The Lord Henry Purceville, Governor of MacPherson Castle and the
Northern Garrison, awoke in the worst possible humor. He had quarreled
bitterly with his son the night before, after being informed that one
of his cavalrymen had died in disgrace, and another deserted rank in
consequence. His head throbbed from the excesses of food and drink
that had become habitual with him; the whore that lay sleeping beside
him (his mistress) stank of his own corruption; and the prisoners he
had been charged to find, in the most demanding terms, still eluded
him. In the chill of early morning, he felt every day of the
fifty-three years he bore.
Of all these circumstances, the quarrel with his son troubled him most
deeply. It was not so much the fact of a dispute, all too common
between them, as the disturbing revelation which had come from it.
Because no man, no matter how far he has strayed from the path of
wisdom, wants to appear low and cowardly in the eyes of his son. And
no man, retaining from childhood the slightest memory of loving female
attention, can wantonly desecrate the altar of motherhood without a
latent stab of conscience. Yet both these things had now risen up to
haunt him, in the form of a daughter he had never seen.
If the bastard child had been a boy (as he had vaguely imagined, when
he thought of it at all), the problem might have been more easily
reconciled and acted upon, one way or the other. But a young woman,
and still more, a young woman who had evidently sparked some feeling
of affection in his son---the only person he cared for in the
world---this was far more complicated.
Sending his mistress to the floor with a savage kick, he bellowed for
his servants, ordered her dismissed, then sent for his son to learn
the particulars of the MacCain girl. He was a man of action, and
action would be taken.
One way or the other.
It was the widow Scott who woke them. A premonition of danger had come
to her, and whether real or imagined, she would take no chances so
long as her son remained a wanted man. She knocked on their door as
the mantle clock struck eleven, and asked them to dress quickly and
come out, that they might formulate precautions in the event that
mounted soldiers, or other unwanted strangers appeared at the house.
When the two emerged and sat down to breakfast, and again as they
moved to sit by the fire to hold counsel, the woman was struck by the
seriousness of both faces. Caution and determination she expected from
her son, who had spoken to her the day before of the hardships and
dangers he had already faced, and must face again, until he won his
way to true freedom.
But Mary seemed to understand as well as he the risks and perils of
their position, and acted not at all the happy, naive bride-to-be. And
now, as Michael built up the fire and drew the curtains tight, she
found that the girl would not even look at her, would not return her
questioning gaze.
"Mary? What is it, girl, what's wrong?" Michael, who now returned to
stand before her, intervened.
"Mother," he said gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. "My fears
for James Talbert have been realized. He died yesterday, defending
those he loved. He has been given Christian burial, and as soon as may
be, we will place a stone over the grave. I'm sorry."
The woman looked searchingly into his face, then lowered her head and
wept silently. But when she raised it again, though her eyes still
glistened, their look was firm and determined.
"I will notify my brother tonight. It will be hard for him, and for
his wife, because he meant as much to them..... Nay, do not try to
comfort me. I am a proud Scottish woman, and not rendered helpless in
my grief. The times are hard, and the living must look to their own
devices.
"That is why we are here," she went on. "Painful as it may be, we must
now turn our attention to our own precaution. We must be prepared for
the worst. We must vow to protect your union to the last. And if it
comes to it, you must be willing to sacrifice my safety for your own.
Do not argue with me, Michael! I have had a full life, thank God, for
all its latter hardship. I am determined that you shall have the same.
The blood of Scott and Talbert, our family, must endure."
Having said this, she put one hand to the other, and slowly removed
her wedding ring. She then placed it solemnly in her son's hand. No
further explanation was needed.
"Thank you, Mother. It means a great deal to me."
Michael returned to stand by his betrothed, who looked up at him in
awe and astonishment, feeling for the first time the full import of
what was happening between them. They were to be man and wife, as
surely, and unalterably, as he now stood before her.
"Give me your hand, Mary." She did. "With this ring, on the day of
November 2, 1749, I pledge to you my life, in the eyes of God and man.
Mary. Will you have me as your husband?"
She nodded fiercely, then all at once burst into tears.
"You remember then," he added gently, "that this is your seventeenth
birthday as well? I have not forgotten. It is the date I set long ago,
when you were but a child, to speak openly of my love for you. I tell
you now, if you did not already know it, that you have been my beacon
and guiding star, the hope which I held fast to my heart, when all
others deserted me. I love you, Mary, with every drop of my mortal
blood. I'll love you in this world, and if there is a God, then surely
I will love you in the next."
He kissed her, long and full. Then began to pace, as if to master his
own emotions.
"All right then," he said, moving still. "Our safety.
