by Jess Smith
‘I will not, now go away. If Buckley comes, he’ll kill every mother’s son of you, but not me! Oh no, he’ll not get me. I’d rather starve to death than go by his hand. Do you hear me? Get away.’
‘My darling girl, he’s not coming. It’s three in the afternoon. Come and have some tea with Nick O’Connor before he goes home.’
‘No, I will not!’ She was about to scream at them, when a shout from outside drew Michael away, leaving Mrs Sullivan to talk to her.
‘Some scoundrel ran along the dyke, Michael, he’s heading for the back of the house,’ shouted Terry, then added, ‘Nick, he’s ran up the back o’ ye, try to head him into the open, we have the devil for certain.’
O’Connor, buttoning up his trouser-front, cursed, ‘Blast him to kingdom come, he must have sneaked past while I was havin’ a piss. Come on, boys, he won’t get far.’
The men left their vantage points; two went to the far side of the house, while three ran round to the rear. They met halfway, but there was no sight or sound of anyone. Megan, with her ear to the door, called out to the housekeeper, ‘Have they got him yet?’ There was no answer. She shouted louder, ‘What’s going on, Mrs Sullivan?’
Mrs Sullivan must have gone outside to see what all the commotion was, because there was no sound. What a blessed relief after a time to hear the shuffling footsteps of the old woman who had come back from wherever she’d been.
‘Mrs Sullivan, can you tell me if they’ve got Buckley?’ Megan called through the door.
A sense of déja-vu overwhelmed her. Every fibre in her being knew who stood on the other side of that door, as a low hissing sound from the keyhole turned her ice-cold. ‘I’ll take the high road and you take the low... Hell’s back!’
She slumped against the bedroom wall and slid to the floor. The meat knife fell from her limp hand, the strength drained from her body as she stared into nothing. He’d killed them all, and once more wanted her! There was scuffling outside her door and loud noises, but she failed to hear them. Suddenly the door almost came off its hinges. She grabbed the meat knife and almost rammed it into Michael, who along with O’Connor stormed through the barricade. ‘We have him, Megan, we have him!’ Eager faces swarmed around her. ‘Mrs Sullivan was in the kitchen, when she saw a shadow by the clock. She looked along the hall and saw him kneeling on the floor outside your room then tip-toed out for us. Come on, girl, the boys have him tied to a chair.’
In a flash she was running along and into the cobbled yard, knife fiercely clenched in her hand. Terry was putting the finishing touches to the prisoner, tying his hands with strong rope. Paddy and Johnno smiled at the restrained criminal as he tried to wriggle free from his bounds. Johnno kicked the chair from under him, saying, ‘Where does ye want the bullet, ye wicked fart of a man?’ Buckley was to be executed, army-style.
At the first sight of him she stood petrified, words and thoughts lost in a maze. She could only stare down at him, shaking. ‘But I’m not a mouse,’ she told herself, ‘a little helpless mouse.’ In a strange attitude he lay on the cold ground, tied tightly with his legs up in the air. His eyes narrowed and centred on her gaze.
From the purple hills of Glen Coe she felt the power of her ancestors. ‘Megan,’ they said, ‘remember who you are, take back the pride that many died to leave as your legacy; keep it with passion.’ The voices faded, leaving a single whisperer who repeated, ‘Remember the bogs of dread that beat the Vikings.’
The cruel fear of this monster had imprisoned her, sent her to another land with her tail between her legs. If he were there, Bruar would have failed to recognise her after what she’d been reduced to. Buckley had her shaking in her shoes like a cowed dog. Nick O’Connor interrupted her train of thought. ‘Best you were away inside, you don’t want to see this.’ His words signified Buckley’s coming end, yet as she gazed deep into his eyes he was still challenging her to take the low road.
He tossed his head back in that so familiar way, causing a shock of red hair to fall over one eye. He sneered and grinned at her. It was as if no one else was present, only she and him. Suddenly everything became as clear as the sky when a cloud gives back the sun. This was her fight. Not O’Connor’s, nor Michael’s with his stable hands, this was between a Glen Coe Macdonald and street-fighter and killer Buckley. If he died, then it had to be by her hand. Paddy and Terry righted the chair. Buckley shook sand and gravel from his hair, then in answer to Johnno’s earlier question he said, ‘Put it right between my eyes.’
