When Fate Dictates (2 page)

Confused and afraid I made my journey from
the mighty peaks that guard the entrance to the glen. The wind was
vengeful and cruel; the snow powdery and deep. I pulled my plaid
tighter around me, wondering absently when I had acquired it.
Trudging, mindlessly through the snow, numbed by pain and sadness,
I stumbled on the corpse of an old man, his body already partially
eaten by scavengers. I knelt on the icy ground beside him and
closed his lifeless, staring eyes.

“There but for the grace of God go I,” I
whispered, crossing myself and, as I stood and turned from the
body, I realized that I must in fact be alive.

Coming through the final pass, into the
narrow sweeping valley of the glen, I found myself overcome by
loneliness and panic. The damp, smoky stink of smoldering cinders
hung heavily in the mist that clouded my path. The old wood to the
side of the path no longer hummed its enchanting lure; instead it
whispered hauntingly to me of terror and fear. My heart pounded as
I drew closer to the village. Catching my foot on a protruding
rock, I gasped in fright and stumbled sideways, steadying myself
against the trunk of an ancient tree. Tearing myself from its
reassuring warmth, I continued my walk along the desolate path to
our valley, to the remains of the houses that had once been the
homes of my friends; fields where our cattle had once grazed, now
an empty reminder.

Traveling through the twists and turns of the
path, the mist began to lift and I saw for the first time the true
horror and cowardice of the King of England’s orders and the savage
scar of eternal shame they had left gouged across this majestic
place I used to call home.

I had no time for further thought as, some
distance away, I spotted the Red Coats. There were three or four of
them but the hazy remnants of the morning mist made a definite
headcount impossible. I was breathing hard and fast, my head
pounding. I fled, off the path and into the forest. Branches tore
at my face and arms. I stumbled blindly over rocks and crevices,
running for my life.

Somewhere behind me, a musket fired. I felt
the force of the shot, my body slumped heavily to the ground, the
forest swam around me and then I saw a light, a magnificent,
beautiful light. Gracefully poised in front of the light was the
stag with the silver antlers. It glided toward me, lowering its
head and nudging me gently. Peace and calm swept over me as I
closed my eyes and allowed darkness to descend.

******

I awoke, bewildered and confused, crumpled on
the floor of a small crevice in a hillside. A thin line of light
shone through the entrance, affording enough illumination to make
out the stone walls of the shelter. I slowly moved my hand to my
throbbing head, groaning as a stabbing pain pierced my back. I felt
the drying blood from my wounds and understood vaguely that I had
been hurt.

With effort, I pulled myself up but slumped
sideways against the cold stone wall, too exhausted to stand. The
light was dimming and I realized that nightfall was approaching. I
wondered how I had got into the cave and where the Red Coats were.
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, filling my lungs with
much-needed air. Slowly I raised my eyelids, squinting to adjust to
the diminishing light.

I did not see him at first, and then, slowly,
he was in front of me; standing tall and sturdy, his long powerful
legs slightly apart, looking down at my slumped, helpless form on
the floor. Shaking violently, I shuffled backwards. My back jarred
as it hit the cold rock face behind me. I flinched, catching my
breath as I realized my captor was now positioned between me and
the opening to the crevice. My eyes darted from side to side,
frantically seeking safety. I caught a glimmer of the shiny metal
of his dirk. Cautiously I traced my eyes over his fisted right hand
as the full shape of the weapon came into focus. His hold on the
polished mountain ash handle was relaxed, the tip of the blade
facing the floor. Glancing up, above his hand, to the arm by his
side I noticed for the first time that this was a soldier of the
English King. Knowing I must meet his eyes, I raised my head to the
recognition of a Campbell. I recoiled in panic as he lowered
himself in front of me, his lightly tanned face inches from mine,
framed either side by heavy curtains of black wavy hair. I held the
look of his dark staring eyes and screamed.

