Michael woke with a sense of foreboding that was almost physical. He
often felt uneasy after too short a sleep, as if hearing the distant
thunder of inevitable death. But this was more immediate, more
intense.
The knowledge of what he must do that day had never left him, but had
woven itself in and out of his dreams. It was not that.
Something was wrong. Where was Margaret MacCain, and why had she left
the hut deserted? Looking across at Purceville's empty bed, he felt
his throat tighten and his heart beat heavily. Pulling on his boots
and long coat, he walked as calmly as he could to the door of the
ancient dwelling, afraid what he might find on the other side. He
opened it.
The horse was still there, grazing unconcerned in the place where he
had left it. So the Englishman had not deserted him. This, and his
bent form not far off, calmed him. But not for long. First his eyes
made out the shovel in his hands, then the newly dug grave at his
feet. The red, clay-like soil piled around it called to mind images of
an unhealing wound. What did it mean? His mind flashed back to their
conversation the night before, as they reached the high narrow pass,
and approached the witch's hut. It was not so much what Purceville had
said that troubled him, but what he had not said.....
"You'd best stay back and out of sight until I've spoken to her," had
been his own words. "The widow MacCain has no love for the English,
and your father..... Well. Let's just say I may have spoken too soon,
when I said that no one has greater reason to hate you." Nothing.
"I'm not even sure how she feels about me," he continued. "But when
she learns that Mary is in trouble, and that we are trying to help
her, I think she will see things as they are." Still no reply. "You
don't seem overly concerned, Purceville. She's a hard old woman, and
as determined an enemy as you're ever likely to face. I'm not one to
fear her for a witch, but there are other weapons she might employ."
"She won't resist us," said the other strangely. ".....she's not as
hard as you think."
"What makes you so sure?"
Again no answer. He had been too weary to press the point; he only
thought it curious. And when they reached the dark shelter and found
the woman gone, the night's small rest assured, he had been far too
relieved to wonder at it. For in the clinging darkness he had not seen
the charred tree above, or the withered bones that shrank away from
it.
Walking stiffly now in the early morning cold, he approached the
Englishman. Stephen heard him, but did not turn. One last ashen limb
projected above the rising level of earth in the hole. He began to
hurry himself to cover it, then stopped.
"Stephen? What are you doing?"
Purceville straightened. He said, without turning. "I am burying the
mother of my sister, and the woman who cared for me as a child."
At that moment a flock of ravens spoke behind, an evil sound that
seemed to mesh the rising web of horror about him. Turning toward the
summons Michael saw the tree, as a gust of wind shook its blackened
limbs in a dull rattle of death. Then whirling back in shock, he saw
the bones.
"What happened here?" he cried. "What have you bastards done!
"
In a flash it came to him: the party of horsemen riding hard from the
west, the soot-marks of their boots upon the threshold. Anger and
hatred overwhelmed him, as before he knew what had happened the pistol
was in his hand, and pointed at the back of his enemy.
But then Stephen turned to face him, and he lowered it again. Because
there were standing tears, and real shame in the Englishman's eyes.
"It's not what you think," he said weakly, head down. "What we did,
was bad enough. But she was dead when we arrived." He put one sleeve
to his eyes. "She left a note, which I gave to Mary, asking her to
forgive..... My father. . .burned her body as a warning, and to
frighten his own men into action. I hate what we've become. I hate
it."
... "I believe you," said Michael slowly. "And I'm sorry."
"Please don't say any more."
The Highlander started to walk away. "No, wait," said Stephen. "I want
you..... I want someone to hear this."
"I'm listening."
Purceville shifted uncomfortably, resisting to the end. Then spoke
what he truly felt: the only eulogy the woman would ever have.
"She was my governess, and treated me kindly. But I never told her. .
.that I loved her, too." He started to lower his head in despair, then
raised it again in sudden resolution. "We've got to get Mary out, and
away from all of this. She deserves so much more, than this."
