“It would serve well, Morgund.”
“Then honour is satisfied. In haste I depart to favor your whimsy.” Morgund made a show of hurrying. He was in a fit, humorous state.
But he did not return. After much looking Seward spotted him. Morgund had his arms around two men and was singing. If anyone had had a doubt as to his identity, they didn’t when Morgund shouted. “You have seen me, verified my existence in Scotland. Fellows, put your hand in the hand of Morgund MacAedh, descendant of kings and like to join that company.”
Next, he abused Alexander. “Alexander is unsparing in his deception that is what I say. Would it not serve better that I unmake the tyrant and betrayer? Remove him to dust and take his crown? He soils it with his touch.” Morgund pointed to all those about. “And he destroys Scotland by pandering to and advancing the Normans at the expense of the old blooded folk.”
As if under a spell everyone responded to Morgund’s call, sought his favor and wished destruction upon Alexander. Drink and the magic of Morgund’s words spoken with true ardor had effect. Everyone waited for him to go on, expecting a discourse on national events and of what steps he would take to win the throne, but he told instead of his life and of sights and adventures. Enjoying being well loved, he sought to grasp all the enjoyment he could from them with inventive tales of heroic deeds, some his own and some never performed by a human being but all were displayed under the banner Morgund MacAedh. He seemed a legend, and in the tavern that night, he was.
“Back to Alexander. Personally, I disagree with his pedigree, it is of a second rate kind compared with mine. He is bred from English daughters - I have that taint diluted and am almost as pure as a drop of rain untouched. Scottish to the core. I do not want to live as an Englishman for I am not one, but he does, being almost one himself. Were he a true man he’d settle this issue on open field.” Morgund banged the table. His audience loudly agreed.
Seward heard someone’s comment. “This lad’s certainly got spirit.”
Seward’s mind travelled back to a timid cringing boy. He smiled at the thought for Morgund’s pledge to reinvent himself had been made good. That he’d certainly done, and though stretching the truth tonight he was in fact a brave man and a worthy soldier. Looking around him Seward could not believe how outrageously good-natured everyone was. It seemed like none had a worry in the world. He longed for this scene to go on. Now Morgund was on to mythical beasts, a debate was raging.
“In truth, they exist, inhabiting inaccessible parts,” Morgund proclaimed.
Seward and Morgund, the most travelled men present, were listened to as if learned scholars. Morgund proclaimed himself an authority on the subject.
Remembering texts dealing with these beasts Morgund brought up interesting insights concerning their habits, filling in gaps with the most outrageous lies he could conceive of. Thoroughly entertaining was it, tears of mirth stained every cheek. This night he could make any comment, bend words his way, within dark corridors devoid of humor find a narrow beam of light, a merriment, thereupon pierce it squarely, these shafts were incisive, displaying truths familiar to every soul.
His cup was constantly replenished and spilling forth with mirth. It was as if he was surrounded by a band of storytellers who were taking turns trying to surpass one another with their inventive tales and from Morgund the audience learned them. Ever more stomach tugging, becoming a raging fire feeding off itself, this humor.
Men sought to empty bellies which could not hold after such attacks, and mouths ached, smiles were torture, and ever Morgund could think of a humorous twist, which amazed. Being possessed of boundless energy Morgund wished to stay up all night, but the time to go, had come, it was very late. Sleep must be gained for tomorrow the magic would be gone. They would be a lot less exuberant and had to travel far for he had caused them some danger by his behavior. Seward and Morgund whistled as they walked. That they had been able to share this was an added pleasure.
“How do you explain a night like we had, Seward?”
“I don’t know. I think everyone partook of a portion of goodness, and someone convinced them that you would be the most fascinating person they would meet in a lifetime, and God tonight made you thus. It is a sign things will turn out well.”
