High on a Mountain (22 page)

Silence. Dead silence.

There should be some small sounds. From this
distance, he should be able to hear an occasional word, hear the
sounds of Mùirne’s cooking or housework or the sounds of the
animals penned in the byre for the night. He should be able to hear
the voice of Coinneach-òg as he played.

But there was only silence.

And yet, there was the open door, the
promised warmth of hearth and home beckoning to him. Surely all was
well.

When he could wait no longer, Ailean raised
himself to a crouch and sidled across the bare yard to the side of
the cottage, scanning his surroundings for signs of trouble. He
stayed low as he crept along the wall.

Ailean reached the door and straightened,
stood with his back flattened against the cold stone wall. Then he
ducked through the doorway and entered the cottage. And froze.

Mùirne sat on the floor in the corner, the
side of her face bruised and swollen, staring at nothing, cradling
the still, stiff form of Coinneach-òg in her arms, rocking him
gently back and forth. Lying near her feet was Ma, her throat cut
and blood pooled and congealed under her head.

The money bag lay empty on the floor at
Mùirne’s side.

A half-stifled sob made its way out of his
aching chest. The sound penetrated Mùirne’s daze, and she raised
her eyes. She looked at him for a few moments, as though she didn’t
realize who was standing before her.

“I…I was afraid they were going to kill us,
going to kill us all. I…I offered them the money, to…to leave us
alone, to spare my son. They took it, then they laughed at me and…”
She looked down at Coinneach-òg, caressed his blond curls.
“Why?”

“Who did this?”

“
It’s the Cambeuls
…” The words issued
from Mùirne’s lips in a strange, childlike tone Ailean had never
heard before.

Murderous rage erupted through him, and he
trembled from the force of it. Then despair welled up, filled him,
pushing the rage aside. He knelt by Mùirne and gently pried her
arms from around their dead son. He took Coinneach-òg into his own
arms, placed a kiss on the cold little brow, and laid the lifeless
body on the boy’s small bed.

Ailean returned to Mùirne. She still sat on
the floor, rocking, her hands lying limp on her lap. Something was
different about her; what was it? He leaned over to help her up off
the floor, and it came to him. Her belly no longer protruded,
wasn’t distended with the child she was carrying when he left.

“The baby. Where is the baby?” he asked.

She kept rocking.

“Mùirne. Look at me,” Ailean said, raising
his voice. “Where is the baby?”

She blinked, tried to focus on his face. “The
baby? The baby…the baby…”

Her eyes turned toward a small bundle of rags
on the other side of the cold hearth.

Ailean went to it and hesitantly picked up
the little parcel. He pulled back the cloth and revealed a
perfectly-formed, dead baby boy.

“There was no one to help…and he couldn’t
breathe…he never breathed…he never cried, and he never
breathed…”

Ailean laid the baby down, came to Mùirne and
took her hands in his. He pulled her to her feet, but she couldn’t
stand. He swung her into his arms, carried her to the bed, and laid
her on it. She rolled onto her side and curled into a ball. Ailean
pulled a blanket over her shoulders and went to his mother’s
side.

As he looked down at her weathered features,
the wrinkled brow, the calloused hands, hatred and anger so filled
him he could scarcely breathe.

I can’t endure this. I…I…

He tore his eyes from the sight, tilted his
head back and stared at the rafters overhead.

What am I going to do?

He stumbled out the door, leaned back against
the wall, eyes closed, hands clenching, unclenching. He regained
control, cleared his throat and looked around.

All was quiet.

He went to Coinneach’s cottage. No one was
there. A quick check of the other neighbors’ homes showed they were
all empty.

Ailean got a spade from the barn and trudged
up the knoll near the upper woods. He dug three shallow graves,
attacking the ground with the spade as if the farming implement was
a weapon and the earth was his enemy, his breath coming in rasping
gasps. When he finished, he carried the bodies, one by one, and
laid them in the ground.

Ailean buried his mother first.

He placed her body in the grave and said,
softly, “Ma, I’m sorry. It’s my fault. If only I’d got here
sooner—” His voice broke, and he paused. “Now, I’m the only one
who’s left to mourn you, and I can’t even cry for you. I’m too
angry to cry. Good-bye, Ma.”

He covered her with a blanket and filled the
grave with the earth she had trod most of her life.

