Corrag (2 page)
The Eagle Inn
Stirling
Jane
I write this letter from Stirling. It is poor ink so forgive the poorer hand. Forgive, too, my bad humour. My supper was barely a crumb and my bed is damp from the cold, or the previous sleeper. What’s more, I was hoping to be further north by now, but the weather remains unkind. We’ve kept to the lower roads. We lost a horse two days ago which has stolen hours, or days, from us. It’s a wildly unsatisfactory business.
Let me go back a while—you shall know each part, as a wife should.
I left Edinburgh on Friday, which seems many months gone. I am indebted to a gentleman who leant me a sturdy cob and some funds—though I cannot give his name. I hate to withhold truths from you, but it may endanger him to write much more; I will simply say he is powerful, respected and sympathetic to our cause. Indeed, I glimpsed an embroidered white rose on his coat which we all know says
Jacobite.
We drank to King James’ health and his speedy return—for he will return. We are few in number, Jane, but we are strong.
My thoughts were to make for a place named Inverlochy, on the Scottish north-west coast. It has a fort, and a settlement. Also it is a mere day’s journey from this ruined Glen of Coe. The gentleman assured me that its governor, a Colonel Hill, is kindly, and wise, and I might find lodgings with him—but I fear the snow prevents this. I travel with two servants who speak of thick blizzards on the moor that lies between the fort and here. They’re surly men, and locals. As I write they are in the town’s dens, drinking. I don’t trust them. I’m minded to insist we take this snowy route, no matter—for we have ridden this far through such weather. But I cannot risk another horse. Nor can I serve God if I perish on Rannoch Moor.
So tomorrow, our journey takes us west. Inverlochy must wait.
We are headed, now, for the town of Inverary—a small, Campbell town on the shores of Loch Fyne. The coast has a milder climate, I hear. I also hear the Campbells are a strong and wealthy people—I hope for a warmer bed than this one that Stirling provides. There, we might fatten our horses and ourselves, and rest, and wait for the thaw. It sounds a decent resting place. But I must be wary, Jane—these Campbells are William’s men. They are loyal to him, and support him—they would not take kindly to my cause. They’d call it treachery, or worse. So I must hide my heart, and hold my tongue.
Wretched weather. My cough is thicker and I worry my chilblains might come back. Do you remember how I suffered from them in our first married winter? I would not wish for them again.
I feel far from you. I feel far from Ireland. Also, from like-minded men—I write to them in London, asking for their help, in words or in funds to assist me, but I hear nothing from them. Perhaps this weather slows those letters. Perhaps it slows these letters to you.
Forgive me. I am maudlin tonight. It is hunger that troubles me—for food, for warmth, for a little hope in these hopeless times. For you, too, my love. I think of you reading this by the fire, in Glaslough, and I wish I could be with you. But I must serve God.
Dear Jane. Keep warm and dry.
I will endeavour to do the same, and shall write to you from Inverary. It may be an arduous journey so do not expect a letter in haste. But have patience, as you have other virtues—for a letter will come.
In God’s love, as always,
Charles
“The black seed also (helps) such as in their sleep are troubled with the disease called Ephilates or Incubus, but we do commonly call it the Night-mare.”
of Peony
I
wait for it—death. My own, fiery one.
Or perhaps it waits for me—tall, dark-wearing. Perhaps it stands beside the others who it has already called away—my mother, the MacDonalds, my big-bottomed mare. Their bodies are worms—but their souls are free, untied from their bones, and their souls are waiting for me.
The realm
, Cora called it—
where we all go, one day. Our death is a door we must pass through
, and it seemed a good thing by how she spoke of it. Calm, and good. Part of life—which it is.
But I was wrong to think it was calm. Or I was wrong to think it always happened that way. I was a child, with a child’s mind, and I thought all deaths were by lying down, closing our eyes, and a sigh. Only when I killed the pig and it squealed did I think
it can hurt. Be bloody, and sad
. That was an awful lesson I learnt. After it, I was wiser. Cora said my eyes turned a darker shade of grey.
It can hurt. Yes.