They travelled slowly stopping frequently to relieve Seward and Morgund’s suffering. Paten was humored by it. Having no pity for them he taunted them. Some good was salvaged from the night at the inn, for word travelled ahead of them and all were aware of the famous personage amongst them, Morgund MacAedh. With his antics at the tavern, he was popular and fed well hereabouts. This wasn’t the only reason for the marked good will. Alexander was someone to be watched and never trusted, many Scots had bitter experience of him, they had learned the measure of Alexander. The further Morgund, Seward and Paten travelled north, the number of people and settlements became fewer, and they passed beyond the last of the simple farmers struggling amongst the hills and entered the highlands proper. The three subsisted on deer killed in the glens.
Home was not far now and Morgund and Seward shared odd combination of emotion; that particular urgency of a long homecoming, mixed with the anxiety proceeding into the lands of the old enemy, MacCainstacairt. Unknown to Seward and Morgund, the tenants of Ross loyal to the MacAedhs were dispossessed having been driven far to the north They clung to wind swept cliffs on waters verge where they were beyond Alexander’s reach, or prayed they were, for they had suffered through his rule.
One morning they came across an old man herding sheep. He was a man who told them of the remnant of clan MacAedh. He asked who Morgund was, thinking to have seen his face before.
“I am Morgund MacAedh,” Morgund said. “The Earl of Ross.”
“MacCainstacairt is that.” The man eyed Morgund with disdain, and continued. “There are many mountain passes here, a few men placed at each. We knew there were only three of you, and we’d heard that you was less than a man.”
Seward’s retort was sharp. “Say no more or I will kill you.”
“Kill a man who gave thee warning, being the saving of thee.”
“Then, speak with more respect to Morgund the Earl,” Seward said.
The man replied quickly, “He has changed. He is sturdy.”
“What of my clan?” Morgund said.
“Your people are gone. MacCainstacairt governs here now. This is not your homeland. MacCainstacairt is Earl of Ross and has been made so by the king. All is his.”
Morgund stiffened. “What of my mother. What happened to her? Where are they, my people?”
“Away north. The king sickening of their disloyalty, swept them far.”
Morgund attempting to deal with this startling information knew only this, all was not lost for whilst he could still draw a breath he would find them. He turned to MacCainstacairt’s retainer. “You told me in good faith. Go.”
They set off again on horseback, continuing northward, in a country now alien and harsh, a land they once called home. They wished to leave the general locality of MacCainstacairt quickly, for not all they met along the way might be as peaceable.
After half a day and the horses faltering, they decided at the next settlement to seek rest and direction. But people were rare. Many miles they travelled before they saw a man who hid, so from him they learned nothing. Further on they sighted a small group of dwellings clustered on the shore of a mighty loch, surrounded on the remaining three sides by sheer mountain cliffs. Either they must back track, or leave the horses and cross by boat.
None here could enlighten them. They had little experience of the outside world, for they shunned it, as those of the surrounding countryside shunned them. Centuries earlier, as best as their ancient and half-senile story tellers could recall from their demented predecessors, Norse raiders had attacked.
The survivors forced to cling to this almost inaccessible place. The Viking customary depredations had approximated the last semblance of trade and had evidenced the last infusio
n of new blood. Now most were hunched, stunted and malformed. Some bore curious abnormalities of feature beyond even that, bulbous eyes staring glassily out of narrow heads. The worst of their kind, the elders had said, dwelt in the caves in the cliffs where they lit strange-colored fires at night and made strange carvings in the rock.
Morgund, Seward and Paten spent a very uncomfortable two nights with these strange, isolated people, eager to leave the horses in exchange for provisions and to be away. The mountainous countryside was not suitable for horses, though these folk seemed not to mind. Indeed, the beasts were almost utterly intractable around the strangers, though they regarded the horses with keen, eagerness. Disturbed and unsettled by the place and its dwellers, they left before the moon grew full.
TO SUCCUMB TO LOVE WHEN LOVE IT ISN’T
MORGUND THOUGHT OFTEN of Mirium, about her welfare and that of the child that might have been born. He knew she would be safe at least, with Cristo. All was not well with Mirium, however. She suffered no ill a physician could cure, for although in full health, she descended into depression. Morgund had left her. Dumped her with a strange family deep in the woods. In his wake, a girl abandoned and expectant, the space he used to occupy in her mind was now a void that was alternatively filled with confusion and anxiety.
