"Well then, Jamie. For the sake of an old man's curiosity, if nothing
else, won't you tell me something of yourself? The escape and such,
and what your plans are now. Needless to say you'll sleep in a bed
tonight, much better than that old crack in the northern cliffs."
"How did you know about that?" His mind raced; perhaps the hiding
place was not as safe as he imagined. "Could you see the smoke, then?
Do you think others saw it as well?"
"Nay, lad. Fear not. What smoke there was could hardly be seen: a wisp
or two among the rocks, which I saw only when I brought my skiff close
in."
"Then how?" asked the prisoner anxiously.
"T'was the sea hawk that gave you away. She's got a roost up near the
top, and it seems you smoked her out proper. Wouldn't land all day,
just kept circlin' about and looking down. If there's one thing a
beast won't abide it's the smell of smoke. Puts `em in a God's fear,
and no mistake."
"But how did you know about the hiding place? I thought that just
myself and my childhood companions....."
"And of course you thought that I was never young. But truth to tell,
I was. Lost the virgin there, I did, and haven't seen her since." He
let out a grunt of laughter, and broke into a boyish grin. Then slowly
returned to the matter at hand. "All in all, I doubt there's half a
dozen as know of it, and none of them English. You're well enough
there, and in the morning I'll see you safely back." He paused, relit
his pipe. "But right now I'm in the mood for a story. A good one,
mind. And I'm obliging you to tell it to me."
So the man called Jamie began his tale, relating at first only the
barest facts of his capture and imprisonment, leading up to the mass
escape as they were being transferred from one hell-hole to another.
But as the memories and emotions rose up in their fullness before him,
he found that he could no more pass over them quickly than he could
forget them. The wounds were too deep, and too many, for that.
So gradually, without himself realizing the change, he spoke in
greater length and detail of the trials and fears of that time, and of
his desperate struggle not to be broken, or to lose sight of his
dreams and yearnings, no matter how black his world became. Even his
childhood, and his passionate
love for the girl, found their rightful place in his tale, so much so
that his throat often swelled or shut tight, and he was unable for a
time to go on.
But go on he did, far into the night, while the old man here and there
nodded his understanding, or gave a timely word of encouragement.
Until it had all come out, and he slumped back in the chair,
exhausted, his face wet with tears.
Then without further speech the old man rose. And taking down a candle
from the mantle he showed him to the bedroom, where he gave him his
own bed to sleep in. Then with the young man safely at rest, he
returned to the fire to think through all that he had heard, and
decide what he must do to help him.
Because this same weather-beaten mariner, who was never to be seen
making dramatic gestures at the church, or heard to raise his voice in
righteous patriotism at the tavern, who himself had so little in the
world, was then and there willing to risk it all to restore a single
life to fullness. Without being asked, or telling himself that he was
good or kind to do so, he felt the simple, organic stirrings of
compassion in his aged heart. And expecting no greater reward than the
warmth of the feeling itself, he determined to do all he could to
guide this lad back to safety and freedom.
Simply put, he had vision enough to see another human soul before him,
and courage enough not to turn away. For such was the spirit of his
kind.
Twelve
She had found what she sought: a chant to raise the spirits of the
dead. In terror at her own resolve, yet no more able to restrain
herself than to stop her heart from beating, she put the book beneath
her arm, wrapped a thick cloak about her, then lit and lifted the
torch that she had found.
The night was still and cold as she stole from the hut, with traces of
ghostly mist already forming in the hollows. The moon shone full and
hard, dimming the surrounding stars with its halo of pale white.
She made for the Standing Stone, as dry as bone, where the power was
strongest, older than the hills themselves. She felt that she moved
not of her own accord, but as a puppet upon the strings of some higher
(or lower) being. The reading of those dark, soul-splitting words had
done its work on her. She moved as if entranced---eyes wide, mind dark
and dulled. Only very deep, in the roots of her being, did the heart
remain intact; and she realized that no matter how strange the
vehicle, or how terrible the consequences, this was a thing which must
be done. She must reach out to him with living hands, and in death or
in life, calm the tortured spirit of her beloved.
The Standing Stone was just that, an uncarved granite tusk, thrusting
up from a high shelf which overlooked the ravine. She approached it
slowly, her senses returning. It did not need the reading of ancient
lore to make her stand in awe of it, or believe in its dark powers.
For this was a place known throughout the countryside, to be wondered
at by day, religiously avoided by night. It was said that the ghosts
of William Wallace and Mary Stuart could be summoned here by those
possessed of the black arts, as well as murdered warriors and
chieftains from the grim, violent times before memory.
She trembled at the sight of it, as everything beyond fell away,
shrouded by mist and distance. It was as if she stood at the edge of
the living world, opening upon the vague and endless sea of Death's
Kingdom. Her one desire was to turn and flee, back to the world of
daylight and living flesh. And yet she must not only force herself to
look upon it, but pass beyond, and standing in its far shadow, to call
upon the very darkness from which her spirit palled.
She stood motionless, her resolve wavering before the onslaught of
doubts and questions. Was she doing the right thing? Might her actions
not only do them both further injury? These thoughts interlaced with a
raw, gut-level fear for her own safety.
