Mary remained in the bed as she was told until, between her natural
vigor and childlike curiosity, she began to feel better, and then,
quite restless. Putting more wood on the fire and dressing warmly (she
was not incautious), she began to look around her for something to do,
or perhaps, something to read. It was impossible yet to think through
all that had happened in just these twenty-four hours, or to know what
she must do in answer. She felt like a shipwrecked swimmer, far from
shore on a dark night: that the water around her was much too deep,
that she must rest, and wait for some beacon to lead her again to
solid ground.
But for all this, she could not help feeling drawn to the ancient
chest from which her mother had taken the hemlock. She told herself to
forget it, but could not.
That her mother practiced in the black arts was apparent; and a vague
feeling that perhaps through witchcraft she might reach the troubled
spirit of her beloved, drove her in the end to hard courage,
overriding all other considerations.
She went to the window and peered out, then moved to the door.
Stepping beyond it furtively, like a young rabbit outside the den, she
looked about her. The sun hung motionless almost exactly at the noon,
and the chill of night had passed. There was no sign of her mother,
nor any other creature save a solitary hawk, which soared watchful
high above.
She went inside again and rolled back the corner of the carpet, as in
quick glances she had seen her mother do. The chest lay beneath. The
thick belt was easily undone, and there was no other lock or latch. It
occurred to her briefly that this was what the old woman wanted, and
at the same time that she would be furious, and fly into a terrible
rage. But this did not matter. Nothing mattered except that Michael
had come to her, and touched her, and called out to her in living
dream. She lifted the wide lid, and set it back against the wall.
Somewhere outside a raven spoke, and a sudden blast of wind shook the
door. She started, and whirled about, but did not waver in her
resolve.
Inside the trunk were many grim and grotesque articles which appalled
her, and which she would not touch. But to the extreme left, pushed
together with their bindings upward, were four large manuscript books,
bound in leather. Her eyes, and seeking spirit, were drawn to these.
They were alike untitled and unadorned, yet to one she was
unmistakably drawn. Her hand moved toward it almost without conscious
thought: the smallest, burnished black. It was thinner than the others
as well. And so, growing wary of the witch's return, she lifted it
quickly and moved to the bed. There she slid it beneath her mattress,
then returned to the chest, which she closed and bound as before. She
had only just rolled back the carpet when she heard, muffled but
distinct, the cry of the hawk high above. And she knew, somehow she
knew, that her mother was coming back up the path.
She undressed again quickly, down to the slip, and was careful to set
the dress back on the chair as it had lain before. Climbing back into
the bed she was acutely aware of two sensations: the lump at the small
of her back made by the book, and the pounding of her heart.
The door-latch was lifted, the hinges creaked, and her mother stepped
into the room. She looked exhausted and grim, and seemed to take no
notice as her daughter sat up in the bed and addressed her.
"I'm feeling much better," she said, trying to sound bright and happy.
She could not quite pull it off, but thankfully, the old woman's mind
was elsewhere.
"It is done," she mumbled in reply, as much to herself as to the girl.
Laying her things absently on the table, she pulled loose the comb
which bound the iron-grey locks behind her head, and shook them free
about her shoulders. At this simple act Mary drew a startled breath,
and it was all she could do to suppress a gasp of fright. For here,
truly, was the classic apparition of a witch: the ragged, wind-blown
dress and shawl, the long, wild hair and intent, burning eyes. This,
the woman noticed.
"Not much to look at, am I?" At first she glared as she said this,
then turned away, remembering to whom she spoke. "There was a time,
Mary, and perhaps not so long ago as you might imagine, when men said
I was still quite fair. But time. . .and poison. . .have done their
work." She grew silent, and bitter, once more. But something inside
the girl urged her now to draw the woman out, not leave her alone in
this darkness.
She got down from the bed and stepped timidly towards her. Placing one
hand on her shoulder, with the other she lifted a stray lock of her
mother's hair and tucked it gently behind her ear. The witch pulled
forward and away, but Mary persisted. She came close again, and this
time put her arms around her full, and kissed her lightly on the
temple.
