Bruar's Rest

was slightly off balance.
    I didn’t know at the time what she meant, but later, while mulling over my visit, it became clear to me: she was simply implying that ‘to a writer, outer galaxies are reachable.’
    ‘Getting a wee bit senile,’ was the last thought I had of her standing on the red doorstep of her spotless cottage, smiling, one hand waving, the other folded over just as spotless an apron, her dog, wee Tam, tight against those tartan-slippered feet.
    As I looked in my rear-view mirror, that image of her waving, dog barking, seagulls diving for biscuit-crumbs scattered onto paving stones to the front of the house, was the last I saw of her. My last look drifted into the mouth of sea mist that swallowed all in its path. What I witnessed that day was old Mary’s preparation for death; two months later she fell foul of a massive heart attack. The best ghost story teller in all of Scotland had left the earth a sadder place, as far as I was concerned. A great tragedy, and in my hands rested her dirge tune; could I play it?

     
    A mound of research, the adornments of fiction and Mary’s facts (lodged methodically in my head) were merged to produce the story and journey which you, my dear reader, are about to embark upon now. I cannot enlighten those of you who ask, of my characters, ‘Were they real people?’ because, as is the way of many mist-folk, nobody like Mary tells a story with proven, documented facts. However, I may go some way in answer to you at this early point by saying, a blood-red vein does trickle in and out of a certain beating heart.
    Mary had informed me that the main players in her story were part travelling stock, and maybe that’s a reason why I found myself leaning towards this tale. If at times you find it difficult to grasp their culture, don’t worry, I’ll guide you through. However not all the players are mist-folk; like squares in a patchwork, in this story many different cultures are fastened together.
    Perhaps you’re at home, sat in that favourite armchair, G&T just so, or fingers warmed around a nice cup of what you fancy; maybe you’re lying in bed, cocoa at hand; maybe you are in a train or plane surrounded by strangers. Wherever you find yourself, come with me, I’ll tell you a story of how one lone young woman followed a flame of devoted loyalty through fear, murder and forbidden love.

Bruar’s Rest
    Run lassie, find your man, he sleeps above the earth, not below, fast go your way, like the stream, winding forth blindly, yet always aware of treacherous waterfalls cascading over sharp rock. Mind how you flow, wild child of Nature: go on until the great tide frees your tired limbs and the hidden sun shines for you once more. Embrace the warmth of he who waits in the shadows.’

T HE B EGINNING
    Our tale opens in 1892.
    Rory Stewart, a young Highlander, wild and far too fond of the drink, was the only son of a peat-cutter who’d passed away many years ago. His mother had also answered death’s call, leaving him and his older sister Helen. She was a staid and stern young woman, whose only ambition was to join a nunnery and live in quiet servitude to her faith. When parents were gone, she opted instead to take care of her wayward brother. A choice that brought constant regret.
    She did her best, but his love of drink and raising trouble in the quiet village of Durness , the northernmost point of Sutherland, caused her hours of torment. However, when a tinker man and his niece came passing through the village, his eye fell upon the bonny lassie. She had a power of beauty that crept into his sleep; if there is such a thing as love at first sight then surely it happened when he saw her. She had no liking, though, for men held under the power of alcohol, and for a while refused to look at him, still less would she share frivolous words.
    She was to his eyes a rare beauty, serene and charming. It was hard to believe she’d been a walker of the road, living under stars, washing in freezing burn water and laying her head wherever the feather fell. To him there would be no other: this had captured him, his dream woman. He’d not fallen in love with a lesser being as many might have considered such a match with a tinker; he’d fallen for an angel, who would prove his very own salvation. Down on one knee he went, but not until he had proved there was no longer any love of demon drink in him would she so much as afford a smile.
    So day followed day of sobriety and his