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| clue... A herb found in the Highlands |
Some say I’m mad.
Others, most I fancy, say I’ve been bewitched … enchanted. My heart and mind’s been turned. If love is a manner of
madness, a bewitchment, and it’s known love can turn a man’s head, can lead him
to … well, I’ll leave that for now. Then it’s true. I am so. Madly bewitched. Heart
and mind and flesh. But upon my oath, I never meant to be.
’Twas early
summer when we first met and the trees were blooming, heady and sweet. Rowan
and birch, cherry and haw – hardy highland trees all gnarled and silvered with lichen in the pure mountain air. And though
the blooms werena so much to look at, the fragrance now ... that could lift a
man’s heart as only sweet highland air can do.
I climbed the mountain
for a last lingering look across the glen, up among the heather and wild thyme,
for on the morrow I’d join my regiment and
we’d all march away. The Highlands were risen
in arms against the king, were astir with rebellion,
and we were charged to quell it. Yet my heart wasna in it. It beat heavy in my chest
knowing kin would fight kin, and I would need to do the same.
On I climbed and
left the last few twisted trees behind
when I came upon her kneeling in the heather gathering herbs. I’d seen her
before; I knew who she was. Who did not? For she was beautiful as a fawn is,
all soft brown eyes, fringed and gentle, peeping
from a sweep of conker-brown hair.
Catriona. I’d
heard talk of her, that she was mysterious, hard to get close to, yet there was
scarce a lad in the glen that didna wish to
try. Lady of the woods they called her, for
she was said to spend her days in glades and upon
hillsides gathering nature’s bounty, creation’s medicine. Making balms for the
sick and wounded. What chance had I with such as her? Me? Andrew Gow. Humble cottar
from Strathavon with naught to my name but a scrape of land and a rental I’d no
hope of paying. ’Twas why I took the king’s
shilling. That or eviction.
She eyed me
intently from among the fragrant herbs. ‘What brings ye up the mountain, Andrew?’
My heart leapt
that she knew my name. ‘I wished to take my last farewell of the glen.’ I spoke
the simple truth. ‘And ’tis from here ye see the grandest sweep of river and
hill.’
She nodded,
curious as a kitten. ‘So, where is it ye’ll go, then?’
‘Wherever I’m ordered.
To battle, I suppose, for king and country.’
She rose then,
and I saw what I took for respect in her eyes. She came closer, close enough to admire the perfection of her skin, to count the
freckles under her eyes, smell the sun-baked pine needle scent upon her.
‘Which king, Andrew? Will ye don a coat o’ crimson?’
I nodded. ‘Aye,
the king that sits upon the throne o’ this
realm.’ But I knew as I said it, ’twas
not what she wished to hear. ‘The king of Hanover.’
‘Nae the true heir,
then? Ye’d fight for the usurper?’
The respect I’d
imagined in her eyes seemed to dull and lose its
shine, and she lowered her head, unable
to bring herself to look at me.
‘’Tis he who’ll pay
me a decent bounty,’ I muttered, loath to
admit such a thing. ‘I’m needing to pay
my rent.’
She nodded, but
I could see the disappointment in every fibre of her, and it wrenched my heart to see it. I swallowed, sick to my soul. ‘What else would ye have me do?’
She looked back up
at me, and I was lost. When she gave me her
hand, it was not me that took it and led her to lower ground. To the soft mossy
pasture between the trees and laid my plaid for her to lie upon. It was some other, braver man. Not me. It was some
stout-hearted Jacobite who loved her that day and he who knew the warmth of her
skin, the softness of her mouth. And ’twas he who came gently to her and lost
his heart among the wild mountain thyme.
Later, she
looked at me, then lay back and brushed an insect from her chest, gazing
through the hazy sap-green canopy to the wide sky above. Peace, such peace. She pressed
my hand and whispered, ‘Andrew,’ and I knew I was bewitched. Clay to her hand, for I’d have given all I had right there
and then to stay by her side.
‘Will ye build a
place fer us Andrew, here upon the
mountain?’ Her face was all a-flush.
And so ’tis what I did. I built her a leafy bower by a cool mountain stream
where the sparkle of water, silver in the sun, drew me even more surely under her
spell. A place for our love and around it I laid all the wildflowers of the mountain,
though none as wild or rare as her.
And so, ye see, there is this word – Catriona
– and ’tis all that filled my head. So loath was I to leave her, I tarried
long by her side. Lord, all I wished was to love and to know the love of her, but
as time passed another word came to me, and then another and another. First
came deserter. Then traitor. And finally fugitive. And I knew I was all these and
more.
