Corrag (16 page)

I rubbed my eyes.

What are their purposes?

Which?
I asked.
They have many purposes. Toothaches, nightmares, the fluxes. The gout, the hiccoughing, the
—

Wounds? Hard ones. To the head which bleed profusely and cannot be stopped?

I looked at his eyes. I understood this, now—this bluntness of his. His speed. I said,
yes.

Get them.

I was quick, for I know what my herbs are. I took horsetail, bugle and some chervil, and said
who is ill?

My father.

The Chief?

Aye.

And it was as I climbed onto the garron with him, in front of him, and held on to the oily mane, that I thought
merciless.
I remembered
their chief is savage-hearted, even to Highlanders,
and we clattered down the gully, and west into the glen. Mud came up, from the hooves. His horse snorted like my mare had snorted, and I was afraid, Mr Leslie—my heart was fast, and my hands shook, and as we galloped under a starry sky I looked up at it. I looked at the trees. We passed a broad, pale mountain I’d never seen before, and I asked it
keep me safe?
Then, like a ghost, it was gone.

H
E TOOK
me to the very western end. There were lights ahead that grew brighter, and as we rode I smelt peat-smoke. We passed homes on either side—chimneys, hearths, dogs. People. I saw figures in the half-dark, and they saw me go by. I clutched to the mane, held my breath.

Keep me safe. Be with me.

The horse slowed, and tossed its head. Iain MacDonald dropped the reins, and slid down to the ground, and I slid too which pushed my skirts up so I struggled with them to make myself decent, and pulled them back down. Patted my hair.

He said
come.
Like I was a dog to him.

It was the biggest house I had ever seen. In all my small life, I’d not seen a house as tall, or as glowing as this. It was such a wide, strong house that I wondered how it could be in a glen—not a city, or in Hexham. How could it be here? It was mostly stone. But its windows had glass in them—proper glass, like in the Lowlands—and its roof was deep-blue slate. I stared. I could smell pine trees, and knew they were about us. I could hear how water is, when a wind catches it, so I knew that the sea was behind me, unfolding in the dark.

I looked. I did not move.

Iain was ahead, and when he saw how I stood he hissed,
come!
And he knocked twice on the door and pushed it, and was gone.

I thought of
go!
Of all the words I know, I know
go
very well.
Run away.

But I followed him—I did not run. I took a few, slow breaths, and smoothed my skirts, and I crept towards the door. My hand was scared to push it, but my head said
Corrag—push the door. The world is with you, and Cora is.
I did push it. And if it was the biggest house I’d ever seen, then the door opened up onto the biggest room in all my days. It was how the King’s rooms must have been—oak panels on the walls, and more glass, and silver cups. There were antlers all about it, and a cow’s horn strung up by a leather strap, and a wolf’s skin lay down on the floor with its teeth still in, and holes for its eyes. There were proper beeswax candles, which gave out a bright light so that I squinted. A roaring fire. Mirrors. The candles’ honeyed smell.

I smelt dogs, too, and sweat. Meat. Liquor. I smelt old leather, and amongst it all a smell I knew but could not name—a metal smell.

Co tha seo?

A voice. I blinked about me. There were a dozen folk in there, or more. I shielded my eyes from the candlelight and saw a dozen faces—half-lit, or fully-lit. They were lined, and weathered, and their eyes were all upon me—they stared, and stared.

I stepped back.

Iain spoke. He said
here.

And I thought,
blood.
That was the smell—blood, fresh blood—and Iain took my shoulder very roughly, and said into my ear
there! Go to him. There.

I did not want to look up, but I did.

There he was. Him they called
the MacIain,
but I had heard him called a hundred other things.
Butcher,
the plum-faced one had said. The soldiers said
the Devil was a better man. He eats his own foe, does he? Slayed a hundred men…

He sat, with a cut on his head.

I stared. I did not want to go to him, but Iain pushed me.
Go!

I went to the wound. And as I came to it, as it became clearer to me, I forgot his size, and the glass, and the candles, and I forgot the dozen faces—for the wound was wet, and red. It streamed its redness down the side of his face and onto his chest. His shirt was sodden, and the rest of his face was very pale. He eyed me. Those eyes were blue, but red-rimmed. I could see the little veins in them. His lips unsealed themselves.

You’re the English thing
he said. And then, to himself, or maybe to the people at his side he whispered
is she a child?

I looked at the wound. I thought
look on the wound, and mend it,
and as I peered at the tissue which was very neatly sliced I said
your son sent me.

My son? Which one of them? Which son?

Iain took off his coat, shook his hair.
She has herbs. Hers is the hut in the Coire Gabhail.

A blade had done the wound. It was such a clean, deep, straight wound that I made a small noise, like I had been wounded too—for it would have killed most men.

Yes
he said.
An inch deeper and I would be dead, I think.

I moved myself, to see each part of it. It hung, like a mouth, and I could see the sides of veins, and old dirt in it. Was there a bone? I saw some white amongst it all. Some would have paled and fainted at this, but not me. Not hardy me.

I need liquor,
I said
and water
.
More cloth. Clean cloth. A needle and thread
.

The chief growled
get these things! Get them for her or I will die here!
There were footsteps, and hurrying. He turned back to me, with shrewd eyes. His moustache was glossy with bleeding. His face was striped with old wound-marks, and he had a lost tooth from a fist, or a musket’s butt.
Mend me,
he said.
If you do not, you yourself will need mending.

