Authors: Jackie French
Is this a dagger, which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand?(
Macbeth
, Act II, Scene 1, lines 33–34)
It was impossible to walk straight home. Not after all that. Luke wandered back to the top paddock and leaned over the gate, watching the cows. Cows were good to watch when your brain was in turmoil, he decided. Cows were restful things most of the time, just standing there eating.
Did Megan really like him? More than she liked Jingo?
How could he make Sam see how important the Fishers were? People like them shouldn’t be forced from the place they loved just because tourists wanted golf courses and spas.
It was hard to know what to think about, or what to feel…but finally he noticed how the shadows were lengthening behind the cows. He jogged down the rest of the hill, avoiding the cowpats from long practice.
Mum was back from the bottom paddock when he reached home. He could hear her in the kitchen as he came through the front door, out of tune again.
‘
Country ho…me, Take me
—oh, blast! I dropped it—
hooo…ooooome…
Luke, is that you? I’ve been wondering when you’d get home. Where have you been?’
‘Went for a walk,’ said Luke.
There was a cake on the table. One of Mum’s, thought Luke. Which meant it was edible. He grabbed a knife and cut into it. Chocolate. The icing was still soft, but it was good.
‘I hope you didn’t forget about the meeting tonight,’ said Mum. She was wearing a dress with a soft draped front, a new one she must have bought down in Sydney last weekend. ‘You’d better get changed. We’ve just got time to get down there. We can have dinner later.’
‘Sure,’ said Luke. ‘You’ve still got your boots on,’ he added with a grin.
‘Have I?’ Mum looked down. ‘Damn. So I have.’ She vanished out the door to the new wing. ‘Don’t eat all the cake!’ her voice floated back to him. ‘I want to take it down to the meeting in case people want a cuppa later.’
It was strange driving down the shadowed road to town with Mum. Almost like old times, when they’d drive down every night in the old truck, after a quick dinner, to see Dad at the hospital, in those last weeks when he could no longer be looked after at home.
The time before Sam.
He’d finally tried to call Sam before they left. But there was just Sam’s voice on the machine in his
apartment. ‘Hi, this is Sam Mackenzie. I’m not here at the moment, but leave a message after the beep…’
He’d called Sam’s mobile too, but it was turned off. What could Sam be doing? Luke wondered in frustration. His mobile was always off when he was filming, but surely filming was over for the day.
He tried to think what he’d say to Sam. ‘You owe me,’ he’d tell him. ‘You made me a cheat.’
Except he didn’t, Luke admitted to himself. I made
myself
a cheat. I could’ve put my hand up at any time and said, ‘Hey, I’ve seen this paper before.’ And then I wouldn’t be going to St Ilf’s next year…
In spite of everything, a smile slid over his face. Was Megan really upset about him going to St Ilf’s? She’d seemed happy he’d got the scholarship. Maybe she was happy for him, and sad for herself.
His smile grew bigger as they drew up outside the hall, at the thought of seeing her again.
The Breakfast Creek Town Hall had been built in the 1930s when the town was just a handful of houses, a couple of churches, a pub and a school for the children from the farms around. As the land along the coast filled up with holiday homes and retirees, and the town grew larger, a new hall had been built. Now this one was kept for anyone who wanted to hire it for a day or an evening. The local scouts and the quilters used it and the school held its annual play there.
This evening the fibro walls had a
Save Our Water!
poster stickytaped by the door. There were only two other cars in the car park.
Mum looked at her watch. ‘It’s still early,’ she said hopefully. ‘The meeting’s not supposed to start till six.’
‘Yeah.’ Luke got out of the car and went inside.
The lights were on. The Fishers were up the front by the stage, with Mrs Robinson and her son, who lived further up the valley. They’d already put out about fifty chairs. Somehow the hall looked even emptier with the empty chairs.
‘Hi!’ Mum greeted them, a bit too brightly. She put the sliced chocolate cake down by the tea urn, which was bubbling on a table at the back. There was already a plate of pikelets there, spread with butter and plum jam, and an orange cake.