Coinneach-òg was next.

Ailean looked at his son one last time,
stroked the soft blond curls that framed the little face, felt the
dried blood that matted the curls on the back of the small, dear
head.

“You were a brave little man,” he said, with
a catch in his voice. “I was so proud of you.” Ailean hugged
Coinneach-òg, wrapped him in a blanket and laid him in the small
grave.

Then the baby.

Ailean pulled back the tattered cloth
wrapping and stared at the baby’s tiny features. He trailed a
finger across the delicate cheek in an unfelt caress. He covered it
again and placed the bundle into the hole.

As the last rays of the sun streaked through
the clouds from the blood-red western sky, he shoveled dirt into
the small grave and buried the last of his dreams.

Ailean returned to his cottage, closed and
barred the door. He climbed into bed fully clothed, lay on his side
behind Mùirne and put his arms around her. He fell asleep, and
during the night, he awoke once to find Mùirne had turned toward
him, put her arm across his waist and her head on his shoulder,
like she always did in her sleep on any other ordinary night.

But this was not any other night. And nothing
was ordinary any more. Nothing was the same, would ever be the same
again.

How could they survive? Ailean wasn’t sure
that he wanted to survive. His dreams of a good, simple life with
the woman he loved, surrounded by family and friends, were crushed,
destroyed. Everything he had loved or wanted was gone.

All except Mùirne. But even she was not the
same, was not his lovely Mùirne. There was only an empty shell in
his arms where Mùirne had dwelt.

____________

Cannons were thundering. But no. It wasn’t
cannons, couldn’t be cannons.

It took a few seconds for Ailean to fully
awaken and realize where he was. He was at home, in his bed.
Someone was pounding on his door. He sat bolt upright and jumped
off the bed. He looked around desperately for something to use for
a weapon and but found nothing. His walking stick, like his sword,
lay somewhere on Drummossie Moor, and his dirk had been stolen.

“Mùirne MacPhàrlain! Open this door, Mùirne!
Open it or we’ll break it down!”

He heard a piteous cry from Mùirne, “No, no,
no…”

He turned to her. She sat in the middle of
the bed, her hands wringing and twisting about each other, her eyes
wide, staring at him in terror but not seeing him, whimpering “No,
no, no…”

“It’s me, my love. It’s me,” he began as he
heard the door splinter behind him.

He whirled around to see two men in Cambeul
tartan invading his small home.

“This is my home,” he shouted. “You are
trespassing on MacLachlainn land. Leave! Leave while you still
can!”

“MacLachlainn! What are you doing here?” said
Latharn Cambeul, as he entered the cottage behind his two men. “We
heard that just about all of you MacLachlainns who fought at
Culloden were dead.”

“Latharn!”

“And it’s not MacLachlainn land any more. All
the land of you Jacobite rebels has been forfeited. You are the one
who is trespassing on land that now belongs to the king. And,
probably, will soon belong to me,” Latharn said with a sneer.

He glanced around the cottage with disdain.
“To think Mùirne MacPhàrlain has lived in this hovel with a stupid
oaf like you when she could have—” He broke off as he caught sight
of Mùirne, with her bruised face, sitting on the bed.
“MacLachlainn, what have you done to her!”

“Not I.
You!
I found her like this
yesterday. She said it was you Cambeuls who did this to her. And
killed our son.”

Ailean moved so he stood between the men and
Mùirne. The only thing he had left to use for her protection was
his physical body. He’d give his life before he would let one of
the Cambeul men touch his beloved Mùirne again.

“No. It wasn’t me. I’ve never been here
before. My men told me that this was Mùirne’s cottage.” He glared
at each of his men, one of whom lowered his gaze to the floor.
“Odhran! You were just supposed to come find out where she
lived…and you did this?”

“It wasn’t me who hit her!” Odhran looked
accusingly at Latharn’s other henchman, who was standing near
Ailean.

“You did this, Dùghall?”

“I couldn’t help it!” Dùghall said. “The boy
kept kicking me! Then he bit me, and when I slapped him off, his
head hit the wall, and she and the old woman attacked me, and—”

Ailean yelled hoarsely and lunged at Dùghall.
Ailean grabbed Dùghall by the throat, and they fell together to the
floor. Latharn and Odhran kicked Ailean’s ribs and stomach, kicked
his barely healed side, but couldn’t make him let go. One kick from
Latharn’s booted foot caught Ailean under the chin, his eyes rolled
back in his head, and he collapsed.

