Two

She was found there by her aunt, pale and shivering. And as

consciousness and memory returned to her, a light of wild hope and

fear widened the deep emerald of her eyes.

"Aunt Margaret, I saw him! He called me by name, I swear it!"

But whether because the wisdom of age had taught her the wishful

fancies of the young, or for some other reason, the hale, grey-haired

woman elucidated no surprise. She helped the frightened girl to her

feet, and without a word, started her on the path to home.

But once Mary had gone the old woman turned, and made her way back to

the grave. Reaching inside a goat-skin pouch that hung from her side

she produced something cold and pale, and kneeling, laid it upon the

heart of the mound. Then rose and looked about her with a narrowing

eye. Clasping a withered hand about the amulet that hung from her neck

she set off, leaving the bit of melancholy white behind.

A human finger.

The amulet about her neck was a raven's foot, clutching in frozen

death a dark opal.

Many hours later the old woman had still not returned to the cottage.

Mary sat with her elbows upon the sill of the loft window, the rage of

thoughts and questions inside her gradually slowing to the one emotion

possible in one who had seen and known such endless disappointment:

disbelief.

But try as she might to resolve herself to it, to accept that it had

not happened, still the phantom touch lingered inside her, denying all

peace. "My Mary." How differently the voice had said those words, than

on the day of her brother's passion! And yet how similar, how full of

the same love and care. And the only thought that would take solid

hold in her mind was that the two feelings, gentle love and hard

desire, were one in a man, inseparable, and that even as a child she

had inspired both in him. My

Mary. Mine. She wanted to fall on her knees then and there, and pray

to be taken to him, in death or in life. But the sound of her mother's

voice stayed her, rising angrily from below.

"Mary! What are you about? Come down here at once."

Obediently, though without affection she submitted, descending the

wooden ladder-stair from the loft that served as her bedroom. Her

mother's face and whole bearing spoke of the cold composure, the

loveless discipline which always followed such an outburst. It was an

expression she had come to know all too well. Wherein lay the mystery

of this woman? She did not know, only that there was no commiseration,

no sense of shared loss between them, and that she was hardly what the

younger woman imagined a mother should be.

But on this day there was especial agitation among her classic, though

faded Scot features---round, sturdy face and steady, full blue

eyes---and a greater visible effort to control herself. Of late this

usually meant that she had quarreled with Margaret. And these

arguments, Mary knew, somehow centered on herself.

"Where is she?" the mother burst all at once. Like Michael she often

kept her deepest feelings under lock and key, revealing to the world

only a lesser parody of herself. But now something had happened---

"Go and find her!" she cried, at long last giving in. "And if she has

gone to that witch's hole of hers, then. . .tell her she may just as

well stay there, and the Devil take her! I've had enough of it, do you

hear? Let them burn her at the stake; I'll not have her bring shame

upon this house. It's all the same to me!" And she ran to the armchair

by the fireplace, hiding her face in her hands.

The daughter followed, more confused and forlorn than ever. She loved

her aunt, though she also feared her, and could not understand the

vindictive nature of the words spoken against her.

"Mother, what are you saying? What are you thinking of?"

The hands came down to reveal a tired, careworn face no longer able to

think of pity. "So, you never knew she was a witch? How blind a woman

can be, when she wants to. Why, you don't even know, still haven't

guessed---" She faltered, then cried out. "Dear God, I cannot bear

this cross any longer! You have taken my husband, my beloved son, and

left me with his temptress." Then turning to Mary. "Go to her! Get

out, I tell you! She will tell you everything, everything now. Make

your home with her if you like. Leave me to my wretched memories." And

physical sorrow bent her nearly double in the chair.

The girl took a step to console her, but the hateful, flashing eyes

turned on her erased any such notion. She hesitated, then ran to the

door in dismay, and out into the bracing, October wild. It seemed the

last vestiges of solace and sanctuary were crumbling around her,

leaving a world too terrible, too full of dark meaning to endure. She

ran.