Luke wandered down and sat next to Patrick and Megan. ‘Hi,’ he said. He was glad Pat was there too. He felt a bit embarrassed meeting Megan after this afternoon. Had she told Pat she’d seen him? Or that he’d asked her out?
‘Hi,’ said Patrick. There didn’t seem to be any more they could say. They sat in silence for a while. Mum and the Fishers and Mrs Robinson were chatting about sending more letters to the paper.
A car pulled up outside. Luke turned as Mr Donnelly from the local paper stuck his head in, camera in hand, then saw the empty hall. ‘Might come back later!’ he called as he went back out again.
They waited a bit longer. Luke looked at his watch. Six-fifteen.
Megan’s face was white. ‘No one’s coming, are they?’ she whispered. ‘They just don’t care!’
Mum had overheard. ‘It was late notice,’ she said. ‘We only put the posters up two days ago. Maybe we should have advertised a speaker…’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Sometimes people need to be told what to care about,’ said Megan softly. ‘They just don’t realise what’s at stake till it’s too late.’
Sam should have been here, thought Luke. People would have come if they’d thought Sam was going to speak.
The unspoken words hovered in the silent hall.
The drive home was quiet. There were just too many words they couldn’t say.
Luke wanted to rage at Mum. Yell at her. Why don’t
you
get Sam to do something?
But Mum had been through too much. Sam made her happy. Sam looked after her. Sam the TV host and Mum the scruffy farmer’s widow. No, whatever happened between Mum and Sam, Luke knew there was a big sign saying ‘Keep Out!’ There had just been too many years when he’d longed to be able to do something that would make Mum really happy…
‘Hey, Sam’s home!’ said Luke in surprise as they drove up the driveway. The courtyard lights were on and Sam’s four-wheel drive was parked outside the big new double garage. The garage doors were shut, though they’d been open when he and Mum left.
He didn’t know whether to be sorry or relieved. It would be easier to ask Sam about the Fishers again in person. But he hadn’t expected to have to do it so soon.
‘Open the garage door, will you, Luke?’ asked Mum. They were the first words she’d spoken since they left the Fishers at the hall.
Luke opened the ute door as Sam came out of the house. ‘Hi, mate!’ he said cheerily, as though the
argument before he left had never happened. ‘Got a surprise for you!’
‘For me?’ asked Luke warily. Sam kissed Mum through the ute window. ‘Sure,’ he said, giving the wide, practised smile that viewers saw six days a week. ‘I came up this afternoon,’ he added to Mum. ‘Picked it up on my way home.’
‘What is it?’ Isn’t he going to ask where we’ve been? thought Luke, as Mum got out of the ute. But maybe she told him about the meeting this afternoon on the phone.
He could have been there, thought Luke. He hasn’t even asked us how it went…
‘How did the meeting go?’ asked Sam.
‘It didn’t,’ said Luke shortly. ‘No one turned up.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Sam—giving his concerned look, thought Luke. Sam smiled, and pressed the control for the garage doors.
They opened.
Luke stared.
In the middle of the garage was a four-wheeled motorbike, shiny red, with big balloon tyres.
‘…so they don’t cut into the grass,’ Sam was saying. He grinned at Luke, the confident grin familiar to TV watchers all over Australia. But his eyes were strangely anxious. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Of course he likes it!’ said Mum quickly.
‘Luke?’ Sam had lost his smile.
Luke looked at Sam, and then back at Mum. He looked at the bike. Then he looked at Sam again.
He knew that Sam knew what he was thinking. Do you think that you can buy my silence? Make me like you—someone who lies for what he wants, pretends
he’s concerned every day on TV but really does
nothing, nothing…
‘Luke?’ Mum’s voice was uncertain now.
Luke hesitated. But why say the words? Sam knew them. He was sure that Sam knew them.
