Highland Ballad | Page 4

to reveal a tired, careworn face no longer able to
think of pity. "So, you never knew she was a witch? How blind a
woman can be, when she wants to. Why, you don't even know, still
haven't guessed---" She faltered, then cried out. "Dear God, I cannot
bear this cross any longer! You have taken my husband, my beloved
son, and left me with his temptress." Then turning to Mary. "Go to her!
Get out, I tell you! She will tell you everything, everything now. Make
your home with her if you like. Leave me to my wretched memories."
And physical sorrow bent her nearly double in the chair.

The girl took a step to console her, but the hateful, flashing eyes turned
on her erased any such notion. She hesitated, then ran to the door in
dismay, and out into the bracing, October wild. It seemed the last
vestiges of solace and sanctuary were crumbling around her, leaving a
world too terrible, too full of dark meaning to endure. She ran.
But her steps were not blind. Instinctively she stayed on the western
side of the rise, which hid her from sight of the road. And though she
had rarely seen it, the back of her mind knew where her aunt's strange
and secret abode lay: beyond the ravine, in land too wild and rocky to
grow or graze.
It was growing dark when she finally reached the high pass in which it
lay, and in place of the wind a cold stillness reigned. The rocky culvert
did not benefit from the failing light. It was a harsh and cheerless place,
all thorn and sloe, with here and there a gnarled, leafless tree.
The faraway cry of a wolf froze her to the marrow: she was alone, and
could not find what she sought. Why had she come in such haste,
without horse or cloak? Her body ached and the sense of youthful
despair, never far from her, returned with the added force of cold,
helpless exposure.
An owl swooped, and half fearfully she followed the line of its flight.
As it rose again against the near horizon, she saw there at the meeting
of stone and sky a trail of black smoke, barely distinguishable in the
darkening gloom. She followed it downward. And there, half buried in
the hard earth which bounded it on three sides, she saw her aunt's
sometime residence, the `witch's hole' as her mother had called it. And
though she loved her aunt, and had nowhere else to go, she could not
help feeling a moment of doubt.
A wedge of stone wall---one door, one window---was all the face it
showed, the short chimney rising further to the sunken right. It was in
fact a hole, dug and lined with stone perhaps a thousand years before
by some wandering Pict, with a living roof of roots and turf. Her aunt
had merely dug it out again and repaired the chimney. The window and
door, framed in ready openings, were new, along with stout ceiling
beams. Nothing more. It was a place that perhaps ten people knew of,
and nine avoided.
She stood unresolved, chafing the arms of her dress, unable to keep
warm. But at that moment a solitary figure came up the path towards

her, and she recognized the shawl and bound hair of her aunt, stooped
beneath a large bundle of sticks.
"Inside with you, lass," said the woman evenly, again not evincing the
least surprise. "You'll catch your death."
"Let me help you with your load," the girl offered.
"I can quite carry my own burden, Mary. Just open the door for me; I'll
walk through it." Mary did as she asked. They went inside.
The single room was dark and low-ceilinged, with no light but the
hearth fire, which played strange shadows across the rough stones and
wooden bracings. Herbs, tools and utensils, bizarre talismans hung
from the walls. The floor was of solid earth. A wooden table and chair,
two frameless beds, an ancient rocking chair---there were no other
furnishings.
"Sit by the fire, child, and wrap a blanket around you. I'll have the
tea....." But studying her face more closely, the old woman put a hand
to her forehead, and could not entirely suppress a look of concern. "Into
bed with you, Mary, you're burning with fever." And she quickly
arranged warm coverings for the thin, down mattress, which lay on a
jutting shelf of stone covered with straw, and threw more wood on the
fire.
Soon the room was warm, and in its primitive way, quite comfortable.
Mary lay in the bed, her shivering stopped, and the herb tea that her
aunt had given her calming her nerves. But still there were the
questions that would not rest.