The red sun rose slowly, achingly across the high Scottish moor,
touching with melancholy gold the patching hoar frost and purple
heath. For this was a land of pain, and stark beauty, and restless
dream. Here the spirits of the dead walked by night through grim
castles of shadow and dust, their glory long past. Here the spirits of
the living grieved by day for a proud and chivalrous time forever
lost.
For now the English ruled the land. The battle of Culloden was three
years lost and Bonnie Prince Charles, the drunken fool in whom they
had placed such hope, was living in exile in France. For what then had
the pride of Highland manhood shed their blood, leaving behind them
the heart-broken wives, aging fathers, and uncomprehending child
sisters? Was it to see the Lord Purceville establish his thieving
court at the ancestral home of the MacPhersons? Was it to pay hard
tribute in grain and goods which could not be spared, to an Empire
already bloated and corrupt?
None felt the pangs of lost promise more deeply than young Mary Scott,
aged sixteen years, with a future as uncertain as the fretting October
wind. Her father had died before she could say his name, leaving their
estate in the keeping of guardians until Michael came of age. Now it
was completely lost, their legacy ruined. Now she lived with her
mother and aging aunt in the fading cottage that had once belonged to
the chief steward, all that remained of the family property. It was
neither beautiful nor poetic; but it was warm, and for the time at
least, safe from the hungry eyes of soldiers. The dangers to a young
girl in an occupied land need hardly be detailed.
And there were other dangers as well.
On this morning, as on many others, she walked slowly down the narrow,
winding path to the gravesite of her clan. Bordered by scrub oak and
maple, alone in its silent dell, it was a place removed from time,
hallowed, and to her, sacred. For here, among the stones of four
hundred years of Stuart knights, lay the body of her beloved, her
soul. Her brother. Brushing back a long lock of raven hair, she
stepped furtively towards the mound of earth that was like an iron
door between them.
Michael James Scott
1719 --- 1746
He died a man's death,
fighting for his home.
The words on the small tombstone had always seemed to her a blasphemy,
the hurried cutters finding it more important to speak of patriotism
than to give the date of his birth. These trite, inadequate words were
all that future generations would ever know of him. They could never
see him as he had been in life---the shock of curling, golden hair,
the fierce and penetrating sapphire eyes. He had been strong and
stubborn like all his blood, but with a sudden tenderness that had
long ago stolen her heart. Her friend, brother and father. And in the
most secret depths of her heart, her lover as well.
One image of him remained indelibly carved in her memory.
He stood silhouetted against the open door of the shepherd's hut, in
which they had taken shelter from a sudden, violent downpour. The play
of lightnings beyond flashed his tall, muscular form into brilliant
lines out of the grey. He stood defiant, legs spread, crying out to
the storm that lashed him. Aye! It'll take more than that to kill a
Scott!
And he had laughed his fearless laugh.
"Michael don't, I'm scared," she said aloud. And he closed and barred
the door, and came to her with the gentle smile which he gave to her
alone.....
She fell to her knees on the cold ground, unable to stop the flow of
bitter and blessed memories. She wrapped the shawl tighter,
remembering, feeling as deeply and surely as if it were not a thing of
the past, but happening now, this moment:
He came to her, and put his cloak about her. Then feeling her shiver
in his arms, changed his mind. "No. We'll have to get you out of your
wet things. I'm an ugly brute, but you'll catch your death."
He built a warming blaze in the fireplace, then took the heavy woolen
blanket from the bed and brought it to her. "Come on now. No time for
being shy; I'll turn away." And he carefully tended the fire as she
shed her dripping garments, and wrapped herself in the blanket.
Perhaps an hour later he lay sprawled on his back, stripped to the
waist on the broad, solid bed. She stood watching him, his dried
riding cloak about her. Her own clothes were nearly dry, and the rain
was less; yet for reasons she did not understand, her one desire was
to remain with him there, as they were, forever. He stretched his arms
behind him and let out a yawn, and looked at her with laughing, sleepy
eyes.
"I'm all done in, my little Mary, riding and running about with you
after the long day's work. Better let me have a bit of sleep, then
we'll take ourselves home. Wake me in a bit, won't you?" And he rolled
over on his side, leaving her flushed and agitated, not understanding
the feelings that stirred inside her. The early night was hushed, her
brother lay long and beautiful in the firelight, and she was thirteen
years old.
After a short time that seemed like an eternity, during which she
never once took her eyes from him, she heard the soft, steady
breathing of his slumber. All her love and confused desire suddenly
took hold of her. She loosed the cloak about her bare shoulders, and
came closer. Quietly, timidly, her heart pounding, she lay down next
to him, drawing the broad cloak about them both. She rested her face
against his arm, while her hand mysteriously sought out the scraggly
down of his chest. He stirred.
"What's all this?" he whispered dreamily. "You're not still afraid?"
"No
," she nearly shouted. "It's not that at all." And then, as if afraid
the moment was lost, she drew in her arms and snuggled closer to him
still. "You're not shamed for me, are you, Michael? I've done nothing
wrong."
"Ah, hush girl. You love your Michael and he loves you. Where's the
sin?" And his strong arm enveloped her back, as he gently kissed her
forehead.....
Oh, to feel his arms around her, his skin against hers! She sobbed
aloud at the thought of it, and flung herself to the ground. How
gladly she would have died, then as now, to be with him forever. But
still her life went on, still the feelings and images would not stop:
They lay quiet for a time, her breasts touching his, their faces so
close, breath intermingling. Then all at once, with a voice hardly her
own, she said the words that had sealed her fate.
"Kiss me, Michael. If you don't kiss me I swear I'll die." And though
she could not see them, she felt the laughter of his eyes. But he did
as she asked, slowly bringing his lips to hers. They touched, ever so
gently.
Then with a sudden passion which surprised them both, he gave a deep,
despairing sigh and crushed her to him, his hungry mouth devouring
hers. "My Mary," he said. "My beautiful Mary."
Then just as suddenly he broke away and stood up from the bed. He
began to pace back and forth, cursing himself, so afraid he had in
some way wounded her. She lay still, feeling the loss of his flesh
like the loss of a limb. And two months later. . .he was no more.
She found herself hopelessly, hatefully back in the present. Alone.
Convulsive sobs shook her as she lay across the mound of uncaring
earth. Her tears wet the rough grass beneath her, flowing like blood
from a mortal wound. One word, one thought only existed in the whole
of her being.
"Michael!"
A fresh burst of wind whistled through the heath and fretted the
fallen leaves around her, carrying with it, or so it seemed, a faint
strain of bagpipes. She turned her face to listen. Was it possible:
that soul-stirring sound, so terrible in battle that the English had
since outlawed it?
Was it there, or was she truly mad? She strained all her senses.....
No. The sound was gone. She buried her face and wept once more,
defeated.
Again a breeze stirred, this time more gentle, this time much nearer.
She felt a large hand caress the crown of her head, and brush the side
of her face as she turned again, bewildered. Half blind with tears she
saw the wavering outline of a man, and heard a voice whisper,
"My Mary."
She knew no more.