Authors: Bob Atkinson
They had walked perhaps two miles when Andy
suddenly stopped in his tracks.
“Did anyone hear that?” he hissed.
The group came to a disjointed halt. Everybody
inclined their heads to the west, trying to penetrate the wall of mist.
“What did ye hear?” whispered Jamie.
“Ah don’t know. Away ahead of us; like an animal
crying.”
“It’s this freakin fog,” Sam put in. “It’s
enough to spook anybody.”
They were about to continue when a distant
wailing sound echoed through the mist. Before the noise died away it was
accompanied by a second cry.
“What in God’s name is that?” Shawnee whispered,
edging towards Sam.
Andy and Jamie cocked their rifles.
“Everyone get behind me and Jamie.”
The unearthly howls continued as the group
bunched together into a protective phalanx. Before long a third creature added
its voice; its mournful wail clearly coming from the direction of the
graveyard. There was something melancholy and heart-rending about the cries, as
if the dead of Glen Laragain were mourning their lost lives.
“They sound like banshees,” Shawnee murmured.
“I thought the banshees came from Ireland,” said
Sam.
“D’you wanna go and tell them they’re on the
wrong side of the Irish Sea? Anyhow, there’s probably a Scottish equivalent.”
Andy was reluctant to continue until he knew
what lay ahead. The smell of fear in the air was so tangible it would have
taken little to trigger a stampede.
“Wait a minute!” exclaimed Jamie. “Ah know what
that is; Ah remember ma granny talking about it; that’s the
coronach
.”
“Is it dangerous this coronak?” Sam asked, his
arms wrapped around Shawnee. “Some kinda weird animal, or what?”
Jamie’s anxious expression had given way to a
condescending smile. “It’s no animal, ye great pudding. What ye’re hearing is
the funeral wail of the clans. This is how the Highlanders mourned their dead.
Every township had a woman that would cry like this. They called it the
coronach
.”
“Ye mean that’s just a bunchae old wifies
greeting and howling?”
“Are ye sure about this?” said Andy, as the
anguished keening reverberated down the glen. “Ye’d hardly believe that was
human.”
“It’s the
coronach
,” Jamie reiterated.
“Ma granny told me this used tae be heard at every funeral in the old days.
Usually there was just the one, but then usually they only buried one person at
a time.”
Now that the mystery had been solved, the
defensive phalanx disintegrated. Even Shawnee lost no time in re-establishing
her own personal space. Uneasily they continued along the track. However, as a
fourth
coronach
arose from behind them the group began to bunch together
once more.
As they approached the graveyard the tone and
pitch of the voices ahead of them became more uniform. The lament that had
struck up from the east had now been joined by a second, more distant cry.
A number of dark shapes suddenly appeared out of
the gloom, huddled in a motionless clump, like so many scarecrows. Behind them
the drystone wall of the burial ground curved away to left and right, before
disappearing into the murk. A woman in the group spotted the strangers and
immediately the scarecrows sprang to life. The females were hustled to the
rear, while an elderly Highlander in dull green tartan stepped forward,
broadsword in hand.
Andy and the others came to a halt; even the
Gaelic-speaking Macsorley was lost for words. As the effect of their arrival
spread around the graveyard, like ripples on a lochan, the wailing cries fell
away into silence.
The old warrior bellowed something. Behind him
three other
bodachs
fingered the handles of their dirks.
“They think we’re redcoats,” said Jamie.
“Drop that old git,” urged Rae, “before he
skewers somebody with that bloody sword.”
At that moment Achnacon appeared out of the
mist, rushing towards his fellow warriors. There was a heated spat between him
and the old swordsman, before Andy and his group were waved forward.
Achnacon’s eyes were red and swollen. “Please,
young Andy, all of you, you are welcome here. My gallant cousin,
Larachmor
,
was angry you did not announce yourselfs, but ’twas my fault for thinking our
ways was known to you.”
The clansfolk slowly returned to their vigil,
and the wail of the
coronach
echoed once again around the mist-shrouded
cemetery. Achnacon brought Larachmor over to meet his newfound friends. He was
similar in stature to Achnacon, but several years younger. He was clean-shaven,
his dark, coarse-featured face inclined suspiciously to one side. He nodded
curtly at each of the group as he was introduced, his hand still on the hilt of
his broadsword. Only when he was introduced to their leader did he break his
silence. Macmillan had no idea what the old clansman said to him, but his tone
was clear enough.
