A Rather Reasonable Sacrifice

 

A Rather Reasonable Sacrifice

By

Mad Lews

©2006 all rights reserved

 

Scottish Popular Ballads.1882-1898

 

O I forbid you, maidens a’,

Tha’ wear gowd on yer hair,

Ta com’ or gae by Carterhaugh,

For young Tam Lin is there.

               

     There’s no major motorway going direct from Kilnineve to Stirling. The A198 makes a major dogleg about Loch Lamont that adds at least two hours to the trip. The meeting was to be at one, and there was little doubt I’d be late, so I headed across on the backcountry roads, hoping that would help make up some lost time. An hour into my journey, the Fiat sputtered to a standstill, done in by a clogged fuel filter. I trudged through the drizzle back toward the tiny village I'd last passed through.

The local mechanic said a new fuel filter would take a day or two to fetch, but he could jury-rig a bypass if I’d give him a few hours. I retired to the town’s only pub to while away a bit of time.

 The publican was a pleasant enough chap with a gap toothed grin. His curving mustache flowed seamlessly into muttonchops and drew one's eye away from his thinning top. He allowed me a call to the office in Stirling and I offered my regrets for missing the meeting.

I ordered a pint of Boddingtons bitter and looked about. I saw but one other soul in the establishment so with an expansive wave I ordered a round for the house.

     The old man in the corner nodded as he accepted his fresh pint. He wore an old tweed jacket, the kind with leather elbow patches; it had once been of good quality but was well worn now. He’d a good head of thick gray hair and full beard; both were weeks beyond a proper trim. In short, he looked the part of a gentleman, a bit past his prime.

When he started toward me, pint in hand, he moved with the stiff gait of a man deep into his seventh decade. It was his eyes, though; those slate grey eyes had the haunted look of a man seeking a confessional. It was enough to make me regret my impulsiveness. I was too polite to move off so I nodded at the stool next to me. The barman moved deliberately away, leaving me ensnared in the trap I'd sprung upon myself. There was no doubt the old man felt he had a tale that needed to be told and I'd be hearing it.    

     “I've lived all my years in this village of Chauterfield, at the head of this Gray Thistle Glen.”

His voice was clear, well used to public speech; perhaps he was a retired solicitor, or maybe a local councilman.

“Chauterfield lies just below yon bluff,” He gestured vaguely toward the door. “that we locals call  ‘The Mound’. A spring issues forth midway down the western slope, it slips and splashes its way beside a forested path and out onto the floor of the glen. This would be the one what's called the ‘Burn of Bliss’.

“From the eastern face of the bluff a waterfall drops straight down nigh on eighty feet to the rocks below then follows its time worn path down into the valley. It’s always been known as the ‘Burn of Mourning’. A half-mile further along the vale the two burns meld into a stream that runs a course toward our village. It's dammed up at the northern edge of the green to form the old millpond.”

He took a pull from his pint, wiped his lips on his jacket sleeve, and continued.

     “The name ‘The Mound’ isn't for the bluff itself but rather for the strange circle raised atop the bluff. We're not talking of a stone circle as you find in Castlerigg and elsewhere about the countryside. Nay, we speak here of a perfectly symmetrical mound.

From the very center of that mound juts a lone rock o’re a foot high, most do claim it resembles a toadstool.   

     “Chauterfield is mentioned in ‘Dunnfield’s Guide to Touring Scotland’ as a quaint hamlet well off the beaten path but a lovely spot for both the birding and antique enthusiasts. The Mound is not mentioned in that or any local guide. Still it attracts a steady stream of tourists who take the meandering trek up to the top for the fine view of our glen.”

     He paused, his thoughts wandering; he seemed harmless.

 “Memories run deep ‘ere, and that mound has always played havoc round these parts. ‘Tis never a cheerful place; we locals avoid it regularly, 'specially near the summer solstice.

“We're a close-knit group. Some might say we're a clannish lot, as closed mouthed as we are closed fisted. Mayhap it's true. In any event, none of them will tell ye what I do tell ye now.”

He took a sip. When he continued his voice was lower as if, at last, he'd tell what secrets he felt needed telling.

“A castle stood on that bluff in the mid-eighteenth century. That ‘ould be the last stronghold of the Jacobites. It stood proud and defiant long after the Bonnie Prince lost his men and nerve at Culloden. On the eve of the summer solstice in 1747 the castle fell to an overwhelming English force. There were 63 that manned those castle walls, but nary a one survived its capture. Bloody King George ordered the castle torn down and stone-by-stone the rocks were scattered about our glen. It took a company of Royal Engineers three months to finish that task. Through it all not one of that cowardly lot laid his bloody hand upon the mound.

 “The defenders are buried together up there, the grave unmarked. Ten years later a monument was erected in our local cemetery. It still lists the names and the Clans of those 63 men. There be a 64th entry, an ‘Abigail o’ the Macgregor’s Clan’, but none now know the meaning of that.”

The old man’s eyes glistened and he drained the pint. I signaled for another round. As the publican set the pint before him the old man’s stormy grey eyes swept over me in cold calculation. Suspicion and mistrust struggled with some other deep need.

“If the local archaeologist be believed,” he spoke a bit louder now.

“…and why would ye not?” he asked, his tone defiant, and though it was I he glared at, I sensed that his anger was directed elsewhere.

 “He's a local lad.” he said, in a slightly more conciliatory tone.