“Don’t be afraid, lass, I won’t hurt you.
Mind, there are some that wouldn’t think twice of doing so.” With
his left hand he held out a leather flask and laid it on the floor
next to my trembling hand. I stared at the dark stranger. “You are
hurt,” he said, casting a glance over my face and arms, his eyes
wandering to the bloody stains on the front of my shift. I lifted
my hands gently to my breasts, feeling the crust of the stain. “I
found you in the forest face down in the snow and covered in blood.
I thought you were dead for sure,” he said.

His hand moved to pick up the flask and he
gulped several large mouthfuls of its contents. I could smell the
musty fumes of the liquid as he sighed, allowing the mixture to
slide comfortingly down the back of his throat. Removing his
jacket, he draped it over my shoulders. “You must be cold,” he
muttered, more to himself than me, and once more offered me the
flask. This time I took it.

“Who are you?” I inquired, unable to hide the
fear in my voice.

“Simon Campbell,” he replied,
apologetically.

“Aye, I see you are a Campbell of Glenlyon,”
I said. “But why are you helping me?” my tone was cynical and
accusing, “or is this more Campbell trickery?”

“This is no trickery, I mean you no harm”, he
whispered softy, “I’ll tell you, lass, we had our orders, from the
King of England himself, they were. ‘To fall on the MacDonalds of
Glencoe, and put all under seventy to the sword.’ I have no stomach
for such work,” he sighed, and met my eyes. “So I broke my sword
and fouled my rifle and now, like you, I hide like a scared rabbit
in a hole.” He rose to his feet. “I did my best to warn folk what
we were about and told them that the Southern passes were not
guarded.” He stood for some moments, his face turned slightly from
mine but the shadows did not hide the horror behind his dark eyes.
“I am a violent man, and have killed many times in war but I have
never before witnessed butchery such as that.” I watched him,
speechless, an uneasy knot tightening in the pit of my stomach. In
spite of his people’s betrayal I felt the simple human need to
comfort him.

“You seem an honorable man, Mr. Campbell, and
I am sure you have not killed a man other than in honorable
battle.” Deliberately, he turned to face me, his eyes surveying
mine quizzically. I met his gaze, sensing the agony in his soul. He
must have recognized the same uneasy pain in my eyes because he
reached his hand out to touch me and then stopped, as if checking
himself and withdrew awkwardly.

“We share the same pain, but in how we came
by it, I have more choice than you,” he said simply.

“Do you think, Mr. Campbell that because you
have chosen your path that it will be any easier than mine?” He
gave a throaty grunt and shook his head.

“No, lass, it probably will not.” The shadow
of a frown creased his brow, his wide jaw tensed and the regular
beat of the pulse at the side of his neck quickened. He had
probably lost as much as I in this valley. Self-consciously, I
realized that I was staring at him and dropped my eyes to gaze
unseeing at the ground. We were silent for a long period, during
which Mr. Campbell consumed several large sips of the amber liquid
in the flask. Finally, drawing a long sigh, he broke the silence.
“You must be hungry?” he said, turning to pick up a cloth sack from
which he removed a loaf of dry bread. I had not thought about food
or the need for it since fleeing the valley the morning of the
massacre and the mention of it now made my stomach churn with
hunger. I nodded fervently, as he broke small chunks off the bread,
and handed them to me. I accepted the offer gratefully, ravenously
consuming the dry crusty bread as if it were the finest cuts of our
precious cattle. “Tell me, lass, what should I call you?”

“I am Corran.”

“Well then, wee Corran,” he responded,
lifting the flask in an exaggerated toast. “I am very pleased to
know you,” he said, allowing the briefest hint of humor to cross
his lips.

“And I you, Mr. Campbell,” I replied
shyly.

“A toast,” he said softly, “to the
future.”

“What will you do now?” I asked.

“Well, I cannot go back to my home, and I
won’t be going back to the army, that is unless I have a fancy to
be hanged for desertion or treason,” he paused briefly, taking
another sip of the whisky. “But more than that, I am not sure of
yet.”

I was starting to feel drowsy. The bread had
filled my stomach and the whisky was doing its job well. Dusk was
drawing in and the night mist hung heavily in the crevice. I pulled
the red coat higher and tighter around me in an effort to keep out
the damp evening air.

“Are you tired Corran?” he asked gently.