"Mother," she said, the word arresting the other's anger. "Won't you
tell me how it was for you, all these years, and what you're feeling
now?"
"What does it matter, girl? The wine is drawn and must be drunk." But
ominous as these words sounded, her daughter brushed them aside.
Because now, her eyes clouding with tears, she understood what was
taking place in her own heart: an orphan's awkward and tremulous love
for her true parent.
"But it does matter," she insisted, "to you. And to me."
Their eyes met. For a moment Mary thought the woman would weep, and
embrace her, and all would be well. But the aged eyes knew no more
tears. She turned away.
"All right, Mary, I'll tell you, though I've little doubt you will
stop me halfway. But just now I'm exhausted. If you really want to
help me, put on the kettle for tea, and bring me a rye cake. The
weather is turning," she went on, rubbing her arthritic shoulder.
"We'll have no visitors tonight, at least. There'll be hours of time
for talk."
"Promise me, then. Tonight you'll open your heart?" Her mother gave a
queer sort of laugh.
"What little is left of it. Yes, yes, child, I promise. Now bring me
the tea and give me a moment's peace." Mary did as she asked.
Six
That same afternoon a single rider approached the steward's cottage,
in which now only Michael's mother remained. Hearing hoofbeats, she
went quickly to the window and pulled back the heavy curtains. Though
this woman had little left to lose, she was concerned almost in spite
of herself for the safety of her niece. And in her darkened frame of
mind, she could not help but fear the worst.
A British officer, seated on a majestic bay stallion, slowed his horse
to a loose trot and drew rein just beyond the porch. This in itself
did not seem such a threat. It could mean anything: some kind of
summons, a requisition for cavalry horses and supplies (which they did
not have), or simply a saddle-weary officer wanting a drink to soothe
his parched throat.
But when she opened the door at his ringing, impatient knock, she took
a step back in astonishment, and it was only with difficulty that she
preserved a veneer of resignation and indifference.
She saw before her Mary's face. It was broader, and infinitely
masculine---framed in strong and curling black hair, the green eyes
fierce beneath scowling brows. But it was the same green, the hair the
same shimmering black. Identical too was the fair, unmarked
complexion, the smooth and finely chiseled nose and chin. Something in
the shape was dissimilar, yet still.....
She could not at first read the riddle, until with an arrogance that
could never have come from her niece, he threw back the door and
advanced upon her, driving her back into the passage.
"So, my good widow Scott. You recognize the son of your esteemed
overlord, and perhaps were expecting him as well?"
"No, truly sir. I don't know what you mean." It was not necessary to
feign surprise. She could not imagine what the son of the Lord
Purceville could want of her.
"I don't have time for games!" he shouted, pushing past her and
searching the adjacent rooms before returning to stand before her.
"And what of that hag sister of yours. . .and your daughter?" At these
words he perceived genuine alarm in the face of the other.
And alarmed she truly was. For since the day of that terrible battle,
which had occurred but a few days' ride from the cottage, the two
women had done everything possible to hide their adolescent charge,
whose beauty and innocence made her a natural target for marauding
troops.
"I have no daughter, sir, you are mistaken. No one lives here but
myself and my aged sister-in-law. If you would be so kind---" The back
of his hand crashed across her face, starting a trickle of blood at
the corner of her mouth. He raised the hand again threateningly, then
for some reason, smiled.
"You're not too old, you know. I might have a bit of sport on you
myself." But remembering his purpose, he grew cold and severe again.
"Pray do not think me an idiot. We too have spies, loyal folk among
the hills. I spoke to one such gentleman scarcely an hour ago..... But
that would be telling. You have
a daughter, Mrs. Scott: Mary by name, a charming creature by all
accounts. If you wish her to remain so, you had best tell me what I
want to know."
