Highland Ballad | Page 7

must learn from the trees, Mary. A lightning bolt, a cruel axe,
cleaves a trunk nearly to the root, and the oak writhes in agony. But it
does not die. It continues. And though the hard and knotted scars of
healing are not pleasant to look upon, they are stronger, many times
stronger, than the virgin wood. You must learn from the trees," she
repeated. "It is among their boughs and earthward tracings that the true
gods are found."
"You're not a Christian, then?" This simple non-belief seemed to her
incomprehensible.
"Nay, Mary, I'm not. The gentle Jesus may comfort the meek, but he is
of little use when it comes to vengeance." The woman stopped,
knowing she had said more than she intended. But perhaps this much of
the truth was for the best. She would have to know soon enough,
anyway. "There are other powers, closer to hand, that give the strong a
reason to go on living."
The younger woman studied her in silence, and all the awe and fear of

her that she had felt since childhood returned. She remembered the
chant, the flaming branch. And now the callous determination.....
Toward what end? She recalled the words that had seemed so innocent
the day before:
Just open the door for me; I'll walk through it. But what door was she to
open? What vengeance?
But first there was one more question, which rose in sudden fullness
before her.
"My God. Margaret. Who was my father?"
"The Lord Purceville, though it was not willingly I took him to my
bed."
There was no need to say more. Her mother went back to the hearth,
and after a cheerless meal, told her to remain in bed until the fever
broke. Then went out on some errand of her own.
Five
Mary remained in the bed as she was told until, between her natural
vigor and childlike curiosity, she began to feel better, and then, quite
restless. Putting more wood on the fire and dressing warmly (she was
not incautious), she began to look around her for something to do, or
perhaps, something to read. It was impossible yet to think through all
that had happened in just these twenty-four hours, or to know what she
must do in answer. She felt like a shipwrecked swimmer, far from
shore on a dark night: that the water around her was much too deep,
that she must rest, and wait for some beacon to lead her again to solid
ground.
But for all this, she could not help feeling drawn to the ancient chest
from which her mother had taken the hemlock. She told herself to
forget it, but could not.
That her mother practiced in the black arts was apparent; and a vague
feeling that perhaps through witchcraft she might reach the troubled
spirit of her beloved, drove her in the end to hard courage, overriding
all other considerations.
She went to the window and peered out, then moved to the door.
Stepping beyond it furtively, like a young rabbit outside the den, she
looked about her. The sun hung motionless almost exactly at the noon,
and the chill of night had passed. There was no sign of her mother, nor
any other creature save a solitary hawk, which soared watchful high

above.
She went inside again and rolled back the corner of the carpet, as in
quick glances she had seen her mother do. The chest lay beneath. The
thick belt was easily undone, and there was no other lock or latch. It
occurred to her briefly that this was what the old woman wanted, and at
the same time that she would be furious, and fly into a terrible rage. But
this did not matter. Nothing mattered except that Michael had come to
her, and touched her, and called out to her in living dream. She lifted
the wide lid, and set it back against the wall.
Somewhere outside a raven spoke, and a sudden blast of wind shook
the door. She started, and whirled about, but did not waver in her
resolve.
Inside the trunk were many grim and grotesque articles which appalled
her, and which she would not touch. But to the extreme left, pushed
together with their bindings upward, were four large manuscript books,
bound in leather. Her eyes, and seeking spirit, were drawn to these.
They were alike untitled and unadorned, yet to one she was
unmistakably drawn. Her hand moved toward it almost without
conscious thought: the smallest, burnished black. It was thinner than
the others as well. And so, growing wary of the witch's return, she
lifted it quickly and moved to the bed. There she slid it beneath her
mattress, then returned to the chest, which she closed and bound as
before. She