Corrag (35 page)

I rolled onto my back and parted my lips so that a soldier said
she’s speaking, sir! Can’t make it out…There’s blood in her mouth.

Is it English?

Can’t hear.

And I blinked at the sky with its scattered stars, at the bare branches of trees, and I felt the blood and a loose tooth in my mouth, and I pushed the tooth out with my tongue, so that it slid down my chin and onto the sand, and I spoke. I said my name very clearly.

What? What did she say?

MacDonald
for them—for the people I’d lived for, fought for, saved. And as I pushed my forefinger down into the cool, wet sand, I smiled. I said
Corrag.
For I’d shown them the way.

There.

There it is. All you have wanted, Mr Leslie.
My telling of it
—what I saw, and did.

Was it worth it, sir? The long wait?

T
HE
world will speak of Glencoe’s deaths. It will talk of the lies, of the blades pulled back through flesh. It will widen its eyes, say
they killed bairns, even
—and yes, it must be spoken of. Speak of their deaths. Mourn.

But Glencoe?

Its name does not mean death, to me. It means him. It means the cold draughts of water which I’d suck up from the lochs, with my hair in the water. How mist nestled in hollows. Ferns. Wind sounds.

A
DARK
place
…For now, it is. For now, they will call it so, and shake their heads at it. For now, folk will not go there—or if they do, they will hurry through and not look up at its airy heights. But shadows pass. Before shadows come, there is light, and what follows them is light—for how else can there be shadows? If there is no light?

So
a dark place
? Briefly. But Glencoe will always be bright.

N
ever love a person. Do you hear?

So Cora said. Cora, with her blue-black hair like a raven’s wing, and her herbs. She’d taken my face in her hands and said
for they won’t love you back. Or if they do, that love will be taken from you—see?
And she stepped away, smoothed her hands on her skirts.
No-one loves ones like us.

Love the ice, and wind, instead. Mountains.

And I loved those things. I loved the whorls of hair on my goats. I loved how the wind met me at a peak, and it wrapped itself about me, shook me like a friend. I loved sky—every single sky. How the wolf was, when it called.

But Cora was wrong.
Never love
was wrong. It makes me sad to think it, for I think she had a heart which longed to love, and love. I think she dreamt of it—for I heard her whispers, at night.

Can she see me, now? Oh yes. She sees me, in this cell. She spends these final hours with me, and says
I am with you, Corrag. The realm is near, and waiting, and I am not far away.

M
R LESLIE
. I knew you would come. I used to think you never would, that my dirt and voice and
witch
would send you away, and keep you there. I’d think,
he’s gone,
and be sorry—but in time, my heart would whisper to me
no, he’ll come back, he will…
And you did. Each time.

So. No quill, today. No leather case.

Come closer?

I would like my last words with you to be as we hold hands.

I have names. I have names from that night, and will give them. Barber. Drummond. Hamilton. I know that there were some Campbell men—not many, sir, but some. I know that Glenlyon who wept in a ditch—
forgive me, Lord, forgive my soul
—was not haunted by his past sins, as I’d thought, as I’d crept by. I’d thought
poor man…So lonesome. Look how he regrets his old ways.
But he prayed for his future ones. His orders had come, from the King.

Maybe
poor man,
still—for his weeping was soul-deep, that night. It hurt my own, to hear it. It made me think
find your comfort…Forgive yourself.

I also have the name
Stair.

Stair.
A curious name. But it’s the name I heard, when they shackled me. After they’d struck me, and spat, and knocked me down, I heard them say
she warned them.

Stair should know it.

Stair will not be pleased at this. Stair’s plans have been ruined by her.

And a soldier crouched down to my ear, said
he’ll not take kindly to you…

He didn’t. Not at all. The Master of Stair came here. He rode from Edinburgh to see the grey-eyed creature who unpicked his careful stitches, saved that thieving tribe. Through the bars he watched me.
Meddlesome piece,
he said.
The world would have done well to be rid of that clan.

And him? Would he have done well? To have been rid of them? No doubt. I lost him a title, I reckon. Favour. A little land.

But what have others lost? What was lost, in snowfall?

It will be a vengeful burning—that is all. But
witch
is the reason they give.
Witch
is why they will kill me, or so the townsfolk say.

Who will you burn?

Hag. Witch.

It has always tried to kill me—this word, this life of mine.

I do not have long, sir. Not long, now.

