Lady Macbeth's Daughter (22 page)
What happens next is as unreal as a dream yet vivid as life. The boar’s tusk nicks Nocklavey, who roars in anger. His hoofs like anvils strike the stones, missing the boar that dances nimbly away despite its bulk, then comes at him again with greater fierceness, aiming for his flank. I clamber in the wet snow for the hilt of my sword, and finding it at last, leap up only half-armed, without my shield.
Then the boar turns from Nocklavey to me, perceiving an easier prey. Its tusks are red with Nocklavey’s blood, and yellow fangs protrude from its snarling mouth. It fixes me with a malevolent stare and begins to circle me, like a foe waiting for the moment when I will try to flee. But I do not run. I feel as if I have drunk a potion that courses through my veins, making my heart race with the desire to fight. I plant my feet wide on the snowy ground and pray that I will not slip. The sword feels firm and sure in my grasp. I feint to the side and the boar, fooled, rushes toward me, but I reverse my step and the beast passes by me, so close that I smell its foul animal stench. I’ve missed a chance to strike it. The beast turns and paws the ground, snorts, then charges again. I do not take my eyes off of my target, its thick neck, and I bring down my sword there, but it glances off the boar’s tusk with a force that sends a shudder down my arm and so angers the animal that it whirls around at once and lowers its head to lift me on its tusks. This time I bring my blade down on the monster’s neck with a singing sound, cleaving skin and sinew and stunning the boar. My arms burning from the blow, I draw back and thrust my sword into its throat, just beneath the ear. A black stream of gore gushes forth, yet the beast, still strong, snaps its mighty jaws at me.
Then Nocklavey is on his hind legs, his mane flying, his flared nostrils steaming. His forelegs beat the air an instant before his huge hoofs deliver the final blow, snapping the boar’s spine.
The boar’s unearthly scream subsides into a rasping hiss, then silence. Its eyes are black and glassy, not red as they seemed before. Lying in the snow, I hear my own ragged breathing. My left thigh throbs with pain, and I realize that my leather leggings are torn. I am bleeding. The beast took a bite from me before it fell.
With trembling hands I touch the wound, feeling sick to see the torn flesh, but relieved not to see the bone beneath. It’s too cold to remove my leggings, so I fold the torn flap over my wound and, using the girdle Fleance gave me, bind up my leg. I see that the cuts on Nocklavey’s chest are small, for his hide is thick, but the boar gored his side more deeply, drawing thick blood. It looks like a wound that will fester.
As the fire that flooded my veins ebbs again, I begin to shake and shiver. Were it not for Nocklavey, the boar would have killed me. Standing up with difficulty, I seize his mane and pull myself across his back and lie there with the length of my body against his, my face resting on the back of his neck. Slowly his heat begins to warm me.
I can scarcely believe what I have done. I killed a boar to save myself and Nocklavey. Many times I have wept over a sheep slain to keep its sickness from spreading. But I feel no speck of regret at this deed. I did not think; I simply acted. This is how I want to be when I meet Macbeth: merciless and swift with my sword.
The snow has stopped and the light of dawn tinges the snow-covered rocks a pale rose, like blood diluted in a basin of water. I must have dreamt the silken-feathered swan whose brightness melted the snow into a lake for her to float upon. She swam up to me and touched my throbbing leg with her bill. I open my eyes to find myself still prone on Nocklavey’s back. Remembering my battle with the boar, I look around but see no evidence of our encounter. Did Nocklavey carry me away from the scene while I slept? Or did I imagine the beast, raising it from the storm with my fears?
The bright girdle tied around my thigh is my answer. I touch it and feel a sharp pain. My senses do not fool me. The battle was no dream. I unwrap the cloth and see a ragged tear in my leggings. But when I probe within the tear, I do not feel the opening of a wound. The skin is intact, not even scratched. Confused, disbelieving, I tie the girdle around my leg again. Sliding from Nocklavey, I run my fingers over his flank, searching for the deep hole made by the boar’s tusk.
I find it. A spot, no bigger than a man’s thumb, like a dint in a shield, healed as if it happened weeks ago.
With the daylight, I do not recognize my surroundings as the place where the snowstorm struck. Nocklavey and I must have wandered far. Weak sunlight shines and I squint, unused to it. The sky is blue, and hints of color seem to touch the browned grasses and gray stones. The edges of the new snowbeds are melting and the water gurgles as it flows down the crevices in the rocks. To the sound I add my own voice, calling for Colum as I steer Nocklavey in one direction, then another. Finally I hear an answering cry and Eadulf comes into view with Colum a few steps behind.
“There you are, at last!” I cry, running to embrace Colum. The pain in my left leg causes me to limp. “How did you survive the night?”
My ardent greeting surprises him. “Why, we found shelter under a rock,” he replies, patting my back.
“But it was a terrible snowstorm. Didn’t you worry about me?”
“It snowed some, but I knew you were riding Nocklavey close by, and that we would meet up again. And so we have,” he says cheerfully.
My reply is terse. “It seems we have not been on the same mountain.
I
was lost in a snowstorm and had to kill a boar who was about to devour me.”
Colum lifts his eyebrows with surprise. “Did you? Where is it?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Somewhere in the snow.” I can tell that Colum does not believe me.
Then the blue girdle tied around my thigh catches his eye. “Were you hurt? Let me see.”