“Take off his
féileadh-mòr.
Hold his
arms down and wrap it around him so he can’t move,” Latharn
ordered. “And drag him outside.”

He turned to Mùirne, who was inching backward
on the bed away from him, still whimpering.

“Come, come, my dear. No need to fear me,” he
said in his most charming tones. He leaned over, grasped her arms
and pulled her off the bed. “Come along. You’ll feel better later,
when this is all over and I get you home.”

He put his arm around her shoulders and
half-supported her as he steered her through the cottage. When they
emerged from the cottage, Mùirne saw Ailean lying helpless on the
ground. She shrieked and broke free from Latharn’s grasp. She ran
to Ailean and fell to her knees beside him, plucking at the fabric
that bound him. Latharn grabbed her arm, yanked her up and held
her.

“As long as this whelp lives, you only have
thoughts for him, do you?” Latharn said. “Well, I’ll take care of
that. I’ll remove him from your life forever.”

Mùirne moaned and wailed, her cries growing
louder and louder.

“Stand him against the wall over there,”
Latharn commanded.

Dùghall and Odhran pulled Ailean to his feet
and propped him against the wall of the cottage. His consciousness
was returning, but he was still groggy and stood swaying.

“Remember, MacLachlainn, I told you once that
you would pay? Now’s the time for that payment.”

Latharn pulled a pistol from his belt and
aimed it at Ailean’s chest. He released his grip on Mùirne’s arm
for a moment and held the heavy pistol with both hands to steady
it. Mùirne bolted toward Ailean as Latharn fired, her arms spread
wide protectively. The piece of lead from Latharn’s pistol slammed
into her back, and she took two faltering steps, fell against
Ailean and slid to the ground.

Ailean dropped to his knees beside her,
struggling to free his arms so he could touch her, hold her.
“Mùirne! Mùirne!” he cried his voice rasping with sobs torn from
the depths of his soul.

She looked into his eyes and whispered,
“I…I’ll love you…forever.”

____________

Latharn stood staring, unbelieving. He glared
at the pistol for a moment, then flung it from him as hard as he
could. He saw the expression of selfless devotion in Mùirne’s eyes
as, dying, she beheld Ailean for the last time. And Latharn knew he
would never receive such a look from her.

He began pacing, fury and self-pity mingling
with the boiling mass of hatred he felt for Ailean MacLachlainn. He
wanted to kill MacLachlainn with his bare hands, wanted to rip him
apart. No! He wanted to cut MacLachlainn into tiny pieces with his
dirk, a little at a time. Latharn wanted to make MacLachlainn
suffer. How could he make him suffer most?

TWENTY-SEVEN

A cannon fired, and the sound reverberated up
and down Loch Fyne. The echoes had hardly faded when it fired
again. Some of the men in the cell looked toward one another in the
semi-darkness, wondering. But not Ailean MacLachlainn.

“Don’t you want to know what’s happening,
MacLachlainn?” the guard said.

He peered through the small grate into the
stone-walled chamber and laughed. He was one of Latharn Cambeul’s
men, and he missed no opportunity to taunt or harass Ailean.

“That sound is the cannon on a Royal Navy
ship. They’re going to batter your clan’s castle into rubble. By
tonight, Castle Lachlainn will be a pile of worthless debris. Like
you.” He laughed again.

Ailean sat on filthy straw strewn on the cold
floor of the cell, unresponsive. Nothing mattered any more. Insults
which would once have made him draw his sword to do battle produced
no anger, no urge to fight.

He felt as though his body was dry chaff from
which the grain of life had been threshed. All that had meaning in
his life had been swept away. There was nothing left to love,
nothing left to care about, nothing left that could make him angry.
It was as if he himself had been pounded into dust and blown away
by a breath.

The resounding boom of cannon fire continued
throughout the day.

____________

A key rattled in the lock, and a soldier
swung the heavy wooden door open. Another entered the cell with a
lantern. The men inside blinked and squinted at the unaccustomed
light. Some shifted their positions, chains clinking and scraping
on the stone floor.