Yet not thon other, braver man. He was none of these, for he was a fearless
Jacobite, daring and true. But for me, Andrew Gow, I was all that and more. Wanted was another word that later came
to me. When they’d take me I’d suffer not a soldier’s death by shooting but the
miserable shackled one of a felon upon the gibbet.
And so, in truth, I was bewitched … enchanted, for a madness surely took
me. A madness I call love. She turned my heart and mind, and Lord, my flesh, so
I am now reborn. I am thon other, braver man – a stout-hearted Jacobite – and another
word is in my head. Turncoat. For my
coat’s no longer crimson and I do wear a white cockade upon my breast.
She pinned it there and smiled a gentle smile, then let me take her hand.
‘Catriona,’ I softly whispered, ‘will we go, lassie?’
And so we did. Together we joined the growing stream that’s become a sweeping
tide across the Highlands, and swore our allegiance to the bonny prince.
© Angela MacRae Shanks
song : (Scots Jacobean Folksong recorded by The Corries and various artists including Ronan Keating, Ed Sheeran, The Chieftains, Van Morrison, Rod Stewart and Marianne Faithful
about the author
Angela MacRae Shanks
was born in Garmouth, a village near the mouth of the river Spey in north-east
Scotland. She still lives near here with her family and two cats. Her love of
Scottish history began at an early age, perhaps piqued by an intriguing plaque
on the adjoining cottage marking the spot where King Charles II signed the
Solemn League and Covenant on his return from exile in 1650.
A fascination with all things Celtic and
Highland, added to her training in aromatherapy and complementary therapies,
spawned a need to weave herbal lore into her tales. Those who healed using
plants and the wisdom of nature, usually women, were often branded witches, and
this added more rich fodder to the mix.
Belonging to Moray, malt whisky country, uisge-beatha, the water of life, and its
illicit past has always interested her, and
she thought it high time someone wove the history of the spirit into a work of
fiction.
Her debut novel, The Blood & The Barley is the result of this mix.
 |
| reviewed by Discovering Diamonds |
Note: There is copyright legislation for song lyrics but no copyright in names, titles or ideas
images via Pixabay accreditation not required
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A gorgeous story.
ReplyDeleteThank you Loretta, one of my all-time favourite songs.
DeleteIsn't it just!
DeleteAlthough English, I love all things Scotland, a most beautiful country. And this is what I felt reading your story, Angela - the clear, pure air of the Highlands, a sense of freedom, wind in the hair and all of that. Didn't know the song particularly, but I played it and went to the lyrics site and you've absolutely nailed it! Thank you for taking me back to the Campsies and the Trossachs and all the other wonderful places that I've visited
ReplyDeleteAww, thank you Richard, you are very kind. Yes, my heart will always be in the Highlands.
ReplyDeleteAngela, your description of those Highlands is, well, bewitching. Your readers will wander over those hills looking for Catriona, hoping to spy Andrew, and perhaps hum that soulful song. As a student (hitch-hiking from London), I got as far up as Inverness, down to Loch Lomond rising from the mist, and then dipped into an icy Loch Ness. I still remember the magic of it all.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much Inge, I love both the Highlands and this song, especially The Corries' version. You probably got quite close to where I live Inge, when you were a student on your hike. I stay near Inverness. Beautiful, but wet and windy today!
DeleteWhat a lovely story! You have keft me hoping that Catriona and Andrew somehow survived the whole mess. Maybe they are still there, in their highland bower.
ReplyDeleteI like to think they are Anna, but then I'm a romantic! I might write them into something in the future. Thank you for your lovely comments.
DeleteLovely. A piece of my heart is always in the Highlands, and your beautiful writing took me there this morning. And I shall be humming this lilting ballad all day. Thank you!
ReplyDeleteSo enjoyed this story - I planted thyme in my garden last year, it isn't wild mountain thyme, but I can always pretend.
ReplyDeleteI have it in my garden too Helen, one of the few truly hardy plants that survives our frosts. Thank you.
DeleteMine too Elizabeth, thank you. Not a bad thing to be doing all day (humming a haunting ballad) I can think of worse. Thank you so much.
ReplyDeleteWonderfully lyrical. Thanks so much for sharing. Makes me want to fly over the treetops to the highlands and smell the heather and wild thyme.
ReplyDeleteThank you, I fancy doing that too!
DeleteA very evocative story. I hope they both survived.
ReplyDeleteMe too Alison. Might follow up on them in the future. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful in every respect - thank you.
ReplyDeleteAww, thank you Jane. I just wanted to do the song justice. It gives me goose bumps and generally makes me cry. I didn't manage that, but I tried to catch a sense of other-worldliness.
Delete