"The immediate danger---that of a sudden search---has already been
addressed by my mother and myself. Our good steward, as the times grew
dark, had the foresight to install a trap door with a small,
stone-lined cellar beneath it. It has been checked, and with minor
repairs, put in good working order. The cellar itself has been
furnished with blankets, food and water. This occupied the better part
of yesterday afternoon, the first of my return. I had determined to go
in search of you this morning, when fortunately for both of us (I am
still far from well, and had risked the daylight once already), you
came to me first.
"So far, until we've heard your story, I remain the principal danger
to us all. If trouble does come, I can be hidden away in thirty
seconds time. The door is here." He rolled back the threadbare carpet.
"And the latch, here." He bent down and lifted the square trap on its
hinges. When he let it down again, except by close scrutiny the wooden
floor seemed of a piece, the door itself invisible. He replaced the
carpet and came towards her, seeming calmer.
"You see, my girl, Anne and I have already had a chance to talk. From
what she told me of her meeting with young Purceville---and I expect
that for my sake she did not tell all---I wonder if you are not in
danger as well. We need to know fully who our enemies are, or are
likely to be, and who can be trusted to come to our aid. I have one
ally, a fisherman from the village of Kroe, and the beginnings of a
plan, though it is still far from ripe. The first step, as it must
always be, is survival. Can you tell us then, in as much detail as
possible, what has happened in the time since you left the cottage?"
"Will you tell me one thing first?" she asked. "Forgive me, Michael,
but after all I've been through, as you will soon hear..... It would
put my mind very much at rest, if you would tell me....." Her face
betrayed a deep, lingering fear of the Night. "Who, if not yourself,
lies in the grave beneath your stone?"
"It is you who must forgive me. I should have told you sooner." He
took her hand, and held it firmly. "It is no wraith who stands before
you, and no one has raised me from the dead.
"I can't be certain, but I believe it to be a man of my regiment. He
was about the same height and build as myself, with roughly similar
features. Poor beggar. The only name I ever heard him called was Jack.
He was one of the younger lads, and shivering so dreadfully on the
morning of the Battle ---from cold and fear alike---that I gave him my
coat, his being tattered, and far too light to serve. It's hard to
believe to look at me now, wrapped up as for a winter storm, and
pacing like an animal just to warm myself. But I was never cold in
those days, as you'll recall." He gave a bitter laugh, then shook his
head, as if to drive away the feeling.
"Looking back, I guess I was luckier than some. A ball grazed my head
very early in the fighting, and I knew nothing more, until I found
myself being dragged away by two English infantry..... What is it,
Mary? What have I said to upset you?"
"They dragged you to a grove of dark trees! You were dazed and pale,
but still they pulled at you fiercely, as if to throw you to the
ground and run you through."
"How on earth did you know that?"
"I saw it in my dream! I thought I was witnessing your death. Oh,
Michael, I've been so afraid!" It was some time before he could calm
her enough to give voice to his own bewilderment.
"It's all right, now. It's over. But the strange truth is....." He
hesitated, not wanting to upset her further. "I
thought it was the end for me as well, though they only took me to
stand with the other prisoners. That day, and especially those first
moments when I regained consciousness, have woven themselves in and
out of my nightmares ever since. I don't understand. How could you
have known?"
Surprisingly, it was the widow Scott who shed light on this first part
of the mystery. "I've heard it said that twins, or merely siblings who
have been close since childhood, can be miles apart, after a
separations of years, and suddenly know when the other is ill or in
danger. The two of you, growing up as brother and sister, were every
bit as close. And in some ways you shared a bond that was closer
still, because you were in love.
"I once heard you, Mary, cry out `Wolf!' in your sleep, only to learn
the next day that Michael had had a terrible dream, in which he was
being torn apart by wolves. I thought it unnatural, and an ill omen,
at the time. Now I do not. There is obviously a deep spiritual link
between you, such as I felt at times with my own husband. It is not
for us to question God's gifts," she concluded, "but only to use them
as well and honestly as we can."
"That is why I came when I did," the man confirmed. "I knew that you
were hurting and afraid. Somehow I knew."
"But the man in your grave," Mary persisted. "You gave another man
your coat. . .I remember they would not let me see the body. But
surely that was not enough, of itself, to mistake him for you."
"I'm afraid I must take the blame for that," said the woman sadly.
"The body, when it was brought to me for identification, was so
mangled by grapeshot. . .the face nothing but a bloody pulp. . .that
I'm ashamed to say I lost my self-control. Knowing that Michael's
papers had been found on him, I went into such a swoon of grief.....