And I have seen more hurtful deaths than I’ve seen gentle ones. There was the nest which fell, and all those little feathered lives were licked up by the cats. In Hexham, a man was put in stocks and had stones thrown at him until he was dead—and for what? Not much, most likely. Also, there was Widow Finton, and I don’t know how she died, but it took a week to know that she was gone—they smelt the smell, and found her. A door we must pass through? I believe that part. I believe it, for I have seen souls lift up and move away. But not all deaths are peaceful. They are lucky, who get those.
We do not get them. Peaceful deaths.
Not us who have
hag
as a name.
Why should we? When they say we worship the Devil and eat dead babes? When we steal milk by wishing it? We have no easy ends. For my mother’s mother, they used the ducking stool. All the town was watching as she bobbed like a holey boat, and then sank under. I imagined it, in my infant days—out in the marshes with the frogs and swaying reeds. I crouched until my nose was in the water and I could not breathe, and I thought
she died this way,
and
would it have been a simple death? A painless one?
I doubted it. I coughed reeds up. Cora grabbed me, cursed me and plucked frogspawn from my hair.
Then there are the twirling deaths. Like the ones the Mossmen had. I saw these ones—how they put the rope on you like a crown that is too big, and your hands are double-tied. Like you are king, the crowds hiss or cheer. And then there is the
bang,
and maybe some go quickly but I’ve seen the heels drumming, and I’ve thought
what sadness. What huge sadness there is, in the world.
And pricking. A dreadful word.
That is a fate they save only for us—for
witch
and
whore.
I’ve been afraid of the pricking men for all my life, for Cora was. She shook when she spoke of them. She made herself small, and hid.
Part of a witch does not bleed,
she whispered—
so the church says. So men prod our women with metal pins, seeking it…
I asked her
how big? Are the pins?
And she held out her hands, like this—like how fishermen do, when telling their tales.
A door,
Cora said,
that we must pass through.
Yes.
But not by painful ways. No death should be like that.
W
ITCH
is a dying word, I know. I’ve known it as long as I’ve known my own name—
witch
will make you hunted,
witch
will shorten your days. And they hunted me, and hated me, and my life will be done by the month’s end, I am certain of that. They will rope me to barrels, and make me flame.
Fire.
To cleanse me. To burn the demons out.
Outside, they gather wood. I hear them drag it through the snow, and the nails going in. Inside, I look at my skin. I see its scars and freckles. I feel my bones, and I roll the skin upon my knees so that the bones beneath them
clunk
—back and fro. I follow where my veins run along my arm and hands. I touch the tender places—inside my legs, my belly. The pink, wrinkled skin between my toes.
I am fretful, tonight. Afraid.
Tonight, I breathe too quickly. I walk up and down, up and down. I run my fist along the bars so that my knuckles hurt, and bleed—but the hurt says
I am living,
that my body still has blood in it and works like it should do. I talk to myself so my breath comes out—white, white—and when I sit, tucked up, I hold my feet very tightly and I rock myself like children do when they have plenty on their minds. I try to say
hush now
to me, to calm me, but it doesn’t work. For surely it hurts? Surely it is a pain beyond all knowing, and a slow death, too? And such a lonesome one.
Fire
…And when I think it, it makes me wrap my arms about me, and I wail. My wail has an echo. I hear the echo, and think
poor, poor creature, to make such a sound
—for it is a desperate, dying sound. It is the wail of such a mauled and mangled thing, with no hope left, no light. No friend.
I pull at my chains.
Don’t let me die.
Don’t let it be by burning.
I rock back and forth like this.
S
TILL.
I have a comfort. It is small, but I have it—I whisper it into cupped hands.
People live because of me.
They do. They live because I saved them—because I listened to my soul’s voice, to the song of my bones, the words of the world. I listened to my womb, my belly, my breasts. My instinct. The howling wolf in me. And I told them
make for Appin!
And
go! Go!
And they went. I watched them running in the snow, with their skirts hitched up, and their children strapped on tightly, and I thought
yes—be safe. Live long lives.