"We will, Stephen. Tonight." A pause. "Would you like me to help you?"
"No. It is my responsibility. Mine....." The realization stunned him.
He fought back a sob. "Dear God, I am weary of graves."
"Then let us vow to do the work before us well," said Michael, "that
there may be no more."
"You don't understand," said Stephen. "If we rescue my sister and her
guardian, and you take them away from here, your fight is ended. But
mine is just begun."
Michael wrestled with his own emotions, then came up and put a hand on
the troubled man's shoulder.
"You've made a good beginning, my friend. You've looked the Devil in
the eye."
Purceville met his penetrating gaze, puzzled that these simple words
should mean so much. And in that moment this stranger was so like
Mary---the way he spoke, the way he knew him so well.....
"Stephen. Every man chooses his own time to stop running. And it's
only when you turn, that you find out what you have inside you. I
cannot lie, and say it will be easy, or that you will triumph simply
because your cause is just. The truth is that it's much harder to be a
good man than a bad one, to do what's right, than to be selfish and
afraid. I've fought the Devil, in my way, for thirty years, and come
to no reward. On the contrary, my life has been a constant struggle.
"And tonight," he went on, "I face the battle of my life. Nothing else
matters, in all the world. And so help me, Stephen, I'm terrified. I
speak of faith, and yet I do not feel it. Getting Mary safely away is
everything. Everything
. If I fail, or injure her in the attempt, my own life is less than
meaningless. My life must end....."
Then it was he who stiffened in defiance. "But God or no God, I will
have her out. With all my soul I swear it. She will be freed."
Stephen studied him, both stirred and bewildered. "Who are
you?"
Michael, too, hesitated at the truth. It could forge a bond between
them, or destroy everything.
... "I am Michael Scott. Another man lies in my grave."
Stunned silence.
"Then it's true!
You are in love with her."
"Yes, and I have been for most of my life. But it's not something
sordid, Stephen, whatever you've been told, or your fears may imagine.
I've watched her grow from a child. I've dried her fatherless tears.
I've loved her in silence, as a brother and a friend. And never, until
a few days ago, did I tell her all that was in my heart.
"She loves me too, Stephen. If ever two people were meant to be
together, it is she and I..... I have asked her to marry me, and she's
consented."
Stephen walked away to control himself, as bitter jealousy burned
through him. The thought of her with anyone
was more than he could bear. He whirled, his face flushed and
distorted.
But anger was soon drowned in despair. Because the truth had finally
come to him: he was in love with his sister, whom he could never have.
He clenched his fists to his eyes as if to banish all sight, all
memory. Then slowly he mastered himself, became perfectly still.
"Well," he said darkly. "There it is."
"What do you mean, Stephen?" The Englishman looked full into his face,
then turned away.
"My trial. My test. In order to free the one person I truly love, I
must lose her forever. To do what is right for others, I must do
injury to myself. It is a bitter choice."
"Yes," said Michael. "But it is not the choice you think. What you do
tonight, or do not do, will be for yourself, not for Mary or for me.
Because if you don't help, and something happens to her, you will
carry it for the rest of your life." He released a weary breath, and
shook his head. "I cannot help you choose."
"No," said the other, looking down. "It seems I must help myself."
There was nothing more to say. Michael started back toward the hut,
wondering if he hadn't made a terrible mistake---if he hadn't tried
the character of this man too hard already. He slowed, stopped
outright, then said without turning.
"I would like to have you with me, Stephen. You know the place, and
the situation, far better than I. But if you feel you cannot. . .you
are free to do as you like after I have gone, with no further
obligation to me."
Purceville was silent. Michael first saw to the horse, thought for a
moment to keep it with him at all times..... No. If this man was going
to risk life and limb to help them, he must be shown this much trust,
at least. He reentered the hut, and began to work on the long length
of rope he had brought with him from the cottage.
Purceville watched him go, then slowly refilled the hole that he had
dug, thinking his own dark thoughts.