angered. ‘God will not allow such unholy talk. I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you, too young and too much sorrow. It’s been overpowering and that’s why you talk in riddles. Unbalanced, you are. You’re going no place. I will nurse the strength back into you.’
Father Flynn, who’d been listening, stepped forward, ‘Never underestimate the effect of a broken heart, it shows itself in many ways. You thought you heard about Bruar because the laddie came from these parts. That’s healthy and helps get things long buried out in the open. I bet he told you every detail about the Seer. I myself have listened to folk in these parts, and by their description, although I never met the man, I could paint a picture.’
He walked over to the little window, scanned the shoreline, turned and said to her, ‘Yo
u would benefit from spending a wee bit time up here in the Highlands. Take some long cliff walks and fill your lungs with our summer winds. Help Helen cut winter peat. Find Bruar in the sea breezes and blue ocean swells. If you run away following a bad dream—and that’s all it was—you’ll search for nothing more than an empty wind.’
She watched him put the empty glass on the dresser, flick back his cassock, take out a packet of cigarettes and light one. Without another word on the subject, he said his goodbyes and was gone. Helen too had left the room to make some dinner.
Her head ached in pain, as all that had happened reeled inside. Had she really imagined the whole thing? Far too many negative thoughts spiralled in her head; perhaps that was the problem. She did far too much thinking.
Next day she helped Helen with some chores before heading out along the shoreline to explore, but no matter how she tried not to think about them, the Seer’s words dominated every step. Miles and miles of shoreline spread themselves under foot; it was easy to cover the ground when no heather or rock hindered the way. If she was going to live in these parts it was best that she become acquainted with the terrain.
Pausing for breath she saw an old ruin among sand dunes; not far from the village of Durness and perhaps a mile or so from Helen. On investigation it seemed as if someone, many years back, had deserted it in the middle of building. It had a low wall and here she rested. Grasses dominated, but clearly visible on a concrete ledge lay a rusty trowel, hammer and scattered nails. The planks of wood that rotted beneath her feet may have been planned for a door. She wondered why this would-be home had been so suddenly abandoned.
Time passed without her realising it. It was late when she noticed that daylight was fading, and along with it a thick haar was creeping inward toward the land. ‘I’d better shift myself and get back before the way is hidden in mist,’ she thought, hurriedly picking up the shawl that had slipped from her grasp. As she stooped, something lying on the ground caught her eye, a part-burnt piece of paper. Usually she’d have left it where it was, but something familiar about it made her pick it up.
Fingers of wet mist, driven now by a strong breeze, pushed damp hair into her eyes; with the wind to her back she turned and looked at the article in her hand. How on earth could it be? She fell back and trembled, staring in utter amazement at the part-burnt photograph of her and Bruar’s wedding. Her own face was burned off! It was the very picture that had perished with everything else in the box back in the Angus glens. How had it got here?
A whispering wind brushed her ears. She listened above the ocean’s swell, which was rising in a crescendo of water music. Someone spoke—the wind carried voices.
‘Surely I’m not dreaming this time!’ She called out, ‘Who are you?’
No response; was her imagination taking over? Did she have the photo with her all the time but had forgotten? Had it fallen from her pocket without her noticing? She turned her head to look over some rocks on the horizon, but all she saw was a faint ray from the setting sun throwing a light through the thick mist, enough to show her path. For a moment she wanted to turn into the water, to rest on the tide and let it take her away to sea, some place where the loneliness and pain, and this creeping insanity, would not penetrate. It would be a place of dreams, a place where she needed no food, just a promise of sleep forever. In the empty place she stared at the wedding photo in her hand, then was aware of something moving. She turned to see the figures of two people holding hands in the setting sun’s glow; a tall man and a small woman. They walked towards the water and looked back for a moment. Megan’s tears came in torrents. ‘Rory,’ she cried, ‘you found your peace!’ ‘Now find yours, Megan,’ the wind whispered.
In no time she was running along the sandy path, tears freely falling, releasing her from hopelessness and fear! With the burnt photo tightly grasped in her hand, her road now lay spread before her clearer than ever, with promise and hope. There was no doubt! She had to find Bruar; no matter where, when or how, she would find him.
Her skirt lifted with a brisk wind that followed her. She felt better than she’d done for many a long while—now there was purpose to her life. Whirling around, she called into the mist that the wind was chasing, ‘You win, Balnakiel! I’m off to search in the King’s town, wherever that is, for my young man, and by God I’ll find him. Thank you, wherever you are, from the bottom of my heart.’