Yet strong as these forebodings were, there lived inside her something
stronger: the love of a single man. The thought of Michael alone and
in pain, was more than she could bear. She took the final steps, and
stood on the sloping ground just beyond..... It.
The ravine opened before her, its steep sides leading down to the
flatted heath below: a narrow vale of silvered grass, withered shrubs
and speckled stone, here and there marked by solitary trees which rose
up from the wreathing fog like pillars in a flood. The same fitful
breeze which had carried it from the sea beyond, moved the vapory
shroud across the scene in ghostly patterns: here and again clearing
an open stage, only to wrap it once more in its cloak of white
invisibility.
But this she took in with her eyes only. More acutely than any other
sense, she felt
the Stone behind her, a glowering menace, an evil force aware of her
presence. She steeled herself to turn and face it. Then braving its
deepest shadows, she wedged the torch between it and a smaller stone,
half crushed beneath.
And with this action, thrusting stubborn light into a place of
darkness, she found the courage needed to perform the grim task ahead.
Kneeling in the dank ground with her back against the Stone, she shook
off the cold shudder that ran through her at its touch, and opened the
book before her, turning to the ribbon-marked page.
Holding his image ever before her, she began to read aloud the chant.
The words came haltingly at first, unwilling, then stronger, slowly
taking hold of her until it seemed another, far older woman spoke
through her: that she did not need her eyes to recall the words or
sound their meaning. The voice rose and fell.
By the Standing Stone, as dry as bone
Through ancient tales to walk alone
By moonlight stark, to spirits dark
We call to You
Their way be shown.
Back from the land, of withered hand
To islands where the living stand
With arms apart, and naked heart
This spell to Thee
I do command.
Send spirit forth, by dark stream's course
If Hell itself should be the source
Let Cerberus' gate, not hold his fate
But shatter walls
With killing force.
All this she read, and more besides, until her arms seemed to open of
their own accord, in the final gesture of invocation. Then with the
trembling emotions of a lifetime, she said his name.....
Nothing happened.
A slight freshening of the breeze, nothing more. The spell had failed.
All her mother's arts were but seeming and superstition. Michael
remained on the other side of Death's iron door, unreachable. She fell
forward onto the bitter earth, overcome by unquenchable despair.....
She heard a sound.
Was it again the wind's mockery of bagpipes, the faintest strain
playing upon her mind alone? She listened again. The sound grew
stronger, undeniable, moving toward her from the west. Far away it
seemed, from the depths of the ravine, which led after many miles to
the sea. It played Scotland the Brave, a poignant sound in that dismal
place, as she heard in its every note a proud defiance of death and
darkness. She got to her feet, and moving to the very edge of the
shelf, peered intently into the wavering vale below.
The sound continued to come on, nearer and nearer, then suddenly
ceased, now surely no more than two hundred yards away. She strained
her every sense for sight or sound of him, in vain. She began to
despair once more, until it occurred to her that perhaps the
torchlight held his troubled spirit at bay. Quickly she returned to
the Stone, and forcing out the beacon, rolled its lighted knob against
the hissing turf until it sputtered and went out. Then moving back to
the ledge she rejoined her vigil, prepared to wait all night.
But she did not have to. Almost at once she perceived the figure of a
man, moving slowly through the fog. It came on steadily, down the
center of the vale. Now hidden by the mist, now clearly outlined: a
kilted Scottish soldier, pale and weary, wandering it seemed to her,
without direction or hope. Her heart leapt inside her, reaching out to
him with all that she was.
The curly head was raised at last, still vague with distance. The
figure stopped, as if sensing some presence. . .then turned and looked
up at her. A face once handsome and strong. His name was instantly
upon her lips, as in fear and ecstasy she made to cry out to him---
Suddenly from behind her came a whoosh and swell of blazing light, and
a harsh voice crying harsh words. She whirled to see her mother
outlined in fire and smoke against the blood-red backdrop of the
Stone. Then pushing past her, the witch hurled a flaming brand into
the abyss.
"In se nama Dagda!" she cried in anger. "Baek wealcan sawol, to
Helan!" A great billowing fog engulfed the place where the figure had
stood. And when it cleared again, he was gone.
Still her mother stood poised, waited expectantly, a blackened rib
held in her uplifted hand.
But when the apparition did not reappear, slowly she lowered it. .
.and the look of wild fear passed from her eyes. She trembled, and
spat upon the ground. Then with a sharp look at the girl, she turned
to extinguish the swift bonfire she had made.
Then without a word, she took the sobbing girl by the wrist and led
her away. Utterly devastated, Mary did not resist.
Only when they were safely shut up inside the lair did the old woman
give vent to her fear and vexation.
"By all the gods, girl. . .you shall do no such thing again! Did you
want to lose your own soul as well?"
"I don't care!" cried her daughter sullenly. "I don't care."
And with the utterance of these words, rising as they did from her
long suppressed darker nature, something precious and fine collapsed
inside her: the will to live, and keep giving. She moved listlessly to
sit before the fire, not for warmth, but only to turn her back on the
endless pain and disillusion of this world.
All was lost, and darkness overwhelmed her.