Bruar's Rest

stretch their wings and reach for the sky. Tiring of that, the pair fell laughing onto the coarse heather. With all the wonder of youth before them, they stared up into the cottonwool sky of that perfect spring day.
    Bruar, who had never forgotten his Highland home, threw back his head and said, ‘Oh lassie, what would I give just to be standing with you on my own soil. Aunt Helen would just love you to bits, I know it.’
    ‘Tell me of this land of yours, then, lad, so that I too can fill my mind with pictures.’
    ‘I have told you a dozen times before, surely you tire of hearing it?’
    ‘Never!’
    ‘Into the northern county o’ Sutherland, where I was born, you’ll find a cotter village, Durness. There, rugged cliffs hold back northern ocean swells that would surely swallow Scotland if it were not for their mighty heights. Once, centuries ago, wild Norsemen tried to conquer that land, but all they achieved was to claim watery peat graves for their lost warriors. Do know you why Cape Wrath is so called?’
    Megan gathered her skirt into a bundle and sat down upon a rock, green eyes growing wider with every exciting word. ‘No, no, tell it me quickly.’
    ‘Those very Vikings gave it that name. It means “the turning point”. No further south would they dare venture in their terror, that’s where they discovered that our peat bogs show no mercy. The Pentland waters north by Orkney and Shetland and across to Norway saw them fill their long boats and flee like scared crows. The place they fled from was to them the land of the South. It was why they called it Sutherland. High puffin-nested cliffs and deep as hell peat bogs frightened them off, tails tight between their legs. You see, Megan, they had the evil intent in them to rape our women, burn the Highlands, and claim the very land, but the inhospitable marshes where Hell-Nick himself dwells claimed their wiry limbs instead. My aunt Helen swore that when she and Dad were youngsters, they unearthed their thick-necked swords and shields once while cutting deep into the peat.’
    He was like an excited youngster as he proudly shared with her his story, face lit up as he remembered how wonderful it was on cold blizzard nights when he and Jimmy would huddle around Helen’s knees. The flames of a roasting fire shot up the chimney as they listened to her tell tales of Red Eric, the Dane who scoured around the coastline screaming that one day he would defeat the peat bogs—but he never did.
    ‘Oh lass, I can feel in my blood how my ancestors would have felt, watching from the peaks o’ Reay. All the way to John o’ Groats slithered a stream of longboats full of terror-stricken warriors dripping brown and black with the bog water.’
    ‘You’re a vivid teller, Bruar, almost like you were there yourself. I too have a piece of history regarding boggy ground. In Glen Coe a vast expanse of moorland, where they say a whole garrison of Roman soldiers disappeared, spreads itself for as far as any eye can see—Rannoch Moor, it’s called—and I can say with hand on heart, there’s many a night I sat in fear listening to witches and warlocks getting drunk on human blood!’
    ‘Now you’re pulling my leg.’
    ‘Yes, but its worth it to see the look on your face.’
    They walked on, laughing and sharing tales of a homeland that had been lost in the mists of childhood.
    ‘What are you thinking now, my love?’ she asked, as he failed to respond and she saw a serious frown replace his earlier smile.
    ‘Look, if I ask a promise, will you—’ his brow lined deeply beneath his shock of blonde hair. ‘On second thoughts, it’s far over great a request, best I don’t burden you with it.’
    ‘Ask whatever you want, Bruar. You must know how I care for you. If the power is in me, I’ll do it.’ She searched his solemn face for a response.
    He sat down upon a solitary rock seat and for a space of time fell silent. Obviously thoughts of great depth were swimming round his young head. They placed a distance between them. Then he held out his hand to her. ‘Megan, you know that I am the oldest, and that gives me a position among the Stewarts? Now, I am being serious, so listen. Do you know anything of ancient burial sites?’
    ‘Aye, my late father’s older brother William, who passed on last year, lies over at Glen Coe next to him, in a quiet spot within the Lost Valley. Great brute of a man he was, nobody thought his heart would stop beating, but it did.