Morgund was far away, and after all this time, she remembered his features only dimly. She was confused and fragile. Morgund’s destiny was to be in Scotland and that she had acknowledged before he left, yet she couldn’t help feeling that if Morgund truly loved her he would not have left her before the child was born. Did he want to see this baby? What could be more important than the birth of his first child? Such thoughts brought creases to her brow. Unfortunately for her the desolation she felt was compounded by deep loneliness.
The loneliness of the forest drew Mirium and Simon, Cristo’s son together. Whenever her was near, Mirium could feel the beat of her heart race as the rhythm made by an anxious drummer before a battle. Simon himself had never thought he would find someone to share his forest home with, until now.
The season’s shifted and golden leaves fell in the cooling breezes. During the ensuing weeks and months Simon and Mirium spent many hours together. Simon craved not only the joy this distraction brought, but knew how she felt about Morgund’s continued absence. Guilt plagued him when he thought of Mirium so, and he took care to shield his eyes from her’s whenever they took in the curve of her breast or hips, or the swelling of her belly, with more than familial amicability. One sun setting afternoon they walked to the river. Water lapped around their ankles. It surged over their legs as they walked deeper. Mirium and Simon found rocks to sit on. They watched the eddies in the water and the occasional silvery flash of darting fish. Past them swirling in the currents, fleeting offerings of plants trapped and speeding away and gone.
Good vantage was theirs, perched here in the river’s path. Mirium found it mesmerizing, and it went some way to precluding any musings on things that didn’t concern the beauty of the river. She massaged her feet into the small, rounded pebbles on the riverbed.
Charity of spirit can only exist in a charitable vessel, Simon was no such thing, his only concern before he met Mirium was himself. Now, constantly he thought of her and had done so since their first meeting. She had a maddening effect on him for years of bachelorhood vanquished a balanced disposition. His eyes met hers, and held them. She looked away, but looming was the moment when she would not. Then he would have her, of that he was certain. By passing sly comments on Morgund’s absence he made her head spin. He pushed on, despite the upset it caused, relentlessly mentioning him, exploring reasons for his absence. It wore her down. They walked downstream and sat on soft river sand.
Laying there, with his head on her shoulder, Mirium said contemplatively. “I should not be doing this.” She moved away. “Yet I am lonely Simon.” A single tear trickled down Miriam’s cheek as she spoke. “I am so very, very lonely and with my baby coming it does cause me much anguish.”
“Do not worry. I am here,” he responded. “You are not alone. You should not be without him, it is wrong. He should be here.”
“I know. Do not remind me of it, Simon.”
He held her close, an embrace she returned. “She returned the closeness.” He spoke this thought within his mind.
And, as if in a dream she heard Morgund’s voice. “Forsake me not, for I will return.” His smiling face was many miles away and he seemed a stranger now. Nonetheless, it served to make her loosen her grasp on Simon.
“Why is he not here now, Mirium?” Simon demanded through clenched teeth.
“I don’t know.” Her voice was slight and small.
He held her again. Feebly resisting, she could not herself now, release his hold. One tear squeezed out, then another and another. So, so many tears, a wrenching cutting pain, a sudden rush of anguish. The baby inside her deserved better than she betray its father. Mirium looked into Simon’s eyes and saw only icy orbs surrounded by a dispassionate and equally cold countenance. A plan of action tormented Simon’s mind, that would have distressed her if she had known it. When she had loosened her hold him the last time he hadn’t. Enraged, that she did not share his desire those eyes of his narrowed.
Both his fists tightened behind her back. He had had enough of waiting, and would take her by force if that was required. Her rigid posture collapsed. She knew she was powerless, and resistance would endanger her child, a truly tragic thing.
