Highland Ballad Part 2

"He's not my brother."

The old woman, who had apparently not slept at all, turned to her from her place by the fire, now lowered to glowering coals for cooking. She thought to reply harshly, then checked herself. Like a skilled surgeon or a patient general (or a bitter woman gnawed by hate), she knew that the matter of her daughter's lost love must be handled with extreme care.

"Not your brother. Your cousin."

"Then---" The realization scalded her. "We could have married! There was no sin, no shame in what I felt for him."

Again, though it ran counter to all her designs for the girl, the old woman knew this was not the time to speak against the hopeless romance that she still carried like a torch in the Night. And also (the darkness had not yet swallowed her completely), she felt that her daughter deserved this much.

"There was no sin. Naivety perhaps."

With this her daughter broke into wretched tears, and it was some time before the woman could calm her enough to speak. She moved to sit beside her on the bed; and so helpless and forlorn did Mary then appear, that for a moment her mother forgot all else and slowly brought to her breast the face that had suckled there so long ago.

"What is it child?" she said gently, stroking the soft hair that had once been her own. "What is it hurting you so?"

"All this time..... I thought it was because..... After he was killed, I went to my confessor. I told him everything, and he said---"

There was no need for her to finish. Too well did the other understand the vindictive nature of men.

"He said that Michael was taken because you had committed incest: that it was G.o.d's punishment for a grievous sin, and that it's your fault he died." The pitiful nod and freshened weeping told her she was right. "Nay, la.s.s. It was not the hand of G.o.d that killed him, and many other good men besides. It is not the Creator who so brutalizes lives and emotions. It is men.

And with this all her maternal softness faded, as her eyes stared hard and dry into some galling distance of thought and memory. Her arms fell away from her daughter's shoulders, and she unconsciously ground her teeth.

Mary, who had seen none of this, raised her head and wiped the tears from her eyes, feeling something like a pang of conscience. "I'm sorry. . . Mother." She could not help blus.h.i.+ng at the word. "I've been selfish, thinking only of my own sorrow. Won't you tell me something of yourself? It must have been hard for you, surely."

The woman's gaze returned.

"Ah, life is hard, girl. Someday I'll speak of the roads that brought me here, but not now." She rose as if to say no more, then turned to the girl, so young, with the only words of comfort she could find. But at that they were not gentle, were not the words of hope.

"You must learn from the trees, Mary. A lightning bolt, a cruel axe, cleaves a trunk nearly to the root, and the oak writhes in agony. But it does not die. It continues. And though the hard and knotted scars of healing are not pleasant to look upon, they are stronger, many times stronger, than the virgin wood. You must learn from the trees,"

she repeated. "It is among their boughs and earthward tracings that the true G.o.ds are found."

"You're not a Christian, then?" This simple non-belief seemed to her incomprehensible.

"Nay, Mary, I'm not. The gentle Jesus may comfort the meek, but he is of little use when it comes to vengeance." The woman stopped, knowing she had said more than she intended. But perhaps this much of the truth was for the best. She would have to know soon enough, anyway.

"There are other powers, closer to hand, that give the strong a reason to go on living."

The younger woman studied her in silence, and all the awe and fear of her that she had felt since childhood returned. She remembered the chant, the flaming branch. And now the callous determination.....

Toward what end? She recalled the words that had seemed so innocent the day before:

Just open the door for me; I'll walk through it.

But what door was she to open? What vengeance?

But first there was one more question, which rose in sudden fullness before her.

"My G.o.d. Margaret. Who was my father?"

"The Lord Purceville, though it was not willingly I took him to my bed."

There was no need to say more. Her mother went back to the hearth, and after a cheerless meal, told her to remain in bed until the fever broke. Then went out on some errand of her own.

Five

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 s.h.i.+pwrecked swimmer, far from sh.o.r.e 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 pa.s.sed. 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 ma.n.u.script books, bound in leather. Her eyes, and seeking spirit, were drawn to these.

They were alike unt.i.tled 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, m.u.f.fled 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 cla.s.sic 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.