But her steps were not blind. Instinctively she stayed on the western

side of the rise, which hid her from sight of the road. And though she

had rarely seen it, the back of her mind knew where her aunt's strange

and secret abode lay: beyond the ravine, in land too wild and rocky to

grow or graze.

It was growing dark when she finally reached the high pass in which it

lay, and in place of the wind a cold stillness reigned. The rocky

culvert did not benefit from the failing light. It was a harsh and

cheerless place, all thorn and sloe, with here and there a gnarled,

leafless tree.

The faraway cry of a wolf froze her to the marrow: she was alone, and

could not find what she sought. Why had she come in such haste,

without horse or cloak? Her body ached and the sense of youthful

despair, never far from her, returned with the added force of cold,

helpless exposure.

An owl swooped, and half fearfully she followed the line of its

flight. As it rose again against the near horizon, she saw there at

the meeting of stone and sky a trail of black smoke, barely

distinguishable in the darkening gloom. She followed it downward. And

there, half buried in the hard earth which bounded it on three sides,

she saw her aunt's sometime residence, the `witch's hole' as her

mother had called it. And though she loved her aunt, and had nowhere

else to go, she could not help feeling a moment of doubt.

A wedge of stone wall---one door, one window---was all the face it

showed, the short chimney rising further to the sunken right. It was

in fact a hole, dug and lined with stone perhaps a thousand years

before by some wandering Pict, with a living roof of roots and turf.

Her aunt had merely dug it out again and repaired the chimney. The

window and door, framed in ready openings, were new, along with stout

ceiling beams. Nothing more. It was a place that perhaps ten people

knew of, and nine avoided.

She stood unresolved, chafing the arms of her dress, unable to keep

warm. But at that moment a solitary figure came up the path towards

her, and she recognized the shawl and bound hair of her aunt, stooped

beneath a large bundle of sticks.

"Inside with you, lass," said the woman evenly, again not evincing the

least surprise. "You'll catch your death."

"Let me help you with your load," the girl offered.

"I can quite carry my own burden, Mary. Just open the door for me;

I'll walk through it." Mary did as she asked. They went inside.

The single room was dark and low-ceilinged, with no light but the

hearth fire, which played strange shadows across the rough stones and

wooden bracings. Herbs, tools and utensils, bizarre talismans hung

from the walls. The floor was of solid earth. A wooden table and

chair, two frameless beds, an ancient rocking chair---there were no

other furnishings.

"Sit by the fire, child, and wrap a blanket around you. I'll have the

tea....." But studying her face more closely, the old woman put a hand

to her forehead, and could not entirely suppress a look of concern.

"Into bed with you, Mary, you're burning with fever." And she quickly

arranged warm coverings for the thin, down mattress, which lay on a

jutting shelf of stone covered with straw, and threw more wood on the

fire.

Soon the room was warm, and in its primitive way, quite comfortable.

Mary lay in the bed, her shivering stopped, and the herb tea that her

aunt had given her calming her nerves. But still there were the

questions that would not rest.

"Aunt Margaret," she began pensively, eyes glittering. "You quarreled

with mother, and now she can bear her cross no longer, and she says

you must tell me everything." Though the sentence was hardly coherent,

the old woman nodded her understanding. She came and sat on the bed,

taking the young girl's hand in her own.

"I'll tell you this much now, and then you must sleep. There'll be

worlds of time in the morning. Will you promise me you'll sleep, and

trust

me till the sunrise?" The daughter nodded.

"She's not your mother, Mary. I am."

Three

That night, her subconscious stirred by fever, and by the maelstrom of

unsettling events, Mary dreamed more deeply and vividly than she had

since childhood. The fire burned brightly before her as the old woman,

ever mindful, rocked slowly back and forth, beside her.

She stood atop a high hill, looking down into a broad expanse of green

valley. To the left she heard the stirring sound of bagpipes, to the

right, the ominous drums and steady tramp of the English. Two armies

advanced upon each other, making for some indefinable object in the

center of the field, which for some reason both sides wanted. To the

left the plaid kilts and mixed uniforms of the Highlanders, to the

right a rigid, regimented sea of Red. She watched them draw together

with the uncomprehending horror that every woman feels for war,

unmoved by words of glory and patriotism, understanding only that men,

men dear to herself and others, are about to die.

