featureless vacuum.
He tried not to visualise the faces of
comrades lost in that last assault. This stretch of ground had been fought over
for weeks now. God alone knew how many lay out there, deprived even a Christian
burial.
Something was moving in the darkness… He
sensed a subtle change at first, as though some entity had been surreptitiously
spawned in the night. He heard it then; a distinct sound coming from no man’s
land. Not the furtive chink of metal upon metal that told of an enemy raid, but
something less… secretive, more like a heavy load being pulled along the
ground. He heard it again, to his left, the same laboured dragging sound, now
much nearer.
He held the flare pistol tightly in his hand,
waiting for the right moment to flood the scene with light. The fear was like a
dead weight on his chest. Absurdly he could hear singing, coming from… out
there. It was an old Gaelic lullaby his mother had crooned at him when he was a
child… He’d barely realised the singer was a woman, when the flare pistol was
taken from his hands.
Immediately the scene was bathed in light.
Alistair opened his eyes, to see the face of an
angel looking down at him. He recognised the little wraith who’d saved her
people from the inferno.
“Her name is Mary,” Colin explained brightly.
“Herself has been singing to you this past half hour, man. I think myself
somebody has a wee fancy for you.”
He was lying in a bed of straw in one of the
cottages. His arm had been dressed and bandaged and felt free of pain.
“Mary was able to get the ball out of your arm,”
his brother continued cheerfully. “We could have made enough black pudding to
feed Lochaber with the blood you lost.” He held up his leg to show his own war
wound. “I was lucky, myself. The ball just skiffed my calf. Mind you, I’ll be
left with a scar.”
Alistair tried to pull himself upright, but was
restrained by two determined little hands.
“ No. You must lie still ,” his nurse said
softly in Gaelic. “ You have lost too much blood .”
Mary… Her name was Mary… He couldn’t even begin
to understand how this hauntingly beautiful fragment of the past could be with
him here… now. As she fussed over his dressing her long dark hair fell
carelessly over features that would normally have turned him to jelly. There
was no awkwardness about her; Alistair guessed she’d grown comfortable in his
presence while he’d been unconscious, and he found himself afraid to open his
mouth in case he broke the spell.
Colin had no such inhibitions: “All the others
have taken to the hills in case the soldiers come back. We could hear a lot of
shooting away to the west a wee while ago. Mary said she would not leave us…
but I think she meant yourself…”
“ Please ,” she interrupted then, “ if
you have the Gaelic… please, spare my house the tongue of those men… ”
Colin apologised, but it was his brother’s eyes
that held her soft gaze.
She would not leave… yourself, he had said.
Alistair knew then, amid the insanity of the moment, that somehow this
beautiful Mary of the mists was about to become a part of his life. He began to
lapse once more into unconsciousness. For the first time in a very long time he
had no fear of the darkness. Perhaps this time he would be spared the dreams…
As he drifted off, however, he heard the
distant crack of single, high-velocity rifle shots.
Chapter Seven
A rich, bovine smell drew all manner of
strange associations in Macmillan’s mind as he struggled back to consciousness.
He opened his eyes to find the fearsome shape of a Highland cow peering back at
him. Man and beast gaped at each for a few moments, before the animal resumed
its rhythmical chewing.
Macmillan took stock of his surroundings. He was
in a dank, foul-smelling byre, its earthen floor covered with straw. Beside him
his comrades lay in a tangled sprawl, like a trio of newborn calves.
They had also begun to take stock of
He tried not to visualise the faces of
comrades lost in that last assault. This stretch of ground had been fought over
for weeks now. God alone knew how many lay out there, deprived even a Christian
burial.
Something was moving in the darkness… He
sensed a subtle change at first, as though some entity had been surreptitiously
spawned in the night. He heard it then; a distinct sound coming from no man’s
land. Not the furtive chink of metal upon metal that told of an enemy raid, but
something less… secretive, more like a heavy load being pulled along the
ground. He heard it again, to his left, the same laboured dragging sound, now
much nearer.
He held the flare pistol tightly in his hand,
waiting for the right moment to flood the scene with light. The fear was like a
dead weight on his chest. Absurdly he could hear singing, coming from… out
there. It was an old Gaelic lullaby his mother had crooned at him when he was a
child… He’d barely realised the singer was a woman, when the flare pistol was
taken from his hands.
Immediately the scene was bathed in light.
Alistair opened his eyes, to see the face of an
angel looking down at him. He recognised the little wraith who’d saved her
people from the inferno.
“Her name is Mary,” Colin explained brightly.
“Herself has been singing to you this past half hour, man. I think myself
somebody has a wee fancy for you.”
He was lying in a bed of straw in one of the
cottages. His arm had been dressed and bandaged and felt free of pain.
“Mary was able to get the ball out of your arm,”
his brother continued cheerfully. “We could have made enough black pudding to
feed Lochaber with the blood you lost.” He held up his leg to show his own war
wound. “I was lucky, myself. The ball just skiffed my calf. Mind you, I’ll be
left with a scar.”
Alistair tried to pull himself upright, but was
restrained by two determined little hands.
“ No. You must lie still ,” his nurse said
softly in Gaelic. “ You have lost too much blood .”
Mary… Her name was Mary… He couldn’t even begin
to understand how this hauntingly beautiful fragment of the past could be with
him here… now. As she fussed over his dressing her long dark hair fell
carelessly over features that would normally have turned him to jelly. There
was no awkwardness about her; Alistair guessed she’d grown comfortable in his
presence while he’d been unconscious, and he found himself afraid to open his
mouth in case he broke the spell.
Colin had no such inhibitions: “All the others
have taken to the hills in case the soldiers come back. We could hear a lot of
shooting away to the west a wee while ago. Mary said she would not leave us…
but I think she meant yourself…”
“ Please ,” she interrupted then, “ if
you have the Gaelic… please, spare my house the tongue of those men… ”
Colin apologised, but it was his brother’s eyes
that held her soft gaze.
She would not leave… yourself, he had said.
Alistair knew then, amid the insanity of the moment, that somehow this
beautiful Mary of the mists was about to become a part of his life. He began to
lapse once more into unconsciousness. For the first time in a very long time he
had no fear of the darkness. Perhaps this time he would be spared the dreams…
As he drifted off, however, he heard the
distant crack of single, high-velocity rifle shots.
Chapter Seven
A rich, bovine smell drew all manner of
strange associations in Macmillan’s mind as he struggled back to consciousness.
He opened his eyes to find the fearsome shape of a Highland cow peering back at
him. Man and beast gaped at each for a few moments, before the animal resumed
its rhythmical chewing.
Macmillan took stock of his surroundings. He was
in a dank, foul-smelling byre, its earthen floor covered with straw. Beside him
his comrades lay in a tangled sprawl, like a trio of newborn calves.
They had also begun to take stock of
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