Jamie interpreted the message: “The old guy,
Larachmor, he doesnae like ye and he doesnae trust ye. He says he’ll be
watching every move ye make, and the moment ye give him just cause he’s gonnae
have ye, so he is.”
The Highlander continued his tirade, even as
Achnacon angrily took him to task.
“…And the same goes for all the restae us… He
says something about weasels warning rabbits about a fox… whatever the hell
that means.”
Having vented his wrath, Larachmor pulled
himself free of his cousin and strode off to rejoin his fellow mourners.
Achnacon turned to the newcomers, an angry flush in his face.
“I had hoped this would not happen; I had hoped
they would think otherwise when they had seen yourselfs in the flesh.”
“There’s others like him, then?” Macmillan
asked.
Achnacon nodded bleakly. “Where once there was
hospitality now there is chust fear and mistrust. All who have met yourselfs
know otherwise; they know you as our friends.”
“Is it gonna be safe for us ’round here now?”
Sam wanted to know.
“You all enchoy the protection of Achnacon,” the
old man said stiffly. “None would dare abuse that protection. However perhaps
’twould be best if yourselfs returned to
Meall An Fhraoich
.” He caught
sight of the dismay on Shawnee’s face. “My lady, they only know that the worst
calamity ever to have visited Glen Laragain has descended upon their heads.
T’would be a fool’s mission to try to persuade them they have been blessed by
your arrival…”
Since their return from the graveyard the
newcomers had been left to their own devices while the women of
Meall An
Fhraoich
prepared the burial feast. As the afternoon wore on, smoke
streamed through the thatch of each cottage in the settlement, the gentle reek
of burning peat blending with other smells, as every cauldron and pot was
pressed into service.
As the setting sun began to spread an eerie
stain across the western horizon, the clachan filled with mourners who had made
their various ways back from the cemetery. Eventually the entire population of
the glen seemed to be milling around the surviving cottages of the township.
The mood of the people had grown a little lighter, some of their grief perhaps
buried with their loved ones.
“Don’t recognise too many of this lot,” Andy
whispered from the doorway of the barn they occupied.
“Yeah. We’d all feel a little safer if Achnacon was
here.”
“It’s no’ Achnacon he’s looking out for,”
grinned Jamie.
“I’m looking forward to meeting this Ishbel,”
Shawnee put in. “I’m sure she’s really pretty.”
“Y’know she could be one of your ancestors,
don’t yuh?” said Sam.
“Yeah. Hey, Andy, I could turn out to be your
great, great, great, granddaughter.”
“Was your old man one of us, then?” asked
Fergie.
“My dad? No… His grandpa was though; old Donald
Cameron. Came from Glen Laragain originally. Emigrated to the States ’way back
in nineteen twelve. Apparently he had what they called ‘the sight’. The story
was he’d originally booked passage on The Titanic, but cancelled two days
before he was due to leave. It’s the usual story; he had a dream, people
drowning, the ship going under… y’know?”
Rae had taken to sniffing the air like a
scavenger searching out a rotting carcass. “Ah’m starving tae death here. Ah
wonder when we’re gonnae get some grub.”
As the last shreds of daylight disappeared from
the sky the little clachan faded into deepening shadows. The glow from the open
doors and windows grew correspondingly brighter and more precious against the
immensity of darkness that surrounded them. As the first stars appeared two of
the women prepared fires between the cottages. Fuelled by the ubiquitous peat,
they too began to pierce the darkness, like beacons lit in response to those
distant points of light.
Wooden frames were erected over two of the fires,
and soon the carcasses of a sheep and a calf were rotating slowly on
hand-operated spits. Before long the odour of barbecued meat was added to the
array of smells drifting from each of the cottages.
Rae was drawn to the larger of the two spits,
where he stood like a salivating dog. The attendant
cailleach
kept him
at bay with a stream of warnings and oaths, clearly enjoying the power she had
over the stranger. Only when she’d tired of the game did she let him off the
leash. Rae snatched the lump of roasted meat he was offered and slunk off into
the shadows before the old harridan changed her mind.
