Twelve
She had found what she sought: a chant to raise the spirits of the dead. In terror at her own resolve, yet no more able to restrain herself than to stop her heart from beating, she put the book beneath her arm, wrapped a thick cloak about her, then lit and lifted the torch that she had found.
The night was still and cold as she stole from the hut, with traces of ghostly mist already forming in the hollows. The moon shone full and hard, dimming the surrounding stars with its halo of pale white.
She made for the Standing Stone, as dry as bone, where the power was strongest, older than the hills themselves. She felt that she moved not of her own accord, but as a puppet upon the strings of some higher (or lower) being. The reading of those dark, soul-splitting words had done its work on her. She moved as if entranced---eyes wide, mind dark and dulled. Only very deep, in the roots of her being, did the heart remain intact; and she realized that no matter how strange the vehicle, or how terrible the consequences, this was a thing which must be done. She must reach out to him with living hands, and in death or in life, calm the tortured spirit of her beloved.
The Standing Stone was just that, an uncarved granite tusk, thrusting up from a high shelf which overlooked the ravine. She approached it slowly, her senses returning. It did not need the reading of ancient lore to make her stand in awe of it, or believe in its dark powers. For this was a place known throughout the countryside, to be wondered at by day, religiously avoided by night. It was said that the ghosts of William Wallace and Mary Stuart could be summoned here by those possessed of the black arts, as well as murdered warriors and chieftains from the grim, violent times before memory.
She trembled at the sight of it, as everything beyond fell away, shrouded by mist and distance. It was as if she stood at the edge of the living world, opening upon the vague and endless sea of Death’s Kingdom. Her one desire was to turn and flee, back to the world of daylight and living flesh. And yet she must not only force herself to look upon it, but pass beyond, and standing in its far shadow, to call upon the very darkness from which her spirit palled.
She stood motionless, her resolve wavering before the onslaught of doubts and questions. Was she doing the right thing? Might her actions not only do them both further injury? These thoughts interlaced with a raw, gut-level fear for her own safety.
Yet strong as these forebodings were, there lived inside her something stronger: the love of a single man. The thought of Michael alone and in pain, was more than she could bear. She took the final steps, and stood on the sloping ground just beyond..... It.
The ravine opened before her, its steep sides leading down to the flatted heath below: a narrow vale of silvered grass, withered shrubs and speckled stone, here and there marked by solitary trees which rose up from the wreathing fog like pillars in a flood. The same fitful breeze which had carried it from the sea beyond, moved the vapory shroud across the scene in ghostly patterns: here and again clearing an open stage, only to wrap it once more in its cloak of white invisibility.
But this she took in with her eyes only. More acutely than any other sense, she felt the Stone behind her, a glowering menace, an evil force aware of her presence. She steeled herself to turn and face it. Then braving its deepest shadows, she wedged the torch between it and a smaller stone, half crushed beneath.
And with this action, thrusting stubborn light into a place of darkness, she found the courage needed to perform the grim task ahead. Kneeling in the dank ground with her back against the Stone, she shook off the cold shudder that ran through her at its touch, and opened the book before her, turning to the ribbon-marked page.
Holding his image ever before her, she began to read aloud the chant.
The words came haltingly at first, unwilling, then stronger, slowly taking hold of her until it seemed another, far older woman spoke through her: that she did not need her eyes to recall the words or sound their meaning. The voice rose and fell.
By the Standing Stone, as dry as bone
Through ancient tales to walk alone
By moonlight stark, to spirits dark
We call to You
Their way be shown.
Back from the land, of withered hand
To islands where the living stand
With arms apart, and naked heart
This spell to Thee
I do command.
Send spirit forth, by dark stream’s course
If Hell itself should be the source
Let Cerberus’ gate, not hold his fate
But shatter walls
With killing force.
All this she read, and more besides, until her arms seemed to open of their own accord, in the final gesture of invocation. Then with the trembling emotions of a lifetime, she said his name.....
Nothing happened.
A slight freshening of the breeze, nothing more. The spell had failed. All her mother’s arts were but seeming and superstition. Michael remained on the other side of Death’s iron door, unreachable. She fell forward onto the bitter earth, overcome by unquenchable despair.....
She heard a sound.
Was it again the wind’s mockery of bagpipes, the faintest strain playing upon her mind alone? She listened again. The sound grew stronger, undeniable, moving toward her from the west. Far away it seemed, from the depths of the ravine, which led after many miles to the sea. It played Scotland the Brave, a poignant sound in that dismal place, as she heard in its every note a proud defiance of death and darkness. She got to her feet, and moving to the very edge of the shelf, peered intently into the wavering vale below.
The sound continued to come on, nearer and nearer, then suddenly ceased, now surely no more than two hundred yards away. She strained her every sense for sight or sound of him, in vain. She began to despair once more, until it occurred to her that perhaps the torchlight held his troubled spirit at bay. Quickly she returned to the Stone, and forcing out the beacon, rolled its lighted knob against the hissing turf until it sputtered and went out. Then moving back to the ledge she rejoined her vigil, prepared to wait all night.
But she did not have to. Almost at once she perceived the figure of a man, moving slowly through the fog. It came on steadily, down the center of the vale. Now hidden by the mist, now clearly outlined: a kilted Scottish soldier, pale and weary, wandering it seemed to her, without direction or hope. Her heart leapt inside her, reaching out to him with all that she was.
The curly head was raised at last, still vague with distance. The figure stopped, as if sensing some presence. . .then turned and looked up at her. A face once handsome and strong. His name was instantly upon her lips, as in fear and ecstasy she made to cry out to him---
Suddenly from behind her came a whoosh and swell of blazing light, and a harsh voice crying harsh words. She whirled to see her mother outlined in fire and smoke against the blood-red backdrop of the Stone. Then pushing past her, the witch hurled a flaming brand into the abyss.
“In se nama Dagda!” she cried in anger. “Baek wealcan sawol, to Helan!” A great billowing fog engulfed the place where the figure had stood. And when it cleared again, he was gone.
Still her mother stood poised, waited expectantly, a blackened rib held in her uplifted hand.
But when the apparition did not reappear, slowly she lowered it. . .and the look of wild fear passed from her eyes. She trembled, and spat upon the ground. Then with a sharp look at the girl, she turned to extinguish the swift bonfire she had made.
Then without a word, she took the sobbing girl by the wrist and led her away. Utterly devastated, Mary did not resist.
Only when they were safely shut up inside the lair did the old woman give vent to her fear and vexation.
“By all the gods, girl. . .you shall do no such thing again! Did you want to lose your own soul as well?”
“I don’t care!” cried her daughter sullenly. “I don’t care.”
And with the utterance of these words, rising as they did from her long suppressed darker nature, something precious and fine collapsed inside her: the will to live, and keep giving. She moved listlessly to sit before the fire, not for warmth, but only to turn her back on the endless pain and disillusion of this world.
All was lost, and darkness overwhelmed her.