It seemed that the Scots would reach the object first, being the

swifter and on their own ground; but suddenly they stopped. At their

head she saw two men on horseback: a rugged, wizened general, and a

handsome young prince with long plumes in his hat, seated on a

brilliant white charger. The general was arguing and gesticulating

sharply that they must advance and attack. But the Prince, with an air

of supreme confidence and divine understanding, only made a sign of

the cross and remained where he was, content.

The British halted and formed ranks, expecting a charge. But not

receiving it, and perceiving their opponent's hesitation, they quickly

brought their artillery to the fore. Unlimbering the cannon, they

loaded and took aim, and began to shower the unmoving Highlanders with

grapeshot and thundering shells.

The young girl gasped in terror, and shouted for them to fight back,

or run away. The general waved his arms more violently than before.

But still the Prince gave no order, and only looked about him as if

puzzled, unable to fathom what was happening to his men.

And at length the English charged, mowing down the decimated Scottish

lines like so much rye after a hailstorm. While the Prince slipped

away with his escort.

But all of this, gruesome and sinister as it was. . .this was not what

froze her heart. In a smaller scene that somehow stood out sharp and

clear, two red-coated foot soldiers were dragging by the arms a tall

Scot with a bloodied shock of golden hair. He was dazed and plainly

wounded, but still they pulled at him fiercely, as if to throw him to

the ground and run him through. They carried him out of sight, into a

copse of death-black trees.

"Michael!" she cried frantically, trying to follow. But her legs would

not move, and she sank slowly into quicksand, her skirts

billowing.....

Then the dream shifted and she was back at the grave, lying in the

rough grass. Again she felt the gentle touch on her hair and startled

cheek, again the reassuring voice:

"My Mary." And then. . .was it real or imagined? "I'll come back for

you." From the bottom of a well. "I've come back for you." Farther,

and fainter, then suddenly sharp and near. "My Mary. Mary....."

"Mary!"

"Mary, wake up. You've put yourself in a frenzy." And her guardian

steadily, though not without emotion, replaced the thrown and

disheveled blankets. "You've got to keep yourself---"

"I. . .I saw him again," she stammered. "He called to me. He said he'd

come back for me." She tried to rise. "I've got to go to him, I've got

to find him!"

"No."

For the first time her mother (the claim was true) spoke forbiddingly,

taking her by the shoulders and forcing her back down. "He's dead and

in the grave, and that's where he's going to stay. And unless you want

to join him there---"

"But I do!" cried the girl. "I do. Why doesn't anyone understand?" And

she turned away and fell to weeping. Her mother was silent.

Perhaps an hour later the girl was asleep again, or appeared to be.

Troubled, her mother rose and went to an ancient chest that lay hidden

beneath a musty stretch of carpet, in a niche carved out of the cold

ground beneath. Kneeling over it, she unfastened the broad belt that

secured the lid, which she lifted and leaned carefully back against

the wall. Then with a quick glance at her daughter, she reached inside

and lifted out from among its shadowy contents a withered branch of

hemlock.

Moving to the fire, which glowed and hissed sullenly at her approach,

she thrust its head into the flames, holding the root in a stubborn

fist. Quietly and solemnly, she chanted some words in a language that

her daughter could not understand, and at length the dead leaves and

smoking stalk caught solid fire. Standing once more, she drew a slow

circle with it in the center of the room, then went to the door. As

soon as she opened it a cold wind pushed past and blew out the

trembling torch, but this seemed no more than she expected.

Stepping outside and closing the door behind her, the witch took a few

paces forward, turned again to face the hut. She waved the branch in

strange patterns, moving from side to side and repeating the same

chant, so that the smoke which still seethed from it drew wisping

traces about the door, the window, the whole of the house. Then turned

again, and cast it to the ground before her. She opened her eyes wide,

oblivious to the stinging smoke, and whispered harshly.