What Megan did next was utterly insane. Sudden powers of energy rushed through her body. She dived behind Buckley and in one swift slash of the knife had cut him free from his bonds. ‘Get up onto the moor, Buckley, we’ll finish this there.’
‘Ha,’ he called, running past the men and away, ‘the low road it is, then.’
The men watched helpless, as he took off like a red deer and was soon gone onto the moor to wait for the next move.
‘You’ve gone stone horn mad, girl,’ O’Connor told her. ‘What stupid idiot takes on a monster like that?’
‘I have no choice, that beast has sent a fear through me. I have been living a nightmare. Can’t you see? If I don’t face my fear it will never leave me. Dead or alive, he’ll always plague my waking thoughts. Now, give me that gun, I’m not so daft as to match my puny strength against his.’
Michael immediately forbade her to go after Buckley, saying he and the men would go instead.
‘I know the moor bogs,’ she replied. ‘While you pottered with your horses and ran that blasted war of yours, I spent days marking causeways through them. That will be my advantage over Buckley.’
Then, before they could stop her, with a new-found power and speed she ran after her demon.
As the mist swallowed her up, Michael said to his men, ‘I love that mad tinker. God help me for it, but I have to follow her. You lads are free to make up your own minds about the risk.’
‘Aye, I love her too, an’ for different reasons, so I’m coming. Any road, she’s too good to fall at the hands of a fiend that kills old wimmin,’ said O’Connor.
Mrs Sullivan watched as they chased after Megan, and were swallowed up by the thick mist covering the land.
Treading softly through the bog on strips of firmer ground, where nothing but the creatures that live in that godforsaken place know the way, she soon found what she was looking for—the heavy, unmistakable footprints of her prey. The men behind her were calling out to each other in the mist; one minute they were within touching distance, the next, far off. If they found him first she was certain they’d shoot him. She kept her eyes on the oozy earth, following the deep-sunken prints until they disappeared. Underfoot, the heather wove a thick carpet and there was no clear track forward, so she waited. There in the damp mist she found her rock seat, almost hidden by bracken and rye grass, and sat stealthily down. It wouldn’t take long; she knew he’d back-track. A moment later, she also knew her prey was inches away as hot breath touched her neck.
‘Show yourself, Bull. You’re not frightened of a little tinker mouse are you?’
‘You be a good girl and throw away the gun, and make me feel a mite luckier.’
Before she could answer, fingers wound around her arm and whirled her to face him. Once again the devil stared into the depth of her soul, red hair covering one eye, grinning.
This time, though, the veil of terror that so long shrouded her had lifted.
‘Not as easy to kill as Moses Durin or a helpless hedgehog,’ she told him, ‘am I?’
‘Or old Mamma Foy,’ he laughed. ‘Honest, though, I have to thank you. I’ve never had such fun since you shopped me to the muskries. All those killings, and here I am seeing a bit of old Ireland. It’s a power of joy you are to me but,’ he threw a quick glance at the gun held tightly in her hand, ‘that puts anger in my head, and you know what I do when I’m angry.’
‘Surely a wee gun isn’t turning Bully scared?’ She goaded him and waited for his familia
r response.
Tossing back his head he snarled like a dog and growled into the shroud of mist, ‘Give me that gun!’
‘Oh, does Mr Pussy want this?’ She dangled it inches from his leering eyes, then threw it behind him.
It thudded onto tufts of rye-grass and lay awkwardly, with the barrel facing upwards.
‘There’s the weapon, take it from the marsh if you dare!’
‘It’s not to harm you, my pretty little mouse; that weapon will rid me of those idiots who think I’m easy meat.’ He turned and stepped towards the gun. His feet landed on soft ground that instantly began to suck him down. ‘What the hell is this!’ he called as he began to sink up to his knees into the marshland. ‘Megan, I will not be beaten—throw me a hand or stick! I won’t hurt you, surely that is clear. I’m really in love with you! Help me out and together we’ll rule this place.’ The bog sucked and inch by inch he went down. His chest heaved as he sank to his waist. ‘Listen, how would you like me to take my fists onto the Irish scene? We’d be rich; I’m King, never been beat.’