 I nodded, feeling an interloper a bit defensive in the role I’d been cast. Still it was his choice to tell the tale.

 “‘T were a Roman fort up there near two millennia ago. Must have been the furthest north the Romans built, 40 miles above Hadrian's Wall. Among the bits found was a keystone block. ‘T was inscribed in Latin, crudely chiseled with a centurion’s name, Flavius Victrous, of the 2^nd  century, Sixth Legion. If it all be a hoax, as some do claim, it be a well planned and executed one. Indeed the Sixth Legion was stationed on the northern frontier till sent to fight the Goths in 86 AD. 'T would make the fort at least fifty years older than Hadrian's Wall itself. Of the fort, naught of the structure's left. The bits of glass, pottery, and metal from the Roman era all be charred an’ melted so it be likely the Jacobites weren't the first to be sacrificed o'er the mound.”

He paused, sipped, and moved on. I'd been taken in.

“More recent, there be the suicide pact that took the lives of five young lads, up from University on holiday. They were found dead at the base of the falls havin’ leapt one after t’other to their deaths. A lone bonny lass was found wandering among the broken bodies, but she were quite mad and never could tell what’d happened. That caused quite a bit of a stir back in '53. Since then we've tried to clear the woodland during early summer. Still almost every year a tourist or some local lass disappears for a spell.

“Present legend would have the mound be seeking only a virgin lass, but that surely be the local lads trying to protect their sweethearts from a virgin's dire fate.”

He chuckled a moment, then his voice grew somber again.

“‘T was two elderly women; birders out early, who found the last lass. She lay in the moss covered hollow twixt the two burns. She was naked, bruised, battered, but alive. She weren't responsive ‘t all, like her mind had fled to some better place.”

He eyed me sharply, his words coming faster now.

“We knew how best ta deal with such situations. Those two biddies 'at found her called the county authorities. ‘T was most unfortunate for they called still more outsiders; in the end a ‘Major Crimes Unit’ was sent up from Edinburgh to investigate.

 “She were a blonde tourist from New Zealand, a schoolteacher I do believe. As luck would have it, she’d won a vacation packet that be offered by the tourist board in an internet charity raffle.

“She was nae help to the investigators. True she'd been assaulted, but, other than some bruises and scrapes, she were in fair shape. An Inspector swore she'd murmured ‘Tram Line’, but there’s none in these parts and she'd fallen silent since. She seemed completely disconnected from reality. They found no semen, the investigator concluded her assailment had used ‘protection’ ta hinder the investigation. The local constable rolled his eyes at such nonsense, but bit his tongue and let the professionals proceed about their business.

“She'd nearly torn off two fingernails in the struggle. The scrapings yielded some dirt but no trace of human flesh. The investigators puzzled over her lack of clothing until a local lad took pity, he led them up the bluff to the mound itself. There they found bits of her pink cotton nightgown and a white terry cloth robe, but that only deepened their puzzlement.”

The old man sipped perfunctorily and then pressed on.

 “What they found were tiny fragments—‘twas impossible to tell what'd occurred, almost as if her clothes had turned as brittle as fine porcelain, then shattered into a million bits. Stranger yet, some of them strands o’ cloth were found imbedded in trees and rocks up ta forty paces from the mound. If this were where she be attacked one need wonder what in God’s name happened to her clothes and how did she end up down betwixt the burns?  

“The special crimes team mucked about for a few weeks complaining all the while about a shortage of local co-operation. The woman's cuts and bruises were treated and she were sent off to a psychiatric ward diagnosed with ‘hysterical amnesia’.

“There be a whiff of scandal four weeks later when an orderly of 23 years good standing were sacked. When the same event reoccurred with the next rising of the new moon, the man be reinstated with back pay and a proper apology. On the third month when the nearly catatonic patient were fully restrained inside a locked room, the same shameful thing happened yet again.

“Our village council stepped forward and offered to place the poor woman in a local nursing home. There she would be protected and cared for.

“Everyone breathed a sigh of relief and life returned to normal. The woman remains nearly comatose but for those evenings when a new moon rises. It be then that you find her on hands and knees pressing back against an ethereal lover that only she can see. The following morning will find her as unresponsive as ever; but with fresh bruises and abrasions. The psychiatric professionals assure us these are only the product of her vivid imagination.”

The old man straightened, appraising my reaction. With a nod he continued.

“It be going on for almost nine months now. If everything goes the way it always do she’ll wake after the thirteenth new moon. She'll ‘ave lost a year of her life, and whatever maidenly virtue she’d arrived with. She ought ta be grateful though. Not a single victim has died for nigh on these sixty years.

“‘Haps in these parts even spirits can mellow with age.”

It’s a joke, I thought hopefully, a clever ploy to win a pint from a passing rube like me.

He saw my wavering doubt, addressed it with an uncaring shrug. He was nearly done. 

“The villagers will take up a collection for the befuddled lass when she awakens. We'll hand that small token over along with our best wishes before we send her on her way.”

With that he drained his second pint. I thought him finished.

“But enough of that sad tale; the council's be sendin’ out five new vacation packages this very noon. By chance the lucky winners all be winsome lasses, each single, and every one with golden hair. I’ll wager one of them will tickle Tam Lin's fancy.”

He rose stiffly to take his leave. My doubts were in a tumble; I dared not ask his name. He paused at the door, turned, and spoke these final words to me.

“And may God have mercy on our souls.”