There. It comforts me. It takes the fear away, and makes my breath slow down. When they tie me to the wood, I will say
I have saved lives,
and it will be a comfort and I will not mind the flames. For what if that’s the cost? My life for their lives? What if the world asks for that—for my small life, with its lonely hours, in return for the lives of three hundred, or more? I will pay it. If it means they are living, and if it means the stag still treads the slopes, and the herrings still flash themselves in the loch, in summer, and if it means the people still play their pipes and still tell their stories of Fionn and his dogs, and the Lord of the Isles, and if the heather still shakes in the wind, and if it means that he—
him, him,
with hair like how wet hillside is—is still living, and mending, then I will pay it. I will.
Does he live? I think he does. In my darkest hours I worry he is dead—but I think he lives. I see him by the sea. On his side, he has the poultice of horsetail and comfrey, and he unpeels it. He sees he is healing, smiles, thinks
Corrag…
He presses the poultice back on.
S
EE?
I am calm now. I can see his dark-red hair.
I must sleep. It partly seems a waste of final hours, of breath. But even as I think of life, and love, and the stag with his fine branches, I have Gormshuil in my head—how she said
a man will come
.
I think he comes tomorrow. My days grow less and less.
L
ET
him come. Let him do his purpose, even if it hurts. Even if it’s pins, or his turn to say
whore,
or
hag
. For I am still living. Ones I love are still living, and so what pain can come to me? What is there to fear?
Lives mean far more than deaths ever do. It is what we remember—the life. Not how they died, but how warm and bright-eyed they were, and how they lived their lives.
The Argyll Inn
Inverary
26 February
Darling Jane
You will be glad, I think, to see where I write this from. I have made it safely to the town of Inverary—though there were times in our journey when I doubted that we would. It was arduous, my love. It was wild with blizzards. We passed such dark, desolate water, and the wind howled like a demon at night. I thought of the stitched kneeler my mother made—remember? It says “So we say with confidence, ‘The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?’” (Hebrews 13:6)—and it is His doing alone, His loving care, which brought us to Inverary, in the end.
It is an attractive town, despite the weather. Placed on the edge of Loch Fyne, it has an air of money and civility which is welcome at this time. My lodgings here are warm, and dry. They are by the water, in a coaching inn which seems lively by day and more so at night. My rooms have a fire, and a window which looks out across the loch and its clinking ice—(I take a rather childish pleasure in seeing such coldness, whilst I am warm. I write this, and see the blueness)—and I wonder at the hardiness of these people, who live amongst such mountains and wind. The Campbells are also generous men. Their allegiance may not be my own, but I have eaten well in this inn, and our two remaining horses which have served us so well seem as happy as I am, for the food and rest. I confess to being better in my spirits, than I was. I have even eaten venison, Jane. I am still picking my teeth from it, but it is a good, restorative meat.
On to my purpose.
I have heard plenty of Glencoe. In the corners of the inn, it is all they speak about. I dined, and overheard such things that chilled me—the Chief, they say, was shot as he rose from his bed. His lady wife was injured in such a manner that she died, naked, out in the snow. Her rings, I hear, were bitten from her hands, so that her hands were mauled most savagely. Dreadful, despicable deeds.
I know this from my landlord. You’d smile, I think, at him—he has the reddest hair I’ve ever known, and red cheeks. He brims with words, and I have been in Inverary for a mere afternoon—four hours, at most!—yet he has already accosted me more than once. Even as I arrived I felt his stealth. He said,
staying long?
I replied that I, like all travellers, am at the Lord’s mercy, and that He and the weather will decide on my length of stay. I think he will pry, Jane. But this may prove of use, in its way. For he pries with me, does he not pry with others? He may know plenty, in time.
Thinking this, I asked very casually,
is that infamous glen in these parts?
How he liked that! He came near, said
aye, what remains of it. Burnt and butchered, it was.
His eyes blackened, and he leant closer in.
Mark me,
he said
—it is no loss. Those that were cut down in that glen will not be missed…
He caught himself then—for I am a stranger to him, so he said,
what is your name, sir? You have not given it.