Down he went, slithering under, now up to his chest. Soon only his head remained above the bog.
She could hear the others calling, hear the crackle of dead twigs under foot. They were closing in. Carefully she knelt at the edge of the bog that had brought his doom. His pleading eyes filled with fear. ‘Fetch the men, I’d rather they shot me than die like this.’
‘Sorry, Bull, but that’s not my way.’ Mocking, she repeated his own words—‘Hell’s here! Well, seeing as you have such a liking for the place, welcome, you’re in it. Before you leave me, take a look around—do you see them waiting in the fog, those ghosts from the past, people you murdered? Oh yes, my fiendish friend. No one escapes vengeance.’
She smiled as the ooze sucked mercilessly. His struggling only hastened his grisly end, and as he made one last desperate attempt to gasp for air, she ran her fingers through his red, curly hair and sang, ‘I’ll go the high road, while you go the low...’
Deep and black, the bog left only the smallest bubble of his last breath. She stood up and breathed clear air. The mist was wet but it tasted good. ‘Revenge should taste sweet,’ she said, turning on her heels and skipping along the secret causeways threading through the hellish puddles of liquid peat.
O’Connor was first to meet her and asked if she had his gun. She winked, smiled and said, ‘Sorry, but it sank with Buckley.’
‘Oh, ’twas a fine pistol was that, but I’ll get another.’
Michael joined them, caught her in his arms and asked anxiously, ‘Are you alright? Tell me where he is, and I’ll rip out the evil bastard’s throat.’
She glanced over her shoulder and said, ‘The thing about cats is they have no idea of the power of water, even muddy water. My granny used to say, if a wild cat frightens you then find a bog. They’ll never follow you onto a moor where peat puddles lie. Yes, he’s gone, and will bother no one again, ever!’
As they made a happy journey back to Ballyshan little was said. No doubt each thought of Buckley’s last moments, and about how this slip of a young woman had shaken off her fears. She had replaced them with a solid, positive vision, and faced down a fear so awful it would eventually have strangled her. Megan had dealt with a killer whom others could not. She hadn’t felt so good in ages, she was new, alive and needed to share her joy. So she linked an arm with Michael and asked, ‘What would be a good time for a wedding in these parts?’
He stopped dead in his muddy tracks and lifted her into the air. A strong breeze parted the mist, revealing a deep blue sky. A sleepy sun scattered its rays across the moor behind them, and everyone shouted ‘Yahoo!’
She was determined now to put all thought of her past as far away as possible. Ballyshan and all its splendour would be her domain. She would be mistress of its lands and keeper of its bogs!
Mrs Sullivan met them at the door, her rosary beads tied in knots with praying. ‘Oh, thank the Holy Virgin you’re all safe and sound. Me heart’s been going sixty to the dozen, so it has. Is that bad man dead or chased away?’
All eyes turned to Megan; after all it was her story to tell. But instead of saying what happened between her and Buckley she waved it away with a gesture. He’d been buried. How could she describe her feelings of release, watching the top of his head disappearing into the mire? She didn’t need to put it into words.
The weekend arrived with O’Connor getting ready for home, his secret hidey-hole somewhere an hour’s drive away. Paddy would work the morning and take himself off to Dublin in the afternoon, leaving Terry and Johnno to head home with a juicy tale to tell, no doubt.
Michael and Megan were lovers now and not ashamed to show it to the world. ‘You shall want nothing,’ he told her. ‘All my attention will be you first, horses second. Lord, I’m a happy man for sure.’
She smiled, kissed him gently and said, ‘Time is beginning to heal a lot of scars in my mind, dearest lad, but time has its own pace. Be patient with me, a lot has happened that I’m still not over.’
‘Whatever you want, my love, as long as it takes.’
‘Oh Michael, I’m such a fortunate lassie. What female wouldn’t give an eye-tooth for what I have?’
‘I’m the lucky one,’ he told her, heading off to saddle his favourite horse, adding that she’d soon have her own to ride. She settled for a chat with Mrs Sullivan, who was busy sorting through the muddy clothes left for her to wash.