Tomorrow they will come, and take me out. They will lift me up, tie my hands behind the stake, and a rope about my neck to hold me straight, to stop me crouching down and quickening my death—and who thinks, this way? I could hiss, and say
what world is this? That has such treatment in it?
But I will not say that. I will not die thinking of the dark parts, or the pain.

Sir? Mr Leslie?

Have I been so hard? Have I been a hardship to visit, every day? I hope not, very much. I hope I have been worth the crooked stool, and this
drip…drip…
and I hope that I’ve given you some sovereign help with what you call
my cause
. You know I’m not for kings. I never was. My heart says that there is more blood—far more—to come for James’s sake, and I hope I am wrong, and I hope this blood isn’t yours. Be careful? No war. Fight with your pen. Give your battle-cry in ink, and mark your dreams down on a page.

And truth…Tell them the truth. Speak of my story, when I am gone. Say
witch? Devil’s wife? She was not those things…
Do your best? Please? For the only ones who knew me, who shared their broth and sang with me, are Highlanders—and who believes their words? I know tales will rise up, like ghosts—of wickedness, and spells. I know that some will always hear my name, and cross themselves. But pass a whisper on, sometimes? Say my name? For speaking of the dead makes them less so.

I hand my telling to you. I pass it through the bars.

And go to Appin, sir. Ride your way north, along the coast. And in its coves and little homes you’ll find MacDonalds there. Speak to them, and they will give more.

C
ALM
? No. But Cora is waiting, and I miss her. I will try to make her proud, and I will not scream as I am burning, or clench my feet as the flames find the skin between my toes.

Hardy Corrag,
wasn’t I? I must be again. I must be hardier than ever, and look out across the houses and the loch, and bare trees, and think
I am ready,
and
I do not mind,
for look at all the beauty that
witch
has brought me to, and
he lives, he lives,
and have I not been lucky? Have I not been blessed to have lived such a blowing life? My heart spoke, and I heard it. I let it sing its song. I trusted my own self, and I had faith in the world—for why shouldn’t we have faith in it? If a tiny seed can be a tree, in time, and if birds know where their old nests are, and if a mare can know
north-and-west,
and
go,
and the moon push and pull the silver sea, then isn’t it worth our faith? I think it is. I always have. And for all the times I wished I was not me—
fool! Clumsy thing
—I know I would not change me, for I’ve tried to be kind, and I love the windy world, and even a solemn churchman with buckled shoes can sit with me, and smile. Look at us! You and I! Did you ever think it? I never ever thought it. Cora never did.

I prattle, as I always did.

But I have one more request.

Watch me, as I burn? I am so sorry to ask it—I am. It’s a dreadful asking. But when the fire is still small and I’m waiting, waiting, and I’m twisting at my ropes and still wanting to live, I know I’ll whimper, and be afraid, and I’d like to see your face amongst the faces saying
witch
. I’d like to see your spectacles, your wig, your wrinkled brow, and it will be a friend’s face that I can look upon. I will be less fretful. I will think
I’m not alone,
and you cannot hold my hand as I burn, but you can smile fondly and it will be the same.

Maybe say a prayer? As my soul unties itself? We are different, yes—but we both pray, or make wishes, and our prayers may drift in different ways, and roll out like cold breath, but I reckon they meet up in the same place, in the end.

S
AY
you’ll remember me. That you’re glad a snowy road led you to this cell.

Say you’ll not think of me as a girl on fire, or a shackled one—but as I was, when I was happiest. In Glencoe, with my hair blowing out. With Alasdair by me.

Say
yes
to this?

Say yes?

But you say
no.

No, Corrag, no! You will not die.

We all die, Mr Leslie. The realm waits—

In time, yes—we die. But you will not die tomorrow. You will not die this way.

Once, just once, I thought I saw my death. I was knee-deep in English marshes, with the frogs saying
cleep,
and the wind in the reeds. It was early evening, and as I looked down I saw my face in the water—and it looked strange, to me. Still my face, but very old. My hair was grey. I saw the geese also reflected, and sky, and I thought
there. That will be your face, when your life is nearly done.
And I waded out, and wandered home.

An old, quiet death. Was that what I saw? I saw an old woman, drinking from a wild pool. I saw a quiet life, at least. Quiet, and long.

I’d forgotten. All these years, and I’d forgotten that.

D
O NOT
love
. But it is all I’ve ever done.

S
TOP
talking,
you say.
Open your hands.

And in my ear you say
come with me, Corrag. Come with me.