"Please, sir, I beg you. Just tell me what it is you want. I'll give
you anything I have, but please, spare the girl. She's a poor,
helpless creature, alone but for the two of us. We've done nothing
wrong, I swear it."
"Well," he replied more calmly. "At least you have a bit of sense."
But if she had meant to turn aside his interest in the girl by calling
her helpless, and alone in the world, her understanding of men (at
least that kind of man) had failed her badly. He began to pace
eagerly, his hands behind his back, speaking with the aggressive
assurance of one accustomed to having his own way. And for all her
fear and agitation, she could not help but notice that he was also
terribly handsome.
"This is what I want from you, for now. A small group of war prisoners
(in truth it was closer to a hundred) have escaped from the hold at
Edinburgh, the last, effectively speaking, of your would-be prince's
Highland rabble. Our information is that they have since split up into
smaller bands, each heading for their respective homeland. There, no
doubt, they will attempt to stir sympathy for your deluded cause.
"Fools!" he continued, as if possessed of the truths of the Universe.
"Scotland's day is done. Henceforth her destiny shall be irrevocably
tied to that of England. We are trying to be magnanimous, and make
reforms. But we will not tolerate, we will crush utterly, any attempt
at further rebellion."
"Magnanimous?" she mocked, her pride returning. "Is that why you
struck me? Is that why you threaten three lonely, bereft women, who
have already lost to you all that they loved and held dear?"
"I did what I had to do!" he cried hotly. "And will do more besides,
if you don't hold your tongue. These traitors will be found, and
punished---drawn and quartered, or hanged from the nearest tree. And
anyone who aids them, or does not send word of them to me at once,
will receive much the same. Though in the case of three lonely, bereft
women, the punishment might be slower, more amusing."
Again she was driven to fearful silence. She hoped that this would be
the end of it, but apparently he had not yet received what he came
for, a motive, perhaps, not entirely official.
"And now, good widow Scott, I would very much like you to tell me
where I might catch a glimpse of your charming daughter. Oh, do stop
the theatrics," he said irritably, as she clasped her hands to her
bosom and made as if to fall on her knees before him. "If I wanted the
services of a whore I have the whole countryside to choose from. It is
just that your daughter. . . interests me. For unless I am much
mistaken, I have seen her once before."
"I must beg you this last time," she pleaded. "Ask of me anything but
this. Take me if you like, kill me if you must; but I cannot---" He
had raised his pistol to arm's length as she spoke, and now fired it
with a crack at a portrait of the child Mary that hung in the adjacent
room. The ball found its mark at her throat, leaving a dark hole
through the canvas of the shadow behind, and the frightened woman
turned paler still. She tried to speak but he cut her short, his voice
low and menacing.
"I swear to you, my Highland whore, you will tell me where she is to
be found. Because if you don't, this very moment, I will find her
myself, and with this same pistol put a hole in the real
Mary Scott, and leave her to die in the dirt!"
"My sister has a second home," she stammered, hardly knowing how she
found the words. "On Kilkenny ridge, beyond the ravine. A small path
winds up to it from the Standing Stone, one branch left, then two to
the right. We quarreled, and the girl has gone off to live with her.
It is the whole truth, I swear it. God have mercy on us!"
"I believe you speak the truth at that," he said coolly. And reaching
inside his unbuttoned officer's coat, he drew out a felt purse.
Loosing the strand with his fingers, he reached inside and removed
several gold coins, which he placed gently on a table beside her.
"Thank you, Mrs. Scott. I will take that as permission to pay court
upon your daughter. I fancy I may even marry her, if she is the girl
I'm thinking of. Good day to you."
He stepped past her, out through the open door, and remounted his
beautiful bay.
Seven
Towards evening the weather did in fact turn foul, with heavy clouds
blowing in from the sea. Laden with rain, and stirred to inner
violence by the turbulent upland airs, they discharged their burden
with a vengeance among deep cracks of thunder. Bolts of white fire
stabbed the earth as the deluge broke, turning good roads to bad, and
bad to treacherous and impassible quagmire. So forbidding had the
mountain paths become that even the young Lord Purceville, the most
stubborn and heedless of men, was forced to turn back and seek
shelter, postponing, for one day at least, his desired meeting
with young Mary Scott, of whom he had heard such glowing reports.
