THEY BITTERLY WEEP
by Janeen Kelley Grohsmeyer
at darkpanther@erols.com
copyright July 1998
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SYNOPSIS: In 1622, Duncan is banished from the village of Glenfinnan
RATING: PG
WORD COUNT: 6500
CHARACTERS: Duncan MacLeod, Mary and Ian MacLeod, Aileen and Malcolm MacLeod, Ellen MacTavish
DISCLAIMERS: The Highlander Universe and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Mary MacLeod, and Ian MacLeod are not my creations. They are the property of Rysher, Gaumont, and Davis/Panzer. Some of the dialog is directly from the first season episode "Family Tree." These characters and the dialog are used without permission, but no copyright infringement is intended, and this story was not written for profit.
The characters of Aileen MacLeod and Ellen MacTavish are mine. The name of Malcolm MacLeod was first mentioned in Debi Mosely's story "Winter Solstice." She has graciously allowed me to use it.
The title "They Bitterly Weep" comes from the song "Bonny Portmore."
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
- to Cynthia Oliver, for suggesting I write a sequel to "All the Birds of the Forest."
- to Beta Readers Genevieve Clemens, Cathy Butterfield, Vi Moreau, and Bridget Mintz Testa
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Feedback is very much appreciated and can be sent to darkpanther@erols.com.
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THEY BITTERLY WEEP
All the birds of the forest, they bitterly weep,
Saying "Where will we shelter or where will we sleep?"
For the oak and the ash, they are all cutten down,
And the walls of Bonny Portmore are all down to the ground.
- Bonny Portmore
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The second day of October, 1622
Glenfinnan, Scotland
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"Damn it, Duncan!"
The wooden dishes on the table rattled as his father Ian slammed his fist down. His mother Mary looked up briefly from her spinning wheel, then returned calmly to her work. She had heard this discussion many times before in these last two years.
"Why will you not marry the girl?" Ian demanded.
Duncan merely looked at him, his face set and his arms folded across his chest. He had shaved this morning, but had not yet braided his hair, and the dark strands hung about his face.
Ian sighed gustily and tried reason. "Sarah MacClure is a fine lass, comely, soft-spoken. Her uncle is chief of their clan; she'll bring many kine and sheep with her." He looked at Mary for help, but she would not look at her husband. "Your mother likes her, and she could use the help," Ian offered, hoping Duncan's love for his mother would move him.
Duncan glanced at his mother, but she would not meet his eyes either.
His father was losing patience again. "You have to marry someone, Duncan! You're thirty years old. You would not marry the girl I picked out for you five years ago because you hoped to marry Debra, and I gave you leave then." Four years ago Ian had gone to Debra's father and asked him to release Debra from her betrothal to Robert. But her father had said no, and Duncan and Debra had no chance to be together. Then, or now. Ian spoke more gently. "Debra's been dead four years, Duncan."
At the mention of Debra's name, Mary did look at her son. Duncan's face did not change, but an immense stillness came over him, and she saw the pain in his eyes. She sighed softly to herself. That summer had been hard for Duncan, hard for everyone in the village. Robert, Debra's betrothed and Duncan's own cousin, had been jealous and angry of the love between Duncan and Debra. He had challenged Duncan, calling him coward. Duncan had won the duel, but had lost so much more. His cousin and friend Robert had died in his arms. Robert's parents Aileen and Malcolm still would not speak to Duncan; they barely spoke to Ian and Mary. Mary grieved for her friendship with Aileen, and she knew Ian missed his brother Malcolm's friendship too.
It had been worse for Duncan. He had lost not just part of his family, but the love of his life as well. Debra had died in a fall from a cliff only days after Robert was laid in his grave.
As soon as the harvest had been gathered, Duncan had left Glenfinnan to go visit Mary's family, to be away from the whispering voices and the sidelong looks. He had stayed away all winter, and when he had come back he had seemed more at peace with himself. He had even seemed happy at times that summer. But it did not last. She knew Duncan still went often to Debra's grave on the hillside. She had seen the flowers. Duncan did not let go of those he loved.
His father saw the pain in Duncan as well, and he said softly, "I'm sorry for it, Duncan, but you must move on. You must marry." He leaned forward and spoke earnestly and forcefully. "You're to be the chieftain of this clan after me, Duncan, and the clan will not follow a chieftain who's not wed. And you must have sons to follow you. A chieftain needs sons." He slapped his hand on the table for emphasis. "Many strong sons. Aye, and daughters, too."
There was a quick rustle of cloth as Mary stood and left the hut. Too late, Ian realized what he'd said. He and Mary had but one living child. Her other children, both daughters, had died soon after birth. Ian stood up and glared at Duncan, taking his anger out on him. "Damn it, Duncan! You will marry that girl!" Ian turned in a swirl of green and blue plaid and left the cot to go comfort his wife.
Duncan remained where he was, sitting at the table near the circular hearth in the center of the room. Sarah was comely and soft-spoken, as his father had said, but there was no spark between them, no gladness of the heart, no lift of the spirit. Duncan knew he did not wish to marry her. Ellen had made him see that.
