Samurai and Other Stories

by William Meikle

  The grey figure goes still. It makes no defence as the Earl brings the sword round in one clean sweep that nearly takes its head off at the neck.

  Swift on the heels of that came another memory.

  He hears the Earl call out.

  “I am here in the name of Jesus Christ. I do the Lord’s will.”

  The white robed figure goes still, staring straight at the Earl. The big man takes his opportunity. He shoves the broken sword under the robed man’s chin, pushing through till the blade punches out the back of the skull. The body goes down without another sound.

  “It was the same both times,” Menzies whispered. “They made no defence.”

  He came to a decision. He stood, groaning at aches and pains the length of his body.

  “Where to James?” David asked. “Do we head for home?”

  “Not yet. Come with me, or stay, it makes no mind to me. But we have our duty as Christians to perform.”

  Menzies tore long strips from his tunic, and wound them tight round a piece of wood. He lit it from the fire. David of Hawick followed his example.

  Together they strode back into the tower.

  * * *

  The earl and his disciples still stood before the bloodied cross, heads bowed in a mockery of prayer. The Hawick man would have ran again then, but Menzies put out a hand to stop him.

  “You did right by John the Swift. Now we shall do right by our liege.”

  Menzies strode across the mosaic. His foot kicked his sword that still lay there, sending it skittering across the polished stone. He didn’t bend to retrieve it.

  I don’t need it. I have something else that will serve me better.

  The earl looked up at his approach. The pale eyes seemed to stare into Menzies’ soul. The big man opened his arms wide, welcoming.

  “You have been by my side these many years,” the big man said. His voice sounded dry and hoarse, and had withered to little more than a whisper. “Join me now. The Lord wills it.”

  “Aye,” Menzies said. “The Lord wills it.”

  He stepped forward and thrust the burning brand into the cloth of the earl’s robe. The black paint on the front took first, raising a fiery circle that spread quickly. Menzies smelled the acrid tang of burning hair as the earl’s beard blazed. The big man started to flap his arms, attempting to put out the flame.

  “In the name of Jesus Christ, be still,” Menzies shouted.

  Despite the flames, the earl complied. He stood, silent even as fire ravaged his face. The last Menzies saw was one of the white eyes pop and sizzle, then the body fell away to the ground. The disciples swayed like drunkards.

  The crown of thorns hissed and crackled as the flame reached it.

  The robed disciples moved forward, but even as they reached with longing towards the earl, the fire took completely and raged through the tinder-dry wood of the crown. As a man, the disciples fell, pole-axed, onto the mosaic.

  * * *

  They let the fire take its course. By the time it was done the earl’s body was charred and ravaged, the crown of thorns indistinguishable from the rest of the remains.

  “In the name of Jesus Christ, be at peace,” Menzies said softly. He ground his foot on the remains, scattering the crown, and most of the earl’s head, to dust and ash.

  Just as he was leaving he remembered his promise.

  Bury me at home, Menzies. Promise me that at least?

  “We are a long way from there, Sire,” he whispered. “But I will do what I can.”

  He gathered the ashes and collected them in a small leather pouch he normally used for coins. Without another word he turned and left. He did not look back.

  It was only when they were back out in the heat of the sun that David of Hawick spoke.

  “What did we just do?” he asked.

  Menzies set his eyes on the horizon and home. He didn’t reply, but something that the Hawick man had said earlier echoed in his mind.

  It was the Christian thing to do.

  THE YOUNG LOCHINVAR

  Julia really wanted to see a real Scotchman.

  Edinburgh had been a big disappointment. Sir Walter Scott had led her to believe there would be cultured men in fine lace and kilts, young Lochinvars ready to sweep her off her feet and dance her away to a romantic retreat where she would be smothered in soft kisses. Instead all she got was grey streets, fog and the taste of stale beer on a drunkard’s lips.

  Maybe Dundee will be better.

  The signs were not proving good so far. The train clattered through a dark windy night that caused the carriages to sway alarmingly like a boat tossed by the waves. The sound assaulted her ears, and she yearned for the peace and quiet of their Chelsea drawing room. Pater only made things worse with his constant prattling about guns and shooting. When the other men in the carriage lit up their briar pipes in unison, Julia excused herself and left for the relatively clearer air in the corridor.

  She hoped for a view from a window, something to raise her spirits, a glimpse of some real Scotchmen, or even some of the scenery on the subject of which Scott had waxed so eloquently. But night had fallen since the train departed Edinburgh, and any excitement Julia might have got at crossing the Forth was lost in the rain and dark. Nothing could be seen beyond the window but gray, interspersed with rivulets of water where rain splashed and was smeared by the wind.

  Welcome to Scotland.

  She had only thought it, but a dark figure standing where the carriages met turned towards her. He stood with a light behind him and his features lay in dark shadow. All she could tell was that he was tall, and dressed in what looked like an expensive woolen overcoat.

  “Your first time here, miss?”

  His voice was soft, almost timid, but Julia felt heat rising at her cheeks.

  He’s a Scotchman.

