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A Lingering Flame

The red sun rose slowly, achingly across the high Scottish moor, touching with melancholy gold the patching hoar frost and purple heath. For this was a land of pain, and stark beauty, and restless dream. Here the spirits of the dead walked by night through grim castles of shadow and dust, their glory long past. Here the spirits of the living grieved by day for a proud and chivalrous time forever lost.

For now the English ruled the land. The battle of Culloden was three years lost and Bonnie Prince Charles, the drunken fool in whom they had placed such hope, was living in exile in France. For what then had the pride of Highland manhood shed their blood, leaving behind them the heart-broken wives, aging fathers, and uncomprehending child sisters? Was it to see the Lord Purceville establish his thieving court at the ancestral home of the MacPhersons? Was it to pay hard tribute in grain and goods which could not be spared, to an Empire already bloated and corrupt?

None felt the pangs of lost promise more deeply than young Mary Scott, aged sixteen years, with a future as uncertain as the fretting October wind. Her father had died before she could say his name, leaving their estate in the keeping of guardians until Michael came of age. Now it was completely lost, their legacy ruined. Now she lived with her mother and aging aunt in the fading cottage that had once belonged to the chief steward, all that remained of the family property. It was neither beautiful nor poetic; but it was warm, and for the time at least, safe from the hungry eyes of soldiers. The dangers to a young girl in an occupied land need hardly be detailed.

And there were other dangers as well.

On this morning, as on many others, she walked slowly down the narrow, winding path to the gravesite of her clan. Bordered by scrub oak and maple, alone in its silent dell, it was a place removed from time, hallowed, and to her, sacred. For here, among the stones of four hundred years of Stuart knights, lay the body of her beloved, her soul. Her brother.

Brushing back a long lock of raven hair, she stepped furtively towards the mound of earth that was like an iron door between them.

Michael James Scott

He died a man's death,

fighting for his home.

One image of him remained indelibly carved in her memory.

He stood silhouetted against the open door of the shepherd's hut, in which they had taken shelter from a sudden, violent downpour. The play of lightnings beyond flashed his tall, muscular form into brilliant lines out of the grey. He stood defiant, legs spread, crying out to the storm that lashed him. Aye! It'll take more than that to kill a Scott! And he had laughed his fearless laugh.

"Michael don't, I'm scared," she said aloud. And he closed and barred the door, and came to her with the gentle smile which he gave to her alone.....

She fell to her knees on the cold ground, unable to stop the flow of bitter and blessed memories. She wrapped the shawl tighter, remembering, feeling as deeply and surely as if it were not a thing of the past, but happening now, this moment:

He came to her, and put his cloak about her. Then feeling her shiver in his arms, changed his mind. "No. We'll have to get you out of your wet things. I'm an ugly brute, but you'll catch your death."

He built a warming blaze in the fireplace, then took the heavy woolen blanket from the bed and brought it to her. "Come on now. No time for being shy; I'll turn away." And he carefully tended the fire as she shed her dripping garments, and wrapped herself in the blanket.

Perhaps an hour later he lay sprawled on his back, stripped to the waist on the broad, solid bed. She stood watching him, his dried riding cloak about her. Her own clothes were nearly dry, and the rain was less; yet for reasons she did not understand, her one desire was to remain with him there, as they were, forever. He stretched his arms behind him and let out a yawn, and looked at her with laughing, sleepy eyes.

"I'm all done in, my little Mary, riding and running about with you after the long day's work. Better let me have a bit of sleep, then we'll take ourselves home. Wake me in a bit, won't you?" And he rolled over on his side, leaving her flushed and agitated, not understanding the feelings that stirred inside her. The early night was hushed, her brother lay long and beautiful in the firelight, and she was thirteen years old.

After a short time that seemed like an eternity, during which she never once took her eyes from him, she heard the soft, steady breathing of his slumber. All her love and confused desire suddenly took hold of her. She loosed the cloak about her bare shoulders, and came closer. Quietly, timidly, her heart pounding, she lay down next to him, drawing the broad cloak about them both. She rested her face against his arm, while her hand mysteriously sought out the scraggly down of his chest. He stirred.

"What's all this?" he whispered dreamily. "You're not still afraid?"

"No," she nearly shouted. "It's not that at all." And then, as if afraid the moment was lost, she drew in her arms and snuggled closer to him still.

"You're not shamed for me, are you, Michael? I've done nothing wrong."

"Ah, hush girl. You love your Michael and he loves you. Where's the sin?" And his strong arm enveloped her back, as he gently kissed her forehead.....

Oh, to feel his arms around her, his skin against hers! She sobbed aloud at the thought of it, and flung herself to the ground. How gladly she would have died, then as now, to be with him forever. But still her life went on, still the feelings and images would not stop:

They lay quiet for a time, her breasts touching his, their faces so close, breath intermingling. Then all at once, with a voice hardly her own, she said the words that had sealed her fate.

"Kiss me, Michael. If you don't kiss me I swear I'll die." And though she could not see them, she felt the laughter of his eyes. But he did as she asked, slowly bringing his lips to hers. They touched, ever so gently. Then with a sudden passion which surprised them both, he gave a deep, despairing sigh and crushed her to him, his hungry mouth devouring hers.

"My Mary," he said. "My beautiful Mary."

Then just as suddenly he broke away and stood up from the bed. He began to pace back and forth, cursing himself, so afraid he had in some way wounded her. She lay still, feeling the loss of his flesh like the loss of a limb. And two months later. . .he was no more.

She found herself hopelessly, hatefully back in the present. Alone.

Convulsive sobs shook her as she lay across the mound of uncaring earth. Her tears wet the rough grass beneath her, flowing like blood from a mortal wound. One word, one thought only existed in the whole of her being.

"Michael!"

A fresh burst of wind whistled through the heath and fretted the fallen leaves around her, carrying with it, or so it seemed, a faint strain of bagpipes. She turned her face to listen. Was it possible: that soul-stirring sound, so terrible in battle that the English had since outlawed it?

Was it there, or was she truly mad? She strained all her senses..... No. The sound was gone. She buried her face and wept once more, defeated. Again a breeze stirred, this time more gentle, this time much nearer. She felt a large hand caress the crown of her head, and brush the side of her face as she turned again, bewildered. Half blind with tears she saw the wavering outline of a man, and heard a voice whisper,

"My Mary."

She knew no more.

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.

"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?"

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.

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.

"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."

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 the 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!"

"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!"

"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.

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