Luke forced a smile. ‘It’s wonderful. Thanks heaps!’ He hugged Mum briefly, looking at Sam over her shoulder. And suddenly he knew that there
was
something he could do for Mum.
‘Aren’t you going to try it out?’ asked Mum. ‘Sam thought, well, you’re always over at the Fishers’ and it’s a long way. On the bike you can be there and back in a jiffy. What’s that song…’
‘“The Motorbike Song”,’ said Luke. It was one of Mum’s favourites. ‘Sure, I’ll give it a buzz.’
Two wheelies, he thought, and once down the track into the darkness. Then I can go to my room…
…and not cry till I get there.
He didn’t know why the tears were there. But he did know that he’d rather crash the bike than allow them to be seen.
I have no words;
My voice is in my sword…(
Macbeth
, Act V, Scene 8, lines 6–7)
‘Luke?’
Luke looked up from his homework.
It was Mum. She slipped inside the door. She’d taken off the dress she’d worn to the meeting and put on her old jeans with the cow stains again.
She sat down on his bed. ‘I just wanted to thank you,’ she said.
Luke stared. ‘What for?’
Mum smiled. It was a strange smile. An almost adult-to-adult smile. ‘You know. About the bike.’
‘What about it?’
‘I know you couldn’t care less about it. But you pretended. You thanked him.’
Luke shrugged. There was too much he wanted to say. Why didn’t
you
make him help the Fishers? How can you love a man like that after Dad?
‘I know it must be hard for you to accept Sam
sometimes. But it’s…it’s not easy for Sam either, you know,’ said Mum finally.
‘What!’ Luke stared. ‘Why not?’
‘Lots of reasons. His work. There’s always someone younger, tougher, wanting to take over. And Sam knows it. He knows that any day someone might axe the show. Or keep the show and get another presenter.’
‘He’d get another job, though, wouldn’t he?’
‘Maybe. But there aren’t all that many current affairs shows…’
‘What does that matter?’ muttered Luke.
‘It matters to Sam.’
‘Why? He’s rich enough now, isn’t he? He just likes everyone thinking he’s so great. But he’s not really the man they see on TV at all.’
‘You’re right in a way,’ said Mum. ‘The real Sam’s more complex than the public one. Sam seems confident. But he isn’t.’ Mum hesitated. ‘Sometimes I think he needs to see his face on the screen to know who he is. He’s a good man, Luke. Really. He does care about things. Even if you can’t see it sometimes.’
‘But you can?’
‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘I can.’
Suddenly Mum looked awkward. ‘It’s not easy for him here sometimes either,’ she added. ‘A…a stepson’s a big thing to take on. He does his best, Luke. Even if…even if you don’t think it’s a very good best sometimes. He really does care about you.’
She hesitated again. ‘He told me once that we’re the rock he comes back to every weekend. Real life. You and me, this place. He needs us more than you realise.’
Luke was silent for a moment. Sam needed them? It was all so different from what he’d imagined. Could Mum possibly be right? Would she still feel the same about Sam—or Luke—if she knew about the exam?
‘Mum…are you happy? With Sam, I mean.’
Mum looked surprised. ‘Of course.’ Suddenly she gave that adult smile again. ‘I’ve got all I ever wanted, Luke. But Sam has to keep fighting for it. Every day.’
I don’t need to know this, thought Luke.
Or did he?
He was still wondering when Mum left the room.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair:
Hover through the fog and filthy air.(
Macbeth
, Act I, Scene 1, lines 11–12)
Luke decided he wasn’t going to think about what Mum had said now. He’d finish his homework then think about it tomorrow.
Maybe.
He looked back down at the notes on his desk. For the past couple of hours he’d been trying to write his talk on
Macbeth
on the computer. Tomorrow was Friday, and he’d spent so long trying to work out what to say that he hadn’t even started it till tonight.