“Aye, Mr. Campbell, I am,” I replied, yawning
widely.

“Why not rest a wee while then? You will be
safe enough here for now.” His tone was warm, gentle and reassuring
but terror still clung to my soul.

“Are you sure we will be safe here?” I tried
to hold my voice steady, hoping not to betray my fear but
exhaustion and whisky had robbed me of the control I sought.

“Aye, it’ll do nicely. No one will find us
here, if you stay still and quiet that is,” he said.

Later, I awoke to the comfort and warmth of
his body. We were sitting, backs to the hard rock face of the cave.
Huddled together, like two old friends, my head resting gently on
his shoulder, his coat, draped, like a blanket over my knees. I
lifted my head, slowly, trying not to wake him. He felt me shift
and instinctively his eyes sprang open, his hand darted for his
dirk.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright, Mr. Campbell,” I
whispered soothingly.

“Sorry, lass, I didn’t mean to startle you,”
he replied, returning his dirk to its sheath. He stood up, running
his hands through his long, thick, curly, black hair. I smiled at
his unsuccessful attempt to neaten his hair, thinking with
amusement that it would probably take a lot more than a quick rub
with his hands to tame the wild mop on top of his head.

“Did you sleep well, Mr. Campbell?” I
inquired, averting my eyes and trying to hide the amusement in my
voice.

“Oh aye, that I did,” he said, his eyes
lingering on the blood stains that crusted my shift. “Perhaps,” he
said, gently touching my blood and mud-stained cheek, “we could
both use a stream of water to tidy ourselves a bit.”

We made our way deeper into the woods. It was
a still, clear morning and the warmth of the sun was a welcome
gift. The snow glistened and crunched beneath our feet like a bed
of shattered crystals and tiny drops of water fell from the long,
clear icicles that hung from the trees.

It didn’t take us long to find a stream of
water. There were several inches of ice and snow to clear from the
top of the stream before the running water was exposed. Mr.
Campbell removed his dirk from his belt and stabbed purposefully at
the cap of ice, chiseling a hole in its surface large enough to fit
his hands through. He plunged his fists through the gap, filling
his hands with icy water, and then splashed it liberally over his
head. Dripping wet, he shook his head fiercely. His long, black
curls swung wildly as the ice cold water sprayed off his hair.
Cautiously, I dipped one hand into the exposed stream and let out a
whimpered wail of shock as the ice cold water engulfed my hand. A
small pool of crystal clear water lay in my palm and I looked down
at it tentatively. I raised my hand and splashed the water onto my
face. My cheeks stung like fire as the water hit me. I turned to
see him watching me. His face held a slight frown as he raised his
hand to his head, rubbing it roughly through the mass of long wet
curls.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. He shook his head
slowly and the curls of his long black hair swung freely around his
face.

“Nothing, nothing at all, now, do you feel
better?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Yes Mr. Campbell, thank you,” I replied,
rubbing my hands together in an attempt to warm them.

“Shall we go?” he asked, taking my hand and
tucking it under his arm for warmth.

The top of my head barely reached the wide
expanse of his broad shoulders, as I stood dwarfed beside him.

“Aye, I suppose we should,” I responded
reluctantly.

“I must go back into the village, lass; there
are things I need to do there. Do you want to come with me, or
would you prefer me to take you back to the crevice? It won’t be an
easy thing for you to go back, I know.”

“No, Mr. Campbell, I want to go back, I too
have things I must do there. Do you think it is safe?” I asked.

“Aye, I dare say it will be, I don’t expect
to find the army still there, but we ought to be careful
nonetheless.”

“What makes you think they will be gone Mr.
Campbell?”

“Well I don’t know for sure, but I do know
that they brought their empty wagons into the glen and when they
left the wagons were full. They have taken the cattle already, so
there is no other business for them here.”

We headed back toward the path to the
village, cautiously and acutely aware of every unfamiliar sound. We
were silent for much of the journey, the only sound to be heard
being that of the ravens as they squawked ominously over the
bloodied bodies of the dead.

“I need to find my grandmother and see her
buried,” I blurted, conscious of the erratic nature and high pitch
of my voice.