So deeply, in fact, had the old man's words affected him, that he
fancied (though this was unlikely) he truly had seen her once before,
gathering wildflowers on a green hillside in Spring. And whether of
human or otherworldly origins, the spell, to which he was particularly
susceptible, had done its work on him.
He wanted her.
* * *
The man staggered wearily down the high embankment, until he came to
the final, near-vertical stretch of cliff. The cold rain lashed him;
the need to reach shelter and the warmth of a fire had become all
consuming. He had not eaten, or slept, for days. But for all of this,
and for the pride that had once been his, he knew that he must now be
supremely cautious. One half-hearted grip on the dripping rock, one
misplaced footing, would send him crashing to the ground below. And
while at this height such a fall might not mean death, it surely would
mean broken bones, which in his present plight, hunted and desperate,
amounted to one and the same thing.
The stretch of sand was now only a few yards beneath him. The agitated
sea roared and pounded just beyond. Weak and trembling, chilled to his
very bones, the prisoner at last set foot on level ground. Struggling
on in the wet, giving sand, he searched for the entrance of the
walled-in hiding place. Even in daylight it would be difficult to
find. In the murky dusk it was next to impossible. So far as he knew,
no one but himself and his childhood companions had ever found it. Of
these all but one had been killed in the war. And as for the girl.....
He doubted that she would remember.
At last he found the slight ravine, which led back into the
sea-cliffs. A short distance further was the place where the granite
had split, and one huge shingle buckled and slid forward. Climbing the
slanting crack it formed, he came to the narrow fissure, which in
daylight appeared as little more than a deeper shadow among the
darkened wedge of the seam. He twisted his shoulders, and crawled
forward until he reached the ledge on the other side, within the
enclosure. And though he stood hunched in a blackness complete as the
hole of Hell, still his spirit rejoiced as if it had fought and clawed
its way to Heaven.
He had beaten them. He was free.
With a surge of fierce courage such as he had not felt for many
months, he leapt down blind, trusting that the place had remained as
he remembered it. His feet landed easily in the soft, giving sand, as
his body fell forward in a weary ecstasy of surrender. He embraced its
sheltering softness like a lover, then found to his bewilderment that
he was crying. This was something he had not done since childhood. He
tried to check the tears but could not, as all the pain and fear of
the last three years, and of that terrible day, poured out of him.
He thought of the girl and he knew, even then, that though danger
still surrounded him, he must see her again as soon as it was safely
possible. For he had held her image before him like an icon and a
guiding light through the years of brutal captivity, placing his hope,
and all his heart, in the belief that she remained, alive and free.
That she did not love him in return, but loved another, did not seem
to matter now. Nothing mattered except that he must see her, and speak
to her, and tell her what she meant to him. Then he would be content,
and gladly lay down his life.
With tears still wounding him, he searched the niche in the adjacent
wall, until he found the tinderbox that he had left there. Against all
odds its contents were intact. The rotting straw beneath it was dry,
as was the piled driftwood he had gathered and stored so long ago.
Clearing a level space in the sand, he built a waiting bed of straw
and thin slivers, then struck flint to steel, shooting tiny sparks
into the heart of it. Again and again, until with the aid of his
living breath a single tongue appeared, and began to spread. Then with
the knowledge acquired of a lifetime, he fed the fire slowly, nurtured
it, until at last it grew and swelled into a living, warming blaze.
He hung his head and wept outright. The lingering flame of his life
and his love still remained. He groaned, and in a torment of joy and
suffering, said her name.
"Mary!"
He stripped off his soaking clothes and draped them across driftwood
stands to dry. Lying naked now in the growing warmth of the chamber,
he said a defiant prayer of thanks, and with her image before him
still, drifted at last into sleep.