But it was just what Mrs Easson wanted. He’d shown how Macbeth was tricked by the witches into killing King Duncan because they’d told him he was going to be king instead; how a loyal man became a murderer, then had to kill more people just to be safe…
All he had to do now was read it out tomorrow. It was finished. Done.
He pressed
Print
, and waited while the pages floated out beside him.
Who cared if it didn’t really happen like that? What was one more lie?
He’d been trapped, just like Macbeth in the play. Trapped into pretending about the bike, trapped into cheating, trapped into going to St Ilf’s. Trapped into lying to Megan about Sam as well.
What did it matter if he added one more lie to the pile, and lied about what an evil king Macbeth had been too, so he’d get a good mark?
Time for sleep. At least the dream might come again, thought Luke, as he got ready for bed. Lulach happy married to Thora; Macbeth ruling a peaceful land.
Luke lay down and reached over to turn off the light.
Once again the dream came swiftly, as though the past had sucked him in. One moment he was a kid, falling asleep in his bed, and the next…
He was in a tent. Someone was practising a drumbeat outside. And all around were the sounds of an army at night-time: some sleeping, others sleepless as they prepared for war…
No! thought Luke. It shouldn’t be like this! This was supposed to be a good dream! Not a dream about war!
But neither Lulach nor Luke could escape.
It was late summer, the heather flowering on the hills. Winters were too cold for war: the snow too deep, the winds too harsh. And there wasn’t enough food in spring to feed an army. But in late summer, as the fields grew rich with harvest, the battlefields grew ripe with war.
Tomorrow would be the Feast of the Seven Sleepers back home in Moray. But no one feasted here.
Lulach lay in his tent and waited. It was a sturdy tent, as befitted the King’s tanist. He was lucky; most of the men slept with nothing but their cloaks to keep away the cold.
Lulach had tried to sleep. Sleep had always been a refuge, ever since he was small. But not tonight. Sleep refused to come.
Beyond the tent he could hear snores, grunts, whispers—all the noises of sleeping men. At least he had privacy in these last hours.
It was the waiting that was the worst, he thought
—then snorted. How could he know what was theworst thing in a battle? He’d never taken part in one.
Almost to the last he had hoped that his stepfather would work out some trick—an alliance, perhaps, or an ambush, as he had all those years before when Thorfinn’s men attacked. But this was war, not a cattle raid.
Malcolm, Duncan’s son, had ridden north again, with soldiers from the English king and the army of his uncle, the Earl of Northumbria. Malcolm, who cared nothing for Alba’s laws, who only wanted power, any way that he could grab it.
The army of Alba had tramped down south. Now the two armies camped at each end of a wide glen, near enough to see the smoke from each other’s fires. But the enemy had far more fires than theirs. The English army was three times the size of Alba’s.
When the sun rose, each army would line up, facing each other. And then they’d charge. And then…
And then?
Something moved outside his tent. A voice said softly, ‘Lulach?’
Knut.
‘I’m awake,’ called Lulach.
His friend opened the tent flap and stepped in. Outside, the grey night sky above the glen was beginning to turn pink. Lulach could even make out the hills around them and the occasional grove of trees. A world of shadows, after the peace of night.
‘Couldn’t you sleep either?’ asked Lulach.
Knut shrugged. He pushed Lulach’s spare cloak off the chest that held his armour, and sat down. Lulach passed him his water bag. It was filled with Thora’s heather ale, the taste of home. Knut took a mouthful, then nodded his thanks.
‘I’ve got some bread and cheese,’ offered Lulach.
‘I’m not hungry.’
They sat in silence. What did you say just before your first battle?
Finally Lulach said lightly, ‘You could have been safe in your abbey this morning if you hadn’t become my equerry.’
Knut looked surprised, as though he had never thought that fate would lead him anywhere but here. ‘What do you mean? We have to fight.’
Fighting for a just cause doesn’t mean you wouldn’t rather be somewhere else, thought Lulach. If he were honest, he’d say he would rather be back at the Hall with Thora and his mother, helping with the harvest. Anywhere, anything but this. But he said nothing.