He had met Ellen soon after Debra had died, and they had spent the winter together. They had cared for each other, but it had not been enough. She had told him so, when he had said he was willing to marry her. "You should not marry, Duncan, 'til you find a woman who makes you more than just 'willing.' You need to want it, want her, with your whole heart, and I understand you cannot give me that."
He could not give his heart to Sarah either. Duncan sighed and ran his hand through his hair. There were no other girls in the village who attracted him, and he had taken the time to meet many from the neighboring villages, save at the occasional fair or clan gathering. He could not marry from the Campbell Clan; Debra's father, Brian Campbell, still held a grudge against him. Duncan could go visit with his mother's family for a time; he might meet someone there. If he did not, then he supposed he would have to marry Sarah. His father was right; he had to marry someone.
A fierce shout interrupted his musings, the battle cry of the clan MacLeod. "Hold fast! Hold fast!" Another hoarse cry came, from farther away. "A MacLeod!"
Duncan snatched up his claymore from its place by the door on his way out of the cot. Thoughts of marriage would have to wait. There was fighting to be done.
~~~~~
The MacDonalds had stolen twenty cows and taken the black bull, the pride of the village. The MacLeods had charged them, yelling ferociously and running across the rough ground. The MacDonalds had not wished to fight; they had loosed all the cows and tried to escape with only the bull. Slipping and swearing on the muddy ground and the cow manure, amidst the bellowing cattle and yelling men, the two clans fought fiercely. The MacDonalds retreated for a time, the bull still in their possession.
But Duncan had been wounded, and his clansmen carried him to the MacCaig's cot. Young Jamie Beaton was sent to fetch his mother Mary. Granny MacCaig sat in the corner with her rosary; there was nothing she could do for Duncan but pray.
His father rushed in and knelt beside him. "Duncan." The anger of this morning was gone, replaced by terrified concern for his only son.
Duncan lay on his pallet, gasping. He felt very cold. "Father, I..."
"No, no, no," Ian said quickly, desperately. "Save your strength." But he could see that there was no strength left to save. He could see all too well that Duncan was dying. "You fought well." He gave the highest praise he could. "You fought like a MacLeod!"
Duncan's eyes were glazing. "I wanted to be part of the victory."
"Aye, you will. You'll be part of a great victory!"
Duncan lay back, very tired. "I always thought -- there would be more," he said in pained confusion. The Witch of the Donan Woods had promised him that he would live a long time. He did not hear his father's next words.
When he woke, he could hear his clansmen calling his name in a steady chant. "Duncan MacLeod! Duncan MacLeod!" His father was not there, but Granny MacCaig still sat in the corner, telling her beads. Had he fallen asleep? There was blood on his side and on his hands, but the pain in his side was gone, and he no longer felt cold. Duncan sat up, confused, then jerked at Granny MacCaig's sharp scream. Why would she make such a noise, as if she had been frightened out of her wits? He reached for the rag in the bucket of water and washed away the blood, then touched his side with trembling fingers. The wound was gone.
Granny MacCaig's scream had summoned his father, and Ian appeared at the door, with more clansmen behind him.
Duncan looked up and spoke to his father. "It ... it is a miracle!"
But Ian was shaking his head, and he looked just as frightened as Granny MacCaig. "No!" he said in horror and revulsion. The words of the midwife Ould Margaret from many years before came back to him: "'Tis a changeling! You must not keep it! Cast it out for the dogs, leave it on the hillside, but get it gone!"
Ian saw now that she had been right. All these years he had harbored a changeling, a demon. Ian shuddered. "'Tis the work of the demon master of the world below!"
"Father!" Duncan called.
Ian stared at the creature he had called his son. "You're no bairn of mine! You're not my son!" The other clansmen backed away silently. Ian moved away too. "You're not my son!" He slammed the door tight behind him.
Duncan sat there, not feeling the water dripping on his lap from the rag in his hand, not hearing the mumbled prayers of Granny MacCaig. His father's words echoed in his mind. 'You're not my son, not my son, my son.' Who was he then?
He stood shakily and arranged his plaid about him. There was still blood on the cloth. He walked to the door and laid his hand on it. It took him a long moment to open the door.
His clansmen stood about in small groups, muttering. The battle with the MacDonalds was forgotten in the need to rid the village of this evil. More of the clanfolk were gathering, the women, the children, and the old ones standing by their cots. They were not chanting his name now. As Duncan stepped out from the cot, the muttering stopped, replaced by a cold and terrible silence.
"Father?" Duncan said uncertainly, and held out his hand. His father made the sign against the evil eye and backed away. Duncan looked about slowly, and on every face in every direction he saw the same fear and hatred.
Save one. Wee Jenny, a red-headed lass of two years was smiling at him. Duncan had often pretended to be a horse and carried her on his back. He knelt down and held out his arms to her, trying to smile. "Jenny? Would you not come play with me?"