Helen could see that whatever was going on in Megan’s head, she’d no control over. It was plain that her late brother’s daughter-in-law had a mind of her own. Anyway, this young woman was too wild for her quiet, church-going lifestyle. It was plain that she’d other plans, which didn’t include living with a staid woman, or an old man, come to that.
Helen insisted she take extra clothing for the journey and pushed a worn skirt and the black cardigan inside the doctor’s leather bag.
Next day Father Flynn promised to write to Doctor Mackenzie to say she was going to find her Bruar. He wouldn’t allow her to walk to Thurso, although she insisted that her feet were faster than fat Clydesdales and a rickety wagon. Helen gave her a few shillings to add to what she’d had left over from her Kirriemor friend. All in all she’d enough money for the long train journey south.
‘Can you tell me where the “King’s land” is?’ she asked a ticket clerk on the station platform in Thurso.
‘London, I suppose’ he answered, smiling broadly, ‘where the great palaces are. He stays at Balmoral sometimes to do a bit of shooting, but most of the year he lives in London.’
‘London it is.’
The priest saw her on board, and just before saying goodbye, put a piece of folded paper in her pocket. ‘A wee bit extra’, he said. He seemed happy for her, but had a word of warning. ‘Take care, and keep eyes in the back of your head.’
TEN
The train stopped many times, Inverness, Perth and Edinburgh, and by the time it reached Newcastle in the north of England it was full to bursting with passengers. Thankfully, twenty minutes break was allowed at the stops on the way for long-distance passengers to stretch their legs and have some tea in a small station café. Everything seemed to run on a smooth track. She marvelled at the changing countryside. Newcastle frightened her, though. She told a ticket collector that a city of such magnitude must have brought a million masons to build it. When he said the place was begun as a port and grew from there, she said ‘the sailors were handy with a trowel, then.’
The ever-changing landscape had captivated her, and she was so wrapped in thought about her journey that she failed to see the man with the torn raincoat who’d been watching and following her. It was when coming from the station café to catch yet another connection on her journey to the south that she saw him, but failed to realise, until too late, what his interest was—the leather bag she held tightly in her hand!
‘Madam, you’ve dropped this,’ he said with a voice as polished as a duke, holding a lovely red scarf.
Never had she seen a bonny one like that before, and had it been winter she would have taken it and run. But she’d no need for a scarf in summer, so politely told the stranger he was mistaken.
‘No, I saw it fall from your shoulders, and thought how much it complemented your black hair.’
It may be said that a gift horse with a big mouth should not be ignored, and this certainly was a gift, but why?
‘Look, dear thing,’ he pushed it into her hands, ‘one doesn’t tell lies.’
‘Well, one certainly is mistaken,’ she thought, taking it from him with a broad thank-you smile.
‘Better put it away or else it will get lost again,’ he said, pointing at her hold-all.
Innocently she put the bag on a slatted wooden bench and folded the scarf. Then in a flash, at the precise moment a guard shouted, ‘All aboard for York,’ the stranger had the case in one hand, red scarf in the other; running down the platform, he was soon gone from her astonished sight. Smoke from the trains puffed and poured over the platform, in and arou
nd the scurrying legs and bodies of passengers, concealing the thief.
‘That pig-face has taken all I possess, even, heaven forbid, my ticket to London! Curse the hide off you for that,’ she screamed after the thief, who had disappeared from view like a wily fox. One or two faces turned to her, but only for a second—they were unmoved by her predicament. A war had not long finished and poverty in abundance had followed in its wake. One more incident was neither here nor there. Making her way through the bodies to complain to a bald, bespectacled man at the ticket barrier, she wished that the rogue would be half way to hell by now. ‘Excuse me please, missus, can I go in front of you? I have to get on that train.’
The lady in question tutted at Megan’s apparent ignorance of ticket line etiquette and pushed her back into the queue. Slowly the London train’s wheels began to chug, chug, chug, and to her horror it started gathering speed.
Pushing her way once again to the front of the line, she shouted, ‘I can’t stand here until you yap any more hair off him.’ Such was her desperate situation, she took hold of the stout lady and physically thrust her aside, pushing up to the clerk and pleading in her ignorance, ‘Someone has stolen my bag with my ticket for that train over there, can you give me another one?’
Several people, including the chubby lady laughed loudly and told her not to be ridiculous.
‘Pull the other one,’ sneered the man behind the rabbit wire barrier. She’d obviously embarrassed him by drawing attention to his lack of hair.
Megan was desperate, these people’s ways were strange, she grew anxious. ‘I’ll pull whatever one you want, I’ll pull the whole damn lot if you like, just give me a ticket.’
‘That train has gone; there won’t be another until tomorrow. If you want a ticket it will cost you three shillings and sixpence.’