Our poor countrymen who brought him could only assume that he was, in
fact, my son. The coffin was brought and sealed, and the next day we
buried him, along with all my hopes.
"I was trying to protect you, Mary, and was far too devastated to
think clearly, or to search for further proofs. His hair and features,
what could still be seen of them, were enough to complete the
illusion. I suppose that in after times some doubt of it crept back to
me. But as the months turned into years, and brought no word, I
despaired. The only defense I can make, is that the pain of not
knowing was greater still..... I could not ask myself, or those around
me, to bear it any longer."
There was silence. And then, without prompting, the young woman knew
that the time had come to tell her tale. The spirits of the Night, and
the shadows of Fear, must not be allowed to dwell inside her, but must
be held forth in the hard light of day. She was afraid, and many times
in the telling felt the pain of it too great to bear. But as Michael
had done in the hearing of a wise man of the sea, so Mary now poured
out the cup of her grief, not asking for pity, or answers, but only
speaking the words that would not lie still.
And when she had finished, Michael was there beside her, and her own
flesh still lived. Her eyes, which had misted and looked into places
dark and unfathomable, focused again on that which was real: stone,
fire, and flesh. And in this return to daylight senses she no longer
felt an all-conquering fear of the strange evens through which she had
passed, but only a restless curiosity, and reborn questioning of the
sinister forces which had then seemed so strong and undeniable.
"Can you tell me, Michael, what these things portend? Do you believe
in the powers that my mother worshipped and feared?"
"No, love. I do not believe in that kind of magic, nor have I any use
for miracles, outside the one great miracle of Life. Still less do I
believe in demons and sorcery now, for having heard your tale. It only
shows me, more clearly than ever, the power of superstition to
deceive. Would you like me to show you the key to the mystery, the
weak link which shatters the entire chain of seeming?"
"Yes," she replied. "More than anything."
"The answer is simple," he said. "It is music: a magic that is real,
disproving a magic that is not."
"I don't understand."
"Bagpipes,
Mary. Bagpipes. Twice you heard them, and twice after saw the
`spirits' which gave credence to all else, the foundation on which the
whole illusion was built. Here is what must have happened.
"The first spirit I can answer for plainly, for it was myself. James
and I had at last crossed the high road, and returned to land we could
think of as our own. He had been given the pipes by a crippled
soldier, one of our own, who took us in along the way. And now James
would be silent no longer. He insisted that we return as proud
veterans, and not skulking thieves. So as we parted ways at the last,
and when he deemed me safely hidden by the rise that shields the
cottage, he began to play, and marched off in defiant glory.
"Shortly afterward I found you in tears, lying across a grave that
bore my name. It broke my heart to leave you there, even with the
spoken promise---you did not imagine it---that I would come back to
you. But I was determined to bring no danger upon you, or upon this
house, until the pursuit had cooled, and the chance of discovery grown
less. Looking back, it was a cruel mistake. But I was obsessed. I was
going
to escape, and bring no danger upon you. I hope you can understand,
and forgive me."
"Of course," said his mother, for both of them.
"Thank you," he said quietly. Mary nodded gently, and asked him to
continue.
"All right.... And yet again, by the Standing Stone, you heard
bagpipes. Did they play Scotland the Brave?"
"Yes," she answered, understanding at last.
"It is the only song James knew, or ever wanted to learn. It was he
you saw: pale with affliction, kilted as a sign of defiance, as he
could not be by day. He must have been half dead by then.....
"For he, too, was determined to bring no harm upon his family. Like
myself he would not go to them, though he was too proud, and too far
gone, to conceal himself as I did. I could not convince him to follow
me to the hiding place, and I could not force him. I believe now that
he must have spent those last nights in wandering and delirium,
waiting for the chance to perform his final deed. But unstable as his
mind had become, the heart beneath remained intact. And there were
moments of perfect lucidity, as when he looked up from the ravine, and
saw you.
"He fled from your mother not in fear, but to protect her, and
yourself." He released a deep breath. "The Stone, and the words of the
spell, were impotent but for the power you gave them. The mind creates
worlds of its own, every bit as tangible, and every bit as dangerous,
as the physical reality we all share. Give up your common sense, your
right to question, and you become a helpless lamb among the wolves of
this world."
"Yes," said Mary. "Now it all seems so clear. The trunk filled with
charms, the talismans to drive away your spirit, the spell my mother
believes she cast over Stephen Purceville: all but the fabric of
illusion, given substance by the wholly independent actions of men. I,
too, have no more need of such miracles."
"But," said Michael firmly. "Though the shadows of evil fade in the
light of day, the evil itself does not. The Purcevilles, both young
and old, are still very much to be feared."