‘Me hands will be shrivelled into black prunes by the time I’ve worked through this lot of muck. Sure they’d be better set on fire.’
‘I’ll help you, and don’t bother telling me I’ll ruin my hands. Good God, woman, what are hands for?’ She lifted her own filthy cardigan and shook it. Something fell from the pocket. ‘What’s this?’ she thought, then remembered the letter. Ever since Michael had given it to her, she’d kept it on her person.
The old woman scooped it from the floor and said, ‘Is this yours?’
‘Yes, it’s a letter from...’ she wanted to tell her about Bruar, share his memory. After all, her boys had died as a result of war, she’d understand.
‘My husband, and before you say anything, he’s dead.’ It was obvious by the woman’s shocked look that her strong religious convictions were uppermost in her mind.
Megan pointed and said, ‘In that letter is the proof he’s dead. Go on, read it if you don’t believe me.’
Mrs Sullivan sat on a small stool and opened the letter. Bits of heather and moss fell from its folds. She shook it and smoothed it flat with the palm of her hand and began to read, out loud at first, then she stopped abruptly.
‘Go on, read it. Michael’s already told me what’s it says, so it’s alright.’
Mrs Sullivan finished reading the letter silently, then said, ‘Megan, can you read?’
‘No, of course I can’t, that’s why he read it for me.’
‘And did Michael organise this?’
‘Yes, but why the look of disgust? Surely your religion has nothing against a widow remarrying?’
‘Oh, I’m not thinking about that. This letter says nothing about anyone being dead. I’m puzzled, not disgusted.’ Touching Megan’s arm, she shook her head and re-read the letter out loud. ‘Private Stewart, having been pronounced mentally incapacitated, has been transferred from Kingsland House to Horton Home, London, where he shall spend the remainder of his life. Wives of Army officers fund this establishment.’
Each word opened floodgates: her heart was once more upon the braes of the Angus glens; there he towered in all his Highland splendour; there he stood on the mountaintops with windblown hair, holding his big strong hand to her, there once more was the face of her beloved Bruar whom she’d buried in the darkest recesses of her mind. Tears rolled freely down her face and ran onto the white lace collar of her blouse. The letter was indeed from the Army authorities, but Michael had blatantly lied.
Mrs Sullivan set about her chores, while Megan went into her room an
d packed. Paddy hadn’t left yet for Dublin, but when he did, she’d go with him.
Michael was brushing a slender chestnut mare, whistling happily, when she entered the stable with the opened letter in her hand. ‘Don’t say a word, my love, because I know why you did this. I feel very honoured to have been for a short while your intended wife. I’ll never forget or stop loving you. But this letter, and your lies, prove that my path still leads elsewhere.’
Michael knew no amount of grovelling excuses would change her feeling for him; if he’d dared to hope for her respect, it was now gone. Like a child found stealing, he buried his head in his hands and cried like a baby. He, a fine upstanding son of one of the finest families in Ireland, had been reduced to lying to such an extent that he’d even said someone was dead while knowing full well that person was as alive as himself. He made no attempt at begging forgiveness. She was lost to him. He knew it.
She said her farewells to Mrs Sullivan, but not so much as a sideward glance did she afford Michael as she left him standing, stiff and dejected, and galloped off with Paddy.
The entire journey to Dublin’s fair city gave her time to think. Paddy sat in silence, and only when they reached the city did he say, ‘Michael asked me to give you this. He said it will help put right his wrong, but only in a small way. He’ll never marry any woman instead of you, and maybe it’s just as well. Now he’ll get back to breeding the finest racers. What will you do?’
The ferry had docked, the passengers hurried on board. There were lots more eager faces than when they came. Megan was fond of Paddy, and as they kissed their farewells she whispered an answer to his enquiry. ‘I have a man waiting for me somewhere, Paddy.’ The choppy water slapped noisily against the ferry’s hull, and she remembered one man who might be the better of a wee bit of good news. ‘Will you tell Nicholas O’Connor that Bruar never died?’
‘To be sure I will, and I’m not a judge of anybody. I fancy where the heart is, then best be there as live an empty life. Me prayers will be that you find him, whoever the lucky fella is.’