“Nay, it is nothing,” I say with a wave of my hand. How can I explain the wound that disappeared overnight? Or the sudden appearance of the boar, when we had seen not a single such creature during our several days in the wilderness? Where had it come from, and why did it choose to attack me in the midst of a storm? I have no answers to these questions, but I know what
did
happen: I fought the boar, and with a strange, fierce relish, took its life.
Later when I am alone, I unwrap the girdle from my thigh. There is still no sign of a wound, nor is the girdle even stained with blood. I wrap it around my waist again, and think longingly of Fleance.
Our way through the mountains is becoming easier. The highest peaks are now behind us. Eadulf has brought us through a pass. Below, a string of lochs shimmers like a chain of blue gems leading out of the rocky wilderness. By holding up two fingers, Eadulf indicates that it will take us two days to descend the wooded mountainsides and reach the valley beyond the lakes.
What we will find there? Macduff ’s allies gathered on a plain? The king’s men still on their killing spree? Perhaps no one at all. What if Eadulf led us on a long detour to prevent me from reaching Macduff ’s cousins? Or to allow Macbeth’s party of murderers to find Fleance before I do? But if he meant us ill, it would have been far simpler just to kill us in the mountains.
“So the boar didn’t leave a scratch on you?” Colum asks, interrupting my thoughts. He points to my torn leggings. “You were lucky.”
“Yes, I was,” I agree. “I wish I had cut off its tusk as a trophy.”
But it is not the boar that interests Colum now.
“That blue girdle you had tied around your leg. You wear it all the time.” Colum looks at my waist. “Where did you get it?”
“It was a gift.”
“From . . . ,” he prompts.
“Fleance,” I reply, striving to keep my voice even.
For a while Colum doesn’t speak. We walk side by side through the woods, Colum leading Nocklavey. The pine trees are so big that it would take six men with their arms outstretched to circle a single one.
“What is Fleance to you?” he finally asks. I see him struggling to hide his jealousy, knowing it is unworthy of him.
“He is Banquo’s son, hence my foster brother,” I say, feeling warm blood rise to my face.
Colum stops and takes my arm. “Look at me, Albia.”
I glance up at him. His brown eyes are serious.
“What am I to you?”
“Colum, you are the dearest friend of my life,” I say.
“No more than that?”
“What more could you be?” I ask, becoming exasperated. “I have known you since before I could walk.” Then I say in a softer tone, “Do you remember how I followed you around then? I wanted to do everything that you could do.”
Colum smiles, but it is a stiff one. He sighs and opens his mouth as if to speak. I turn away, for I am not ready to hear what I fear he will say.
“I see you often play with the ends of it,” he says.
I look at him in confusion. Then I realize I am holding the end of the sash.
“You’re thinking of him,” says Colum softly.
“I . . . I wasn’t . . . aware of it,” I stammer.
But I do think of Fleance. I wonder if he cares for me at all or if he left in secret to avoid me. I remember what it was like to kiss him and wish I had not refused him the last time he asked.
“Is that the purpose of this journey? To take you to Fleance?” Dismay creeps into Colum’s voice.
I feel the forest surround me. The pines stand as straight as arrows in a giant’s quiver. Colum and I are mere specks. Our feet make no sound and leave no print in the earth. The wind in the pines seems to whisper,
Why have you come here?
“Albia?” he prompts me. “Are we looking for the rebels, that we might help revenge the wrongs Macbeth has done you and all of Scotland? Or is it your desire just to find this fellow?” He presses his lips together. Then he blurts out, “You love him, don’t you?”
“I don’t know if I love Fleance!” I cry out. “Or if he loves me. He might be running away from me, for all I know. But still I need to find him, for he set out alone and Macbeth’s men are looking for him even now. They mean to kill him, Colum.”
“Because he is Banquo’s son,” says Colum, grasping the situation. He looks grim. “I’m afraid we’ve lost time in these mountains.”
Ahead, Eadulf waits for us to catch up. With long strides, Colum hurries toward him and I follow. The pines still whisper to me,
Why are you here? Where do you go? Whom do you seek?
I wish I knew the answers. I can only hope that whatever I find, I am prepared to meet it.
Dun Forres
Grelach
Rebellion threatens our throne. Banquo’s death has roused his cousins Ross and Angus, and they have pulled Lennox and the others into their plot. Duncan’s son Malcolm is in league with England and with his uncle, the powerful Northumberland. Anyone with eyes to see and ears to hear knows that our enemies are springing up like mushrooms on a rotten log. Only my fool of a husband does not see the danger. Rather, he sees what is not there—Banquo seated in an empty chair. And all the thanes beheld his madness! I could not persuade him that he looked at nothing. I remember the days when my lord called me his dearest partner of greatness and sought my advice before acting. Now he heeds none but that trio of unholy hags, from whose dark haunts he has just returned.
“Listen, Grelach,” he commands, a strange excitement gripping him. “This time a different sister spoke to me and showed me sights meant to shake my courage,” he says, his entire body quivering. “But I did pierce their doubleness and see the truth. Thus I am assured that none of woman born shall ever harm me.”
I resist the impulse to laugh at him. “I think you are the one deceived. How can you believe that no one can kill you? Every man is mortal.”
“ ‘No man of woman born shall harm Macbeth,’ she swore. Tell me, who is not born of a woman?” His tone is brazen with confidence. “Why, even Christ was born of a woman. Thus not even God can touch me!”
Certainly he is mad. Why, I could kill him myself while he stands before me, raving.
“I tell you, fate favors me still.” He strikes his breast with his fist. “I will not alter my course.”
“You will have Macduff to contend with. Even the fateful hags say so. He is a leader among the thanes.”