Sam, Shawnee and the three soldiers claimed one
of the little campfires as their own, using slabs of stone as seats. They
stared wordlessly into the dull orange glow until finally Andy voiced what was
in all their minds:
“Right now the Duke of Cumberland is setting up
camp about thirty miles from here. In the weeks tae come he’s gonnae let loose
the worst army of occupation this country has ever seen. Nobody knows how many
people were slaughtered, or how many glens were laid waste. We might’ve stopped
them the first time, but they’re gonnae be back. These people aren’t safe yet,
and each one of us is gonnae have tae decide whether we stand with them, or
what…”
One of the burning lumps of peat collapsed into
the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the night sky. All gazed longingly at
the sudden flare of light, like moths drawn from the darkness.
“Ah say sod it,” said Rae around the slab of
veal he’d manoeuvred into his mouth. “Tonight we’ve got grub, maybe a wee touch
of the old guy’s firewater later. Tomorrow we can worry about fighting. For now
Ah say sod it.”
His companions looked at each other, their faces
redrawn in shades of orange and black by the flickering firelight.
“He’s right,” said Shawnee. “Sod it.”
Andy nodded, a wry smile on his face. For once
his oversized rebel had captured perfectly the mood of the moment.
As Rae licked his fingers one of the women
approached the group and made an eating motion with her hands. Behind her stood
a large wooden table laden with all manner of delights. Jamie pointed out
oatcakes, bannocks, cheese, butter, eggs, fish, mutton, and beef.
Only Rae was still eating when another of the
lassies brought a small wooden barrel to the campfire. Moments later she
returned with a number of wooden goblets.
“Is this what Ah think it is?” breathed Fergie.
Jamie felt around the top of the barrel until he
encountered a bung. “Swally,” he whispered, as if he’d discovered the fountain
of youth.
“Swally?” echoed Sam
The bung came away from the barrel with a hiss
of escaping gas. Andy sniffed the opening.
“Swally,” he confirmed.
“Ya beauty!” exclaimed Fergie.
“Is somebody gonna tell me what the hell
‘swally’ is?” growled Sam.
“Beer,” said Andy. “These people only make their
own beer…”
The American’s face lit up. “Well, I’ll be
damned. Maybe things are beginning to look up at last.”
The barrel was passed from one waiting goblet to
another. Sam swirled the frothy mixture around his mouth.
“Well, it’s not Miller Lite,” he decided, before
emptying the goblet in one long draught. “…But dammit, that’s not bad.”
The smacks of contentment from his companions
told him that their world had also become a happier place.
“If ye think this is nice, wait till ye taste
their whisky,” said Fergie. “Man, it’ll blow the top o’ yer heid off.”
Rae stifled a belch. “All Ah remember the other
night is putting this jug tae ma mouth, next thing Ah know Ah’m wakening up on
the top of a mountain with yon bloody eejit in ma arms.”
“So it
was
just the drink then?” retorted
Fergie, a hurt expression on his face. “Does this mean we’re no’ really
engaged?”
“Lady present,” said Andy, mindful too that
Colin was now timidly approaching their campfire.
“Good evening. I hope nobody minds if myself
joins your company.”
“C’mon, Colin,” said Shawnee, “you come sit
between me and Sam.”
“How’s yer brother?” asked Andy.
“Och, Alistair’s with Mary. When she’s around I
don’t think himself even knows anyone else is there.”
“That’s young love for ye,” pronounced Jamie.
Colin went on. “I was hearing, myself, what
happened at the funeral. The women thought it was terrible that
Achnacon
’s
guests were mistreated in such a way.”
“Izzat a fact?” replied Rae. “How come they’re
still treating us like a bunch of lepers, then?”
“Och, that’s just their way. They keep their
distance because they believe it’s what yourselves want. I think perhaps
they’re also a wee bit frightened of you.”
Rae sucked the dregs of beer from the barrel as
another of the women approached the campfire.
Andy and Jamie recognised the lassie who’d
tended to Andy’s burns the previous evening. Her eyes remained lowered as she
collected the empty barrel from Rae.
“She doesnae seem too friendly,” complained
Jamie, the ruins of a smile on his face.
“They buried her father today,” said Andy.
“Little wonder they’re a wee bit reserved.”
“If only we’d arrived one day earlier,” sighed
Shawnee. “Together, all of us, we coulda stopped it from happening.”
“Ah tell ye what Ah don’t understand; when was
the massacre supposed tae have taken place?”
“The twenty-first of April, seventeen hundred
and forty-six.”
“…And yet Achnacon reckoned the date was the
tenth of April that first day we met him, and that was… God, was it only two
days ago?”