‘When this is over,’ said Knut softly, ‘I’m going to ask the King to release me from his service.’
‘Not back to your abbey?’
Knut smiled. ‘No. I’m not meant to be a monk. But I’ve had enough of being an equerry too. Even yours. There’s a girl, Kenneth’s granddaughter, Alianna. Do you know her?’
Vaguely, thought Lulach. Short girl, dark hair. He nodded.
‘I’ll have had my share of glory when this is over,’ said Knut lightly. ‘I want to marry, watch cattle on the hill, raid my neighbour’s herd when I get bored.’
I wish I could do the same, thought Lulach. But he just smiled.
‘Do you think the King’s plan will work?’ asked Knut at last.
‘Of course,’ said Lulach automatically.
Would
it work? he wondered. It was their only chance.
The camp was stirring now, men calling to each other. Lulach and Knut went outside.
Mist hung over the hills like a linen tablecloth. Somewhere above the mist it was summer. But this morning, summer seemed as far away as peace.
Misty light began to invade the camp. Men put their armour on—the few who had any. Boys ran about, shouting with excitement at the prospect of their first battle. Horsemen polished their doubleedged, sharp-pointed claymores, and foot soldiers cleaned their daggers on the spikes of their shields.
The men lined up, ready for battle. There were jokes, insults for the English in general and Malcolm’s men in particular, boasts about the number of enemies each man would handle. There
are three English soldiers for every one of ours, thought Lulach. Do we have a hope of winning?
He glanced at the King, joking with one of his men. Macbeth planned to use strategy instead of might today, just as he had so long ago when he burned the boats of Thorfinn’s men.
Would it be enough?
Macbeth mounted his horse—an old one, steady, but with sufficient stamina to last the day. Lulach rode on his right-hand side, Kenneth on his left.
‘Men of Alba!’ The King’s words echoed across the valley. Suddenly the army was silent. ‘We are fighting for our homes, our loved ones! This land gave us our lives. Now we give it back our hearts and blood. What is a man if he can’t fight for what he loves? And whenever each of you faces the enemy today, say, as I will do: “My feet are on my native soil! I strike this blow for Alba!”’
‘For Alba! For Macbeth!’ The cheers were so loud Lulach was sure the English army must hear them.
Someone yelled, ‘And bum cheese to the English!’ Laughter mingled with the cheers. The men waved their claymores joyfully in the air.
What are we really fighting for? wondered Lulach. Why is it so important to have one king rather than another? Macbeth was a good king, yes, but it was more than that.
Law, he thought. We’re really fighting for Alba’s law. Our right to elect our king instead of have an invader make himself king by force. But how many men would cheer if I called out, ‘We are fighting for our laws!’
It’s strange, he thought, looking at the men and boys around him. It’s almost as though these men are going to a feast, they seem so eager to engage the enemy.
But not him. Nor, he thought, the King. If Macbeth had enjoyed war the country wouldn’t have had so many years of peace.
The army began to march up the nearest hill into the mist: one long straight row of foot soldiers, with the King and his guards and the other horsemen behind. The rocks threw shadows on either side, crouching like misshapen sheep in the first of the morning light.
The white air clung to Lulach’s skin, but below them it was clear. He could see the English army down in the glen. So many, he thought. The English had hired men from Ireland too. Malcolm not only had more troops—he had more horsemen too. A man on horseback could kill a hundred foot soldiers. Please, thought Lulach, let the King’s plan work.
The mist rose suddenly, like a sheet pulled off a bed. Now the sky was a soft blue. Too gentle for a battle, thought Lulach. War should be fought on stormy days.
The English army could see them now too. They began to line up in their usual ‘war hedge’, three rows deep. The first row of soldiers carried shields and spears in front of them. They wore strange helmets, leather caps that covered their noses as well as their hair, so that they looked like a line of brown-headed beasts.