May God forgive me, Jane—for I spoke falsely. With my true purpose in mind, I did not give my own name—rather, I fashioned a name from scraps that we know. I used, my love, your unmarried name. For what if they had heard of me? And my teachings? And my Jacobite ways? I could not risk the townsfolk learning where my sympathies lie.
Charles Griffin,
I told him.
Reverend.
Reverend? And what it is your purpose? You are far from home, friend.
I said
I’ve come to spread the Lord’s loving word in the northern, lawless parts. For I hear the Highlands are full of sin.
They are! To the north of here? Catholics and criminals, dishonest men…
He polished his glass, shook his head.
Brimful with cruelty and barbarous ways. They shame us! And,
he said, a finger raised,
the north is full of traitors. Ones who plot against the King.
William?
Aye, King William. God protect him. Thank the Lord he came across—a well-named revolution, was it not?
I took a sip of my ale. I would call it far from glorious, but did not say so.
He said,
do you know of the witch?
I was surprised at this—who would not be? I swallowed, said,
no.
I know that this country—indeed, our own—has been troubled in the past times with the matter of witches, and other black deeds on which I do not choose to dwell. But this was brazen talk. He said
there’s one here in Inverary. She is chained up in the tollbooth for her malicious ways. I hear,
he said,
she crawls with lice, and her teeth are gone. She faces her death for her evil. Sir, she was in Glencoe…
Jane. My dearest.
We have spoken of this matter in the past, you and I—in the gardens in Glaslough, by the willow tree. Do you remember? You wore the blue shawl that makes your eyes bluer, and I talked of enchantment—so we spoke of witchcraft, by that tree. I know we disagreed. Men of my faith and profession know of it—of the Devil’s work. We know there are folk who serve him—perhaps not by choice, but they do. It is bedevilment, and a threat to a safe and civil nation. Some say no-one who meddles in such a way must be allowed to live, and so must be purged by fire or water, for their own sake. Plenty think this. You know that I am with them? That such women cannot be endured? It worries you, I know—my feeling on this. But do we not have enough foes at this time, Jane? Do we not have enough to fight against—other faiths, and false kings, and wars—without being troubled by such Devil-lovers too? Who truly knows their power? If there is a God, there is a Devil—and there are both, as we know. There is enough wickedness, my love, in this world. It favours the pure parts of it to rid ourselves of the black.
I know your heart. I remember. Your blue eyes filled with water. You do not believe in
witch,
or rather you don’t trust the men who call it out—I know. You think such women are ill, perhaps. That they suffer delusions, or grief, or fear men. You said you felt sorry for such creatures—in your blue shawl, beneath the willow tree.
I love that trusting part of you—that faith in ones you have not met.
But there
is
evil, Jane, in this world—I promise it. It casts its darkness everywhere. It hopes to choke virtue, and decency, and I will spend my life fighting to prevent this—as my father did. There is a righteous path. My life’s purpose is to return all men to it—for us to walk, once more, in God’s light.
I hope I stay briefly in this town. It is merely a resting place, before I head north to this ravaged glen. This witch was there, my love. She was at the murders, and saw them with her eyes. I am not keen to visit her, or to spend time with such a cankered, godless piece—nor do I wish to get her lice. But I must remember my cause. If she was at these deaths, then she must have her uses. She will have seen the redcoats—and any word, even a witch’s, is a better word than none.
It is late. Past midnight—my pocket watch tells me so. I will conclude this letter with assuring you how much I miss you. They are small words. But to look out of my window is to see Loch Fyne, and the sea, and I look west across it which makes me think of you. I tell myself that Ireland is across that water. You are across it, and our boys, all that I love in the world beside God.
Keep strong. I know my absence asks much of you, and you endure a hardship by being alone. Forgive me. I ask this, but I know that I am forgiven already, for your faith and love of God is as mine is. I have slept in damp beds and I will talk to witches for His glory and for James, but I also think of you as I do it. I hope I make you proud.
It still snows. I might grumble at it, but it looks soft and beautiful with you, my wife, in mind.
My love to you, from across Loch Fyne, and all that is between us.
Charles