  Yet again, although she had not spoken, he seemed to guess her intent.

  “That would be Scotsman,” he said. “But no, I am only a visitor here.”

  “As am I,” Julia replied, amazed at her own boldness. She looked back to the carriage. Pater was watching her closely, but he would not be able to see this stranger from where he sat.

  If I keep my back to the carriage, Pater will never even know I am speaking.

  “And how do you like this country?” the tall man said. His voice sounded somewhat muffled, as if coming from a much further distance.

  “I like what I have seen of it just fine,” she replied. “But I wish this dashed rain would ease.”

  “I like the rain,” the man said. “And the wind. It reminds me that I am but a servant of the elemental, not a master.”

  What he said next was obscured as the train blasted through a short tunnel, but it had sounded like a series of numbers, ending in five and seventy.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not catch that.”

  He didn’t reply, merely stood stock still. Although she could not see his eyes she felt his gaze on her like a physical force, and once again she blushed.

  Her embarrassment quickly turned to confusion as the man spoke again.

  “Five and seventy, three score and fifteen, a long span come to a sudden end, as they all do, in darkness and turmoil. It’s coming yet, for a’ that.”

  She might have been so bold as to question the man about his meaning, but at that moment a conductor arrived in the corridor to check tickets, and when she turned back there was no sign of the tall stranger. She considered walking through to the next carriage to see where he had gone, but she knew if she left Pater’s line of sight, for even a second, it would be noted and a reprimand would not be long behind.

  She went reluctantly back in to join her pater’s party. For almost an hour she kept a close eye on the corridor, but the tall man did not reappear. By the time the train stopped at Kirkcaldy she had almost given up hope.

  Her dismay was doubled when three young men in tweeds and plus fours boarded and Pater invited them in to the carriage.

  “J
ulia,” he said as a youth with an overbite and a terrible case of acne sat opposite her. “I would like you to meet George Kerr. His father works with me in the city. He is to be your husband.”

  At first she thought she had misheard, but the look in Pater’s eye told her he was deadly serious. She knew better than to make a scene in company, and forced herself to sit through George’s, frankly embarrassing, attempts to prove his worth.

  “I am so glad to finally meet you,” the youth said. His voice, when compared to the gentle softness of the man in the corridor, felt like razors in her ears. “Your father has told me all about you.”

  Oh, I do hope not.

  “Have you been on this line before?” he asked, and continued without waiting for a reply. “It’s a marvel of modern engineering. Our fathers helped build it you know?”

  And without waiting again, he kept on flapping his lips. Julia tuned him out as he spent ten minutes telling her how much iron, stone and manpower went into the building of the new bridge at Dundee, the biggest, longest and most expensive ever built, and how an American president no less had called it ‘a big bridge for a small city.’ That remark caused much hilarity among George and his companions, leading them to bray like excited horses.

  I cannot marry such as this. But what am I to do? I must follow my pater’s guide in these matters.

  “We shall be at the bridge in thirty minutes or so,” George said. “Isn’t it exciting?”

  Julie couldn’t think of a suitable reply that would not seem disinterested, so she kept quiet. But she could not sit there any longer. When the train pulled in to Cupar station she excused herself, citing the need for air, and went to stand out in the corridor. A blast of cold wind came from an open exterior door, bringing with it the smell of rain. Now that the train was standing still at the platform, the full force of the gale outside could be both heard and felt. The whole carriage rocked and reeled.

  “Welcome to Scotland, miss,” the soft voice said from her left. Once again he stood with the light at his back such that his face was hidden in shadow. “How are you enjoying it so far?”

  She felt like running to him... throwing herself into his arms and be damned with the consequences. But she could almost feel Pater’s gaze at her back, holding her rigid in her place, defining the flow of her life for the long stretch of future to come.

  “It is not what I imagined,” she said softly.

  “Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,” the tall man whispered in return.

  “Do not tease me with Scott,” she said, suddenly angry. “Not when Pater has betrothed me to... to...”

  “I come in peace to dance at your bridal,” he said, his voice like soft silk.

  Julia was in no mood for games.

  “What is it you want of me, sir?” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the wind that suddenly raised up a notch.

  “What is it you want of me?” the soft voice replied.

  Her heart knew the answer, and beat ever faster. But Pater was still watching, and she could not bring herself to disobey him quite so openly.

  Not yet.

  A small voice had said that in her mind, but it seemed her tall companion had once more guessed her intentions.

  “I will be here,” he said. “I will always be here. Five and seventy, three score and fifteen, a long span come to a sudden end, as they all do, in darkness and turmoil. It’s coming yet, for a’ that.”

  She wanted to go to him, but Pater’s gaze continued to hold her.

  The tall man acted for her. He moved forward, so close that she might touch him if she chose. She still could not see his face, but she felt his soft breath at her cheek as he leaned towards her and planted a kiss there, cold and dusty, but a kiss none the less.

  She heard movement behind her and turned. Pater was already out of his seat and coming towards her. He pulled the carriage door open with such force that it slammed hard against the wall, the noise echoing in the corridor even above the wind.