What an order. What a thing to say. I might have wept with fear, but I did not. I thought of what trouble I’d seen, and survived—trouble that was worse than a bloodied, very tall man with sharp words.
I will survive this,
I thought—
I will
. A lady’s hand placed a bowl of water by me, and strips of cloth, and a candle. I thought
I will mend him,
and I tied back my hair in a knot. I poured liquor on the wound to make it clean. He winced, and hissed, so that I said
excuse me
—but what other way was there? None. Then I laid my herbs out, ran my hands across them.
Privet,
I wondered. But it was too mild—and a womanly herb, which works best for women’s blood. I breathed in all their scents. I closed my eyes, thinking, and there was silence in the room behind me. None said
faster
. They waited—like they knew that the right herb is the answer. It is the most vital part.

Rupture-wort
. I lifted it, said its name. I powdered it very roughly, dropped a little in water and said
drink.
He did. He took it, swallowed. He closed his eyes, then, and I dabbed at his wound which ran from his ear up to his crown.

The fire crackled, but there was no other sound.

Who did this?
I asked.

Iain said
that’s not yours to know.

I was quiet for a small time. Then I said
when? That matters. I must know when this happened to know the right way to heal it. The herbs.

This afternoon. He was down at Glenorchy.

How many hours?

A new voice came. A new man’s voice. It came from the shadows to my right and said,
three hours. No more. I was with him.

But I made the man pay for it, did I not?

You did, Father.

He said
ha
. It led to a small, pained cough.

I muttered to myself
three hours?
It was such a deep wound. It was running so freely that most folk would have died within one hour, or less. Three hours—and he still bled. I did not know how much more blood he had left in him. He was a huge man—as he sat, his head was the height of my own head, and his chest was five times as broad as my own—but his skin was pale, and we all need our blood.
He bleeds too much,
I said.

I took a cloth, soaked it in a paste of horsetail and bugle. I tried to press it on. I pressed hard, but my hand was so small against the wound. It could not staunch all of it. Such a tiny hand.

I said,
I need a person’s hand. A hand?

Someone came by me. I felt their shadow, their body’s warmth, and I saw a hand held out. I took it—a broad, man’s hand, his right hand, and I took it, pressed it hard against the poultice. I spread the fingers out, pressed the thumb, and I saw how marked the skin was—bruises, and old scars, cuts which had half-healed themselves into darker, puckered skin. I saw the fingernails. One was black, from a blow of some kind. One was torn. I said,
keep your hand there. Like that.

Like this?

I did not glance up at him. My mind was on the wound. My own hand held a needle in the candle’s flame to make it clean, and to move it better through the flesh. Then I threaded it. It took a small while, for I trembled a little from it all. But I sucked the thread’s end, and, in time, I pushed it through the needle’s hole.

Let me see it now.
I whispered it.

I gently lifted the man’s hand, and looked. There was less blood. It still bled, but less quickly. That’s a sovereign herb for bloody things.

So I sewed the Chief MacIain. I did it slowly, with my smallest stitches. I breathed very softly, and thought of nothing else but
mend him, sew him up,
and the fire made its sound.

It was a quiet room, now. Folk nestled back in their chairs, or against the walls. The man at my side stepped back, into the shadows, and the room hushed itself. I breathed. I thought the Chief was asleep, for his eyes were closed and his breath was very steady, but as I sewed he spoke. He said,
I hear you seek safety. That you came here for that.
He laughed a soft, slow laugh.

I sewed.

Have you found it? Here? Look at the blood on you…

He opened one eye. I looked into its blueness. I saw the fire reflected in it, and the candles on the walls.

It is safer than most places
is what I whispered.

Ha,
he said.
A beetle hides with beetles, does it? You think you’re less black amongst other black things?

I did not understand this. He wheezed, and I let him. His wife lifted a cup to his lips and he drank, and when he had swallowed he said,
what have you heard, I wonder? About the MacDonalds of Glencoe?

I let him settle. Then I pushed the needle back into his skin, and sewed again. What might I say? Always the truth is better.
That you thieve. You fight.

We all fight! All clans thieve! If we did not steal cattle, our own would be taken and we would starve! And if we fight more than most it is to save our glen—for men have always wanted our glen as their own, and come with their knives to claim it.
He muttered at this.
Campbells, mostly. Always an eye on their pockets…And they have sworn their love for a different king to us.

There it was.
King
. One of my dread words. What good ever comes from saying it?

You’ve heard us called papists, have you not? Ha. That Popish clan of Glencoe…We are not wealthy men, but we have anger. Vigour. Faith!
He thumped his chest.
We have hearts that would fight to the death, and that is true wealth—that is.
He settled back. He coughed a little, pulled his plaid about him.
They wanted me dead, so they took a sword to my head. But I’m still living. And my sons have their swords in their hands…

I did not speak. This was not the time to do my prattling.

But the Chief leant forwards very slowly, tilted his head, said
And you? Who is your king?

The room shifted itself. His wife was sharp in Gaelic, and I wondered if she also hated talk of kings. Maybe all women hate it for they know where it leads—to their men riding out for it. Making them widows for
king.

I have no king,
I said.