“Well, Mary seems to think that today is only
the twelfth of April,” remarked Colin. “I know it sounds a wee bit daft, but I
remember thinking; this would mean, for the second time in two weeks, the night
after tomorrow would see the anniversary of the sinking of The Titanic…”
“The Titanic?” echoed Shawnee.
“Yes. I don’t suppose it’s remembered in your
world, but the Titanic was a ship that sunk in the Atlantic Ocean with the loss
of over one thousand and five hundred souls. My own uncle was due to sail to
America on her, but he cancelled his booking and took passage on another ship
instead, after himself had seen the ship sinking in a dream.”
“Your uncle,” gasped Shawnee.
“Yes, my Uncle Donald; he had the second sight.
Och, I know it sounds daft but…”
With a squeal of delight, Shawnee threw her arms
around Colin. The young man stiffened and gaped at Sam, as if the woman’s
uncontrollable passion was no fault of his.
“He was my great grandpa,” Shawnee explained,
her voice muffled by Colin’s jacket. “He was the younger of two brothers; left
Scotland when he was thirty to make a new life for himself in America…”
Realisation was beginning to dawn on Colin. “Oh
my goodness… then I must be…”
“A jammy wee swine,” complained Fergie.
“…The son of my great, great uncle,” beamed
Shawnee.
“Oh my goodness,” said Colin again. He forced
one of his limp hands to caress his beautiful relative.
“Well, I’ll be damned. If that don’t beat all…”
Sam sounded relaxed and amused by the strange turn of events, but Andy, sitting
beside him, could see the narrowing of his eyes and the tension in his face.
Realisation of a different kind was dawning on
Rae. “There’s something screwy going on here.”
“How d’ye mean?” said Fergie.
“Well, look at them, for God’s sake; does he
look a hundred years older than she is?”
“No,” replied Fergie, still none the wiser.
“Why? Is he over a hundred years old, like?”
Rae groaned. “No, ye great balloon, he isnae.
That’s the whole point.” He turned appealingly to Sam, Shawnee and Colin.
“Gonnae put this numptie out of ma misery and tell us what year it was when yez
were wheeched here?”
“Nineteen hundred and sixteen,” answered Colin,
awkwardly holding Shawnee’s hand.
“Twenty twenty-six,” said Shawnee.
“Bloody hell,” groaned Rae and Fergie together.
Both sat in silence for a while before Rae asked the only obvious question:
“Ah don’t suppose either of yez watch football?”
Sam’s hollow laughter was the only answer he was
likely to receive.
Andy’s young nurse returned with another barrel
of beer, which she laid at Macmillan’s feet. All around them the earlier bustle
had fragmented into disjointed murmurings as each township gravitated towards
its separate campfire.
As the goblets were refilled Fergie turned to
Sam. “So you’re from the future, then? Man, that must be pure brilliant. What’s
it like then, tae live in the future?”
As the American searched for a sensible answer
Rae howled with delight.
“Aw ye great pudding that ye are! What’s it like
tae live in the future? Ye great numptie…”
Fergie glanced at Shawnee and flushed with
embarrassment.
“Aye, well, if Ah’m such a numptie answer me
this; how come Ah’m the only one that knows why yez got the dates wrong? Eh?
Answer me that, fat boy.”
The smile vanished from Rae’s face. “Ah told ye
no’ tae call me that.”
“What d’ye mean ‘got the dates wrong’?” Andy cut
in.
“What yez were saying earlier,” glowered Fergie.
“How nobody could figure out how ye thought it was the twenty-first and the
tcheuchters
thought it was the tenth.”
“This should be good,” said Rae.
“Go on Fergie,” urged Macmillan, “let’s hear
what ye have tae say.”
Ferguson glared defiantly at Rae’s sneering
face. “Well, it’s like this, before Ah joined up Ah used tae be in one o’ them
kick the pope bands…”
“A Protestant marching band,” Andy translated.
“…We used tae travel all over tae march in these
parades. The biggest day of the year was the twelfth o’ July; when we went over
tae Belfast tae march with the Irish bands. This was before the troubles, like;
we used tae stay on the Shankhill Road. Man, they were rare days; those boys
from the Shankhill really knew how tae knock back the swally…”
“Ye were gonnae tell us about the change of
dates?”
“Oh aye, right. Well, it was one year we were
over in Belfast and Ah got talking tae this guy and he was saying that the
battle of The Boyne was fought in sixteen hundred and something, but it wasnae
fought on the twelfth of July, it was fought on the first of July.”