The second row was swordsmen, with more rows of swordsmen behind. The enemy horsemen were assembled on either side.
A piper’s first doubtful notes floated up from the glen, and then the full skirl of the pipes.
The enemy began to march up the hill towards the army of Alba.
The King raised his voice, though not enough for the English to hear. ‘Wait till they are halfway up the hill! No one move until you see the signal. Remember the plan!’
It was a good plan, thought Lulach. Force the English to come up the hill towards them. They’d be puffed, and it was hard to send spears uphill. Much easier to slash at an enemy below you.
Yes, it was a good plan. But would it work?
Lulach could hear the English drumbeat under the piper’s song.
Battered a, battered a, battered a tent, battered a tent, battered a tent…
It suddenly occurred to him that this might be the day he’d die.
‘You’ll be right, lad,’ called Kenneth, as if he could read his thoughts. Beside him Knut fingered the hilt of his claymore.
Steadily, almost silently, apart from the pipes and drumbeat, the English climbed up the hill. Their horses skittered at its steepness. The soldiers were already panting in their armour.
Closer…closer…
Lulach could see their faces now beneath their helmets, hear the beat of their feet…
‘Start the chant,’ ordered the King.
Kenneth began it, then Lulach and Knut joined in. The sound ran down the Scottish lines.
‘Out! Out! Out! Out!’
Out of our country, thought Lulach. Out of our lives.
‘Out! Out! Out!’
The King punched the air, the signal that meant ‘Charge!’
The Alban foot soldiers began to run, each man holding his shield with its sharp point in front, his claymore high, his dirk behind his sword. Each man screamed defiance at the enemy.
Suddenly a hail of spears flew up from the English lines. But most went wide or failed to reach the Albans. The rest fell harmlessly against their shields. The English soldiers weren’t used to sending spears uphill.
‘Out! Out! Out! Out!’
Suddenly a hail of rocks rained down on the English. The army of Alba might not have as many spears as the English, but rocks were free, and easily thrown downhill.
You couldn’t hear the enemy piper now, only the yells of the Alban army. The rain of rocks was finished. Down, down, down the foot soldiers ran…
Lulach pulled at his reins, as his horse tried to join in the charge. ‘Steady,’ he whispered, as much to himself as the horse.
Could they really win? It seemed impossible, so few against so many.
All at once the armies met, the flying Highlanders surging down the slope into the English troops, who were labouring uphill. Lulach watched as the first English line went down, skewered by the points on the Alban shields.
And then the second line collapsed, bludgeoned by the claymores, which swept down onto their necks, their shoulders.
Two lines gone…then screams, as the Highland daggers met the third line of English soldiers.
For a moment the black image of his father’s body flashed into Lulach’s mind. This was what war meant. Agony. Death.
Then the image was gone, as the excitement of the charge captured Lulach too.
The big English horses were stumbling on either side, unable to find their footing.
The King yelled, ‘Now!’ The Alban horsemen charged, the stocky Highland ponies sure of foot. Their riders screamed the challenge, their swords whirling above them and onto the horsemen below.
Lulach yelled with the others. Fear had vanished. This was how to outride, outfight, an English army. The enemy troops scattered into chaos.
But even chaos needed to be fought.
The world changed. A moment before, Lulach had seen the whole glen, the hills around. He had been conscious of the wider world as well: the enemy England; the land of Alba, safe for now under its rule of law.
Now the world narrowed. All he knew was the weight of his claymore, the strength of his shoulders as he twirled it high above his head. He had trained for this with Kenneth ever since he was a lad. Now it almost seemed as though the sword moved by itself.
Slash down on one side, then the other. A man on horseback has the power of a hundred men on foot.
Slash, and slash again…
How can you explain your first battle? Even if you’ve grown up in a land where most men have been
to war, you can never understand it until you’ve fought in a battle yourself.
Slash, and slash…exhilaration grows with every enemy you kill. Each enemy down means one more moment you’ve survived.