Corrag. Susan Fletcher

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СКАЧАТЬ true. I think kings can only cause trouble. Too many men die, in their name. Too many fight, and kill, or are killed – and so I think of loss with that word king. With king, I think of lost things.

      So much is gone. So much. All for kings, or a shiny coin.

      And I remember so much…The dog’s name was Bran, and the snow lay itself down on every branch of every tree, that night, and I kissed a man – there was a kiss – and I remember so much! I know plenty. And if I do not speak of what I saw, that will also be gone.

      Stair called me a meddling piece, but he also said you must have seen such things, through those long lashes of yours…In a soft voice. Like he was my friend, which he never was.

      That’s why he’ll burn me, I think.

       Get rid of the one who saw it all.

       The one who saved people, and ruined the plan.

       She who remembers all things.

      Yes I will give you my telling.

      You say tell me what you know – give me names! Soldiers’ names. And I will. I will tell you of the Glencoe massacre, and what I saw – of the musket fire, and the screams, and the herbs I used, and the truth. The truth! Who else knows it, as I know it? I will tell you every part. And I promise you this, Mr Leslie – it will help your cause. It will help you to bring your James back, for what I have to tell makes the Highlanders look wise, and civilised, as they are. It shows their dignity. It says the king we have now is not Orange, but blood-red. I promise you that.

      And in return?

      Speak of me. Of me. Of my little life. Speak of it, when I am gone – for who is left to tell it? None know my story. There is no one left it to, so speak of it from your pulpit, or write it down in ink. Talk of what I tell you, and add no lies to it – it needs none, it brims with love and loss so I see it be quite a fireside tale as it is, all truthful. Say Corrag was good. Say that she did not deserve a fiery death, or a lonesome one. All I’ve ever tried to be is kind.

      Is this fair? A fair bargaining? Sit with me and hear my life’s tale, and I will speak, in time, of Glencoe. On a snowy night. When people I loved fell, and died. But some, also, survived.

      It is Corrag. Cor-rag. No other name but that.

      My mother was Cora, sir. But her most common name was hag so she joined them together like two sticks on fire, to make my name. That was her way. Her humour.

      But Corrag is also what they call a finger in the Highland tongue. I never knew it till I walked into those hills. Many folk have pointed theirs at me, so it’s a fitting name. Also, it’s fitting that some mountains are called the word – the tall and snow-topped ones. There is the Corrag Bhuide, which I never saw because it’s far north of here. But they say it is beautiful – mist-wearing, and wolf-trodden. It’s all height and wonder in my head.

      Who would believe it? A churchman and a captured witch, helping each other like this? But it is so.

      The world has its wonders and I will speak of them.

       Dearest Jane,

       I have plenty to tell you. There is much to write, for today was full of strangeness – so much strangeness that I wonder where to start. Have I not met sinners before? I have. When I was still a bishop, I met plenty of them – thieves and fornicators, and do you remember the man they strung up for having two wives, and blaspheming? That was a foul business. I had hoped to never step near such wickedness twice, in my life. But I wonder if I have met worse.

       This afternoon, I sat with the witch.

      I think I wrote a little to you of how they say she is: savage, dark-hearted, and with lice. He – my landlord, who is the sole source of all I know, thus far – assured me she was quick-tongued and hot-tempered, or so he had heard. I asked how hot-tempered and he said very, I hear. She is the wickedest person that has been in that cell – and that cell’s seen some rogues, sir! And he filled up a tankard.

       I took my Bible, of course. I do not like being near wickedness, and I confess to you that as I walked through the snow to the tollbooth, I felt an apprehension in me. A nervousness, perhaps. So I recited as I walked, which heartened me. ‘But the Lord is faithful, and He will strengthen and keep you safe from The Evil One.’ (2 Thessalonians 3:3 – as you know.)

       Let me tell you of the tollbooth where she is kept. It is near the castle, in this town. It’s a sombre prison, certainly – half on the ground and half beneath it. It was built, I am told, to keep the Highland cattle-thieves before they were hung, up on Doom Hill, and perhaps it was anxiousness on my part, but I thought I smelt cows there. It has the smell of a byre – dung and dampness. Also, the odour that comes from soiled bodies and fear – the gallows at Lawnmarket had a milder form of it. I wonder if this is death’s smell, or the smell before death.

      The gaoler belongs, I think, in the cells as much as the ones he locks there. He curses. He reeks of ale and vices, and insisted on undoing my leather travelling case. He thumbed my inkwell and quill. He glanced at the Bible as if it bored him – I’ll pray for his soul. Then he coughed into his hand, wiped it on his coat, and held out that hand for some pennies. Seeing the witch is-nee free, he said (so they talk, in this country). I gave over a coin, and he smiled a brown smile. The last door? That’s her.

       The corridor I walked along was not fit for even beasts. I was careful to touch as little as I could. The walls were wet-looking. I am not sure what I trod upon, but it was soft, and soundless.

      As for the woman herself – Jane, I wonder if even your motherly heart and goodness would feel any warmth for the wretch. I thought she was a child, when I entered. She is child-sized. I barely saw her at all, and thought the cell was empty. But then she shifted in her chains and spoke. You might read child-sized and feel tender for her – but Jane, she’s a despicable thing. Her hair is knots and branches. She is half-naked, dressed in thin rags which are crusted with mud and blood and all manner of filth (the smell in her cell is unpleasant). Her feet are bare. Her fingernails are splintered and black, and she gnaws on them sometimes, and I partly wondered if she was human at all. I was minded to turn, and leave. But she said sit. And I felt the Lord beside me, so I did not leave.

       I sat – and then, in the gloom I saw her eyes. They were a very pale grey, and gave her a haunted expression, as the dying get. Her stare was brazen. She stared, and said she had expected me – which I doubt. If she knew I’d hoped to visit her, it can only be through prattle – for news is swift, in small towns. Even prisoners have ears.

       She herself can prattle. The landlord was right about her tongue, for she talked more than I did. She rocked with her knees to her chest like her mind was half-gone – which it may be. She is a witch, and therefore deserves no sympathy, and I give her none, but I will say she has been poorly treated in her time – there were bruises on her arms, a reddened crust above one eye, and there’s a blood-stain on the side of her. The shackles have also broken her skin. I wonder if these wounds will kill her before the flames do. (I’ll also add this – that she is bruised and cut, and mangled, but I saw no bites on her. So rest yourself, Jane – do not worry yourself on lice.)

       She may have been pretty, once. But the Devil takes hold of a face as much as he does СКАЧАТЬ