She started to toddle over to him, a delighted grin on her face, but her mother snatched her up and held her daughter tight, hiding the girl's face against her dress. "The demon is trying to steal my child!" she cried in terror. "It'll take her soul for sure!"
"Demon!" came a harsh voice, followed soon by others. "Child-thief!" "Devil!" and "Demon!" again.
It was his Aunt Aileen, Robert's mother, who threw the first rock. The sharp edge laid open his cheek. Duncan staggered at the blow, more from surprise than from pain. He looked into her eyes and saw there the years of hate. He wiped away the blood with his hand, an odd tingling sensation following his fingers.
"There's no cut!" Aileen shouted, quick to notice the smooth skin where the rock had just struck. "He's in league with the Devil!"
"A demon! A demon!" the cry went up again, and more rocks and pieces of dung followed.
Duncan covered his face with his arms and called out again in hope and in fear, "Father!"
But Ian turned, head down, and walked away from him. He could not bear to watch, but he would not interfere.
It was then that Duncan started running, running away from his people, pursued by dung and rocks and cries of hate and fear.
~~~~~
Mary met him on the path that led to the high pasture. She had gone to help the wounded in an outlying croft, and was hurrying back to the village. Young Jamie had told her that Duncan had been gravely wounded. Yet here he was, covered with blood and dirt, walking swiftly on the path, his head down. "Duncan?" she called uncertainly, wondering what had happened.
His head lifted at his name, and Mary gasped as she saw the pain and confusion on his face. Questions could wait. She held out her arms to him, and he came running to her, as he had not run to her since he was a little boy. He was shaking, though he seemed unwounded. She sank to the ground and held him as best she could on her lap, rocking him back and forth, crooning softly. When his shaking had subsided, she asked again, "Duncan?"
He whispered something, and the only words she could hear were "father" and "demon." "Duncan?" she asked more sharply. "What has happened?"
He lifted his head, and she saw the clean tracks of tears through the dirt on his face. Not just dirt, she realized by the smell. Had the fighting moved to the sheepfold? She could hear no sounds of battle. "What happened?" she repeated.
"I do not know," he said brokenly. "I was wounded, here." He touched his side gingerly.
Mary swiftly pulled away the blood-stiffened cloth. The skin was smooth and unbroken. "There is no wound."
"Aye, I know. Not now. But there was." He looked at his hands; there were still traces of blood about his fingernails. "I fell asleep, and when I woke, the wound was gone." He looked into his mother's eyes. "'Twas a miracle!" he said, desperate to convince her, dreading to see the same fear and revulsion in her face that he had seen in his father's. Blessedly, there was no fear, no hate, just confusion.
"A miracle?" she asked hesitantly.
"Aye!" Duncan was sure. "A miracle." But this next part he was not so sure of. "But, when Father came in the hut, and saw, he said 'twas not. He said ..." Duncan's throat tightened, and he could not repeat his father's words.
"What did he say?" Mary's voice was soft and low.
"He said ... he said I was not his son." Duncan raised anguished eyes to his mother's eyes. "He said I was ... a changeling." He watched his mother's face carefully, hoping to see there a firm denial, hoping to hear her words of reassurance. They did not come.
Mary went very still. "He said you were not his son?"
"Aye." Duncan sat up then and moved away from his mother. "And then, the others ..." He lifted his hand to his cheek where the first rock had struck him. There was no pain, no cut, no bruise, though earlier there had been blood. He shook his head. "The others, they ... threw rocks, and called me 'Demon.'" Though many rocks had struck him, there was no pain anywhere in his body. "And Father turned away, and said nothing to stop them." No pain, save in his heart.
Mary saw the hurt and confusion on his face, and remembered his first whispered words. She knew with cold and dreadful certainty what that meant. "He has banished you."
Duncan blinked and stared at her in shock. He had not fully realized what had happened. "Banished?" he whispered. "No. It cannot be!"
"It will not be!" Mary said fiercely and hugged him to her. "I will not let it happen." She grasped him by the arms and spoke quickly, reassuringly. "They are frightened now, Duncan, confused. They do not understand how this happened." Neither did she, but she knew her son was no demon. "I will go to your father, and talk to him. You know how he does not always understand." She tried to smile. "Remember just this morning, when he wished you to agree to marry Sarah."
Duncan tried to smile back. "Aye." This morning seemed a long time ago. "But, where can I go?" The clansfolk had chased him halfway up the hill, only stopping when he had outdistanced all but the fastest runners. Those few did not wish to face him alone and had retreated to the safety of the village. Duncan had kept going, slowing to a walk only when he could run no more, walking until he had heard his mother call his name.
Mary thought quickly. "The hut, on the other side of the hill, where the cattle graze in the spring-time. Go there, and wait for me. I will bring you food." And clean clothes, she thought, looking at the ruin of his plaid. She gathered him to her in a swift embrace and held him tight. "You will be able to come home again soon, Duncan."
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