"You leave us be!"

She went inside.

Four

As if a troubled thought that had slowly worked its way through her

second sleep, with the first light of dawn Mary sat bolt upright in

the bed, and said aloud.

"He's not my brother."

The old woman, who had apparently not slept at all, turned to her from

her place by the fire, now lowered to glowering coals for cooking. She

thought to reply harshly, then checked herself. Like a skilled surgeon

or a patient general (or a bitter woman gnawed by hate), she knew that

the matter of her daughter's lost love must be handled with extreme

care.

"Not your brother. Your cousin."

"Then---" The realization scalded her. "We could have married! There

was no sin, no shame in what I felt for him."

Again, though it ran counter to all her designs for the girl, the old

woman knew this was not the time to speak against the hopeless romance

that she still carried like a torch in the Night. And also (the

darkness had not yet swallowed her completely), she felt that her

daughter deserved this much.

"There was no sin. Naivety perhaps."

With this her daughter broke into wretched tears, and it was some time

before the woman could calm her enough to speak. She moved to sit

beside her on the bed; and so helpless and forlorn did Mary then

appear, that for a moment her mother forgot all else and slowly

brought to her breast the face that had suckled there so long ago.

"What is it child?" she said gently, stroking the soft hair that had

once been her own. "What is it hurting you so?"

"All this time..... I thought it was because..... After he was killed,

I went to my confessor. I told him everything, and he said---"

There was no need for her to finish. Too well did the other understand

the vindictive nature of men.

"He said that Michael was taken because you had committed incest: that

it was God's punishment for a grievous sin, and that it's your fault

he died." The pitiful nod and freshened weeping told her she was

right. "Nay, lass. It was not the hand of God that killed him, and

many other good men besides. It is not the Creator who so brutalizes

lives and emotions. It is men.

"

And with this all her maternal softness faded, as her eyes stared hard

and dry into some galling distance of thought and memory. Her arms

fell away from her daughter's shoulders, and she unconsciously ground

her teeth.

Mary, who had seen none of this, raised her head and wiped the tears

from her eyes, feeling something like a pang of conscience. "I'm

sorry. . . Mother." She could not help blushing at the word. "I've

been selfish, thinking only of my own sorrow. Won't you tell me

something of yourself? It must have been hard for you, surely."

The woman's gaze returned.

"Ah, life is hard, girl. Someday I'll speak of the roads that brought

me here, but not now." She rose as if to say no more, then turned to

the girl, so young, with the only words of comfort she could find. But

at that they were not gentle, were not the words of hope.

"You must learn from the trees, Mary. A lightning bolt, a cruel axe,

cleaves a trunk nearly to the root, and the oak writhes in agony. But

it does not die. It continues. And though the hard and knotted scars

of healing are not pleasant to look upon, they are stronger, many

times stronger, than the virgin wood. You must learn from the trees,"

she repeated. "It is among their boughs and earthward tracings that

the true gods are found."

"You're not a Christian, then?" This simple non-belief seemed to her

incomprehensible.

"Nay, Mary, I'm not. The gentle Jesus may comfort the meek, but he is

of little use when it comes to vengeance." The woman stopped, knowing

she had said more than she intended. But perhaps this much of the

truth was for the best. She would have to know soon enough, anyway.

"There are other powers, closer to hand, that give the strong a reason

to go on living."

The younger woman studied her in silence, and all the awe and fear of

her that she had felt since childhood returned. She remembered the

chant, the flaming branch. And now the callous determination.....

Toward what end? She recalled the words that had seemed so innocent

the day before:

Just open the door for me; I'll walk through it.

But what door was she to open? What vengeance?

But first there was one more question, which rose in sudden fullness

before her.

"My God. Margaret. Who was my father?"

"The Lord Purceville, though it was not willingly I took him to my

bed."

There was no need to say more. Her mother went back to the hearth, and

after a cheerless meal, told her to remain in bed until the fever

broke. Then went out on some errand of her own.