  “You must go,” she said, then realized that her companion had already left. She looked up and down the corridor but there was no sign of him.

  “Was that a man?” Pater hissed at her, the anger red in his face. “Was it?”

  Pater dragged her back inside the carriage. As he pulled the door closed behind him the train pulled out of Cupar Station.

  Over the next ten minutes Julia tried very hard to keep her attention on George, but the youth just could not stop talking about himself; about his prowess at shooting, his ability to make money, his horses, his dogs, even his taste in leather footwear. She was already weary of him.

  And Pater wants me to spend years like this?

  George finally realized that he did not have Julia’s full attention, and the look of anger that crossed his face told her more than she needed to know about him. She resolved that she would have it out with Pater as soon as they were alone. She could never marry this boy.

  Not when there is a man in the corridor waiting for me.

  The thought came unbidden, but she found it to be most agreeable, and lost herself in a reverie of thoughts of soft voices and even softer kisses. She was brought back to harsh reality when Pater poked her in the ribs.

  “What is the matter with you tonight, girl? Young George here has asked you a question. Please at least have the good manners to answer him.”

  She blushed.

  “I am sorry, Pater,” she said, the lie coming easily to her lips. “I was just excited at the thought of the bridge.”

  Across the carriage from her, George’s scowl turned quickly to a broad smile. He stood and reached for her hand.

  “Then come. We are almost there. We shall watch from the window.”

  His hand felt like a cold sausage as he took her by the wrist and led her out to the corridor. Her tall companion was nowhere to be seen and she felt her heart sink.

  George in the meantime had become as excited as a puppy at walk-time.

  But far less endearing.

  “It is a great wonder. The cylindrical cast iron columns supporting the long span of the bridge are each seventy five yards long, and Thomas Bouch received a knighthood for the design,” he said. “Imagine. A knighthood.”

  She could indeed imagine. She was thinking of her tall stranger again.

  There never was a knight like the young Lochinvar.

  George failed to notice her lack of interest and led her to a window on the far side away from the wind and rain. Here the sound of the wheels on the rails was more audible, even above the storm.

  George was still lost in his own monologue.

  “We should see the lights of the city across the river from here. ‘Tis a pity it is so inclement. It is a fine view by moonlight.”

  There was a movement in the corridor behind them, little more than a slight dimming of the light, but Julia turned eagerly, anticipating her Lochinvar.

  George tugged at her wrist, dragging her closer towards the window. “What is the matter with you, girl?”

  The tone, the assumption of ownership so exactly mirrored that of her pater that Julia pulled herself away, almost dragging them both off balance as the train lurched.

  The wheels screeched on the rails and metal squealed.

  The tall stranger was suddenly by her side, as if from nowhere. And now she could see his eyes, pale blue and infinitely sad in a dark skinned face that spoke of long days under the sun.

  “Will you come, lass? It is time. Five and seventy, three score and fifteen, a long span come to a sudden end, as they all do, in darkness and turmoil. It’s coming yet, for a’ that.”

  The carriage suddenly fell sidewards, throwing George and Julia off balance. She found herself in the arms of the stranger, suddenly warm and cosy.

  “What is it that you want of me?” he whispered.

  She looked at George, who was too busy clinging desperately to a wildly swaying door to pay her any attention.

  “The poor craven b
ridegroom said never a word,” the tall stranger intoned, and laughed, a sound so sweet that Julia could not help but laugh along with him.

  “Yes, I will come,” she said, just as the window behind them fell in with a crash of glass. She blinked, just once, then seemed to be looking down from a great height. The train was halfway across a long bridge, and already falling from the rails. Tall towers of iron buckled and bent in the wind, throwing metal and stone down to the foaming waters far below.

  She remembered George’s words.

  The cylindrical cast iron columns supporting the long span of the bridge are each seventy five yards long.

  “Five and seventy, three score and fifteen, a long span come to a sudden end, as they all do, in darkness and turmoil,” her companion whispered.

  She lay her head against his chest, listening to the thrum of his wings against the wind.

  “Now tread we a measure,” she said softly, as the Tay Bridge fell into the river far below.

  A SLIM CHANCE

  He was thin, thinner than anyone I had ever seen who was still ambulatory.

  “I’m Ian Duncan, and I need your help,” he said as he pushed open my office door that morning—it took him three tries and the door only opened when he put a shoulder into it to help his arms.

  “I can see that,” I said. “Come and sit down before you blow away.”

  He sat in the chair opposite me, perched on the edge as if afraid it might swallow him whole. I thought about offering him a cigarette, but decided against it—the shock to his system might be too much. I sat back and let him talk.

  “It was four months ago. There were six of us then, and it started as a dare. One of those Comic Relief shows was coming up, and we decided to go on a diet for charity. That first week we lost six pounds between us... at least, the five guys did. Wee Annie Gardner struggled though. She just couldn’t take to the exercise and...”

  I coughed politely.

  “Is there a point to this, Mr. Duncan?”

  “I need you for protection,” he said quietly. “Protection against what’s after me.”