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taken in harsh season. The men and women of Alban had worn this tune as close as their own skins. Its beloved measures had been lodged deep in every heart.
    The fragile sound faltered, as if the whistler could not quite remember how the tune went. It seemed to me that if this was forgotten, this precious last fragment of what had once made us strong, we were all doomed. Softly, I began to sing: ‘ I am a child of Alban’s earth . . .’
    In an instant they were still, their shadowy eyes fixed on me, and the song swelled and rose and grew to thunder as twenty, fifty, a hundred ghostly voices took up the strain. My voice became a clarion call, borne on that warrior chorus. The words our king had forbidden, the words I loved with all my heart, burst from me with the force of a flame catching dry timber:
‘I am a child of Alban’s earth
Her ancient bones brought me to birth
Her crags and islands built me strong
My heart beats to her deep wild song.
I am the wife with bairn on knee
I am the fisherman at sea
I am the piper on the strand
I am the warrior, sword in hand.
White Lady shield me with your fire
Lord of the North my heart inspire
Hag of the Isles my secrets keep
Master of Shadows guard my sleep.
I am the mountain, I am the sky
I am the song that will not die
I am the heather, I am the sea
My spirit is forever free.’
    The song came to an end, and silence fell. The air was full of anticipation.
    ‘What would you have me do?’ I asked the ghostly army, for it was clear the song alone was not enough, or they surely would have faded away with its echoes.
    ‘Fight . . .’ The word came like a great sigh. ‘Fiiiight . . .’
    In their ghostly eyes I saw a flame burning, as if the passion they had shown in their last bloody encounter had not been extinguished by their years of lonely exile here in the place of their fall. But fight? Me?
    ‘I am no warrior,’ I said. ‘Look at me. I’m a . . . a vagrant, a nobody.’ I dropped my gaze, suddenly unable to meet their eyes. Their need was powerful in them; perhaps only that held them in the realm of the living. Was it possible that I was the only person ever to stop and listen? Could I be the only one who had heard their cry for justice?
    ‘I can’t . . . I don’t know what I can do,’ I whispered. How could I fight? The greatest warrior in all Alban could not stand against the might of Keldec. And that, without a doubt, was the fight they meant. ‘I want to help,’ I said, risking a glance up at them. ‘But I am powerless.’
    Oh, gods, their faces, on which the blaze of hope kindled by the song was already starting to fade; their eyes, already losing the brightness of their awakening . . . How could I bear this? I sank to a crouch, lifting my hands to cover my face, for their sadness was like a knife straight to the heart and I could not look at them.
    I did not complete the gesture. For there, in a crevice between the rocks at my feet, I saw a tiny plant growing. Three fronded shoots of soft green cradled a single flower no bigger than my thumbnail, a five-petalled bloom, white as first snow, fragile and perfect. So unlikely a survivor. So delicate, to stand against the scourging wind, the biting cold, the drenching rain. It was surely the only living thing in this place of death and sorrow. Apart from me.
    I rose to my feet and drew a ragged breath. ‘I’ll try,’ I said.
    A ripple passed through the spectral crew. As I spoke they stood taller, their pallid faces lighting with a fragile hope.
    ‘I can’t fight with sword and spear as my brother did, but I’ll stand up for justice. I don’t know how, but I promise I’ll find a way.’
    As if a silent message had passed between them, each member of the ghostly army made the same gesture: a clenched fist placed over the heart. Through the falling rain their voices came to me as one. ‘Weapons sharp. Backs straight. Hearts high.’
    Then in an instant they were gone, dissipated to nothing as,