Bruar's Rest

good for young lads, but only if you want to. I’ll do the providing,’ he assured them with the full weight of his conviction.
    For a while Jimmy and Bruar talked things over, then Bruar, being the oldest, said, ‘Daddy, me and Jimmy think before you get much older, you’ll need us to see to you.’
    Helen could hear this from the compost heap where she had loosely tossed the withered flowers, and knew then she’d lost the two most precious people in her life. Aware that on this day her chapter of surrogacy was closing, she had to speak with Bruar alone, certain things had to be said. Going inside she called him, Jimmy went with his father at her request. Rory took his younger son’s hand and walked outside to give them time together. He knew she was going to tell Bruar about the ‘promise’; though he was aware of it, it was not his place to speak about it.
    ‘Son,’ she told Bruar, ‘listen to what I say and never forget it. In time I was going tell you of the “promise”, but I hadn’t planned it so soon. Your father is the last of our family’s line. In the ancient burial ground by the Parbh below the lighthouse there is one plot. It was destined for him, but because he laid a hand in anger upon the Balnakiel Seer he has forfeited it to you, his eldest. Whoever you marry she must see that you are buried in that old graveyard. You know where it is, for I have taken both of you many times. That is how it must be. And another thing, although he’s promised the drink hasn’t passed his lips for years, watch for its lure. Not even a priest of the church has enough will-power to resist it when the desire for it is strong. Drinking is like cleaning a cloudy mirror; suddenly a grand image will appear, but it only exists in the drinker’s head. The image looks dull again when the drink is gone. That’s why many fall victim to its charms.’
    The youngster understood little of these words at the time, nor did his immature thoughts rest on anything beyond the excitement of a wide, open road that was waiting for them. He wanted to see and breathe the newness of the southern Highlands, a prospect that was so much fun to one who’d been no further than the few miles either side of his auntie’s croft.
    But how different would be the sting of reality. They were used to a warm bed within the sheltered walls of that low-roofed croft, with the sea winds to its back and mountains to the front. These were to be denied to them; from then on they would live the ancient ways of their late mother, a hard and bitter life in which the elements would take their toll on two pampered boys. That was how it had to be; their father had decided, and from that day on his word would be the rule of the family.
    One final conversation between sister and brother was about that scar. He said he’d fallen over a clump of heather upon a sharp rock which missed his throat by an inch, striking his exposed cheek instead. He leaned forward, planted a warm kiss on her cold brow and whispered, ‘I was sober at the time.’ She just shook her head in disbelief, reminding him, ‘A tiger keeps its stripes, brother.’
    Next day after breakfast, the boys said their farewells to the only mother they knew. After saying goodbye also to Heather the cow and running from the nipping beak of an old red cockerel, they set off with a father who had until then been like a ghost from some recurring nightmare. Would he prove to be a hero, or maybe like that spirit from a bad dream come back to haunt them?

T WO

     
    T he next ten years saw them constantly wandering from place to place, living under canvas and eating from hand to mouth. They slept beneath summer skies, filled with stars or rain clouds, and they were familiar only with Mother Nature’s goods, her fish from the streams, fowl and rabbit from the heather moors. She filled their bellies and covered their bones with strong muscles. So into manhood grew the once petted boys, who became expert in all ways of survival. No thanks to their wayward father, though. One thing did turn out to be true; those wise words from Aunt Helen when she warned of their father’s fondness for alcohol. Its lure at times became too strong for him; he’d slip away, find a dingy drinking den and be without reason for weeks. If not for his sons, God alone knows in what state he’d have ended up.
    In lieu of pay for work they’d be offered a derelict building, unroofed but with four walls to keep out the bitter