Simon held both her small hands in one of his. He could feel her hands trembling, and the sensation gave him a queer thrill and sense of confidence and power. Mirium, on the other hand, was fearful and felt utterly powerless. When she hesitated he would drag her, and she being only slight and heavy with child was in no condition to resist. She knew why Simon was leading her into the deeper wood, knew what he wanted. Yet part of her, the part that hated Morgund for abandoning her, wanted this. The part of her that still loved and longed for Morgund wanted to fight against it. Trapped somewhere between the two opposing forces of will, she realized ashamedly that she no longer cared what befell her, and warm tears erupted, spilling down her cheeks like a torrent. As if a symphony, the wind whistled discordantly through the trees and lightning flashed to the north. The first heavy drops of rain began to fall, cold and unwelcome.
They came to the shelter provided by an ancient oak tree. Simon pushed her in front of him, pressing her face first into the uneven bark. She felt it scratch her face and the palms of her hands, now that Simon had released them. There was a long time when he did not hold her, and the only noise was that of the pattering rain and Mirium’s suppressed sobs. Then she felt him lift her skirts from behind and grab her roughly, one hand on her hip, the other by the throat. Mirium felt him thrusting away, disgusted when he tried to speak words into her ear, words of love. His breath stank of sour milk.
Simon grunted like a pig. He shared none of the tenderness Morgund had given her, and exhibited no care for the burden of her unborn child. More than once did she have to protect her belly from being slammed against the tree with her hands and when she released her grip on the hand at her throat she felt him grasp tighter. With a final shudder Simon finished, pulled away and left her slumped weakly against the oak. Her garments remained unceremoniously tugged up around her waist, and she could feel his seed spilling down the inside of her thighs. Eventually she turned and collapsed onto hands and knees, tasting bile and feeling used, shameful and abandoned. She hated Simon for doing this to her, and Morgund for leaving her with Cristo’s family. She hated herself for letting all go this far. Simon had left her to the falling leaves and rain.
She shivered. “Rain?” Wondering how long it had been raining. Worrying about her babe, she fervently hoped it was unaffected. She had asked him to be gentle. He wasn’t. The pelting moisture had been softened by him taking most of it upon his back but a drop here and there got through and was enough to wet her. Now, she was getting drenched.
Wi
shing she had a cloth to get away these clawing droplets that clung there reeking on her legs. The leaves were gliding down driven by the wind she felt they had a message for her, that an end had come, for the leaves were as lost and as far from their home as she herself was. They were crumpled and all their life gone, just like her. To be nothing, to feel nothing. Life was a nightmare, full of pain. Where was Morgund? Gone. Why had he abandoned her? Previously unaware she was being rained upon, now, she felt cold and soaked.
What had changed? Morgund had gone, leaving her alone. As had Simon. Leaving her alone and abandoned he had left her, to. Was their no one who would stand by her side, none who loved her. Did she not deserve love? After this, probably not.
What did this mean? In just one small moment her whole world had changed and her life’s journey was now upon a very different course. It could be no other way. What she did, was inexcusable. Mirium would regret these events many times in the future, wondering, how different, things could have been. Betraying, Morgund, herself, and their baby! Whilst feeling lost, in her utmost misery, needing someone and Simon was there. Drowning in self pity she had grabbed at whatever she could. Her mother had a turn of phrase that she was reminded of, “When sinking, some will take hold of a snake to prevent from going down.” So it was with her. Just as constant hunger eventually cannot be denied, love pressures some in different ways, it will drive action upon all beset by that condition, and sometimes that which is unwise. She returned to the croft, in silence.
Only Edith made it possible for her to continue living. Cristo tried to help, but like many men whose days of strength have passed them by, he was often morose. He would suddenly become angry, adding to her woes. She wondered what she had done to deserve her current predicament, and concluded much too much. Why had she not fought or held him off, or at least tried to? That she didn’t know only added to her discomfort. She had led Simon on, blaming herself more than she blamed him. Wanting a solution so desperately caused panic and tremors.
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