Bruar's Rest

life story up to that minute and she his. He’d come to the area as a young man, and fallen in love with the wildness. He came back after graduating from theological college, rebuilt the crumbling chapel and had been there for ten years. Of the few Catholics living along the coast, Helen was the most devoted. He knew about Rory, his wife’s demise, and the boys.
    The changing terrain along the rough road, sea and mountains on either side, let her see another part of Scotland, one she felt close to: Bruar’s birth land.
    Not before time, Helen’s tiny, low-roofed cottage appeared on the horizon; another hour and Megan would have left the wooden seat of the carriage for some foot work. Father Flynn laughed; she could have run faster and been there yesterday, she told him, rubbing her backside.
    He lifted a hand and waved to the tall woman with grey hair coming to meet them. ‘So here you are then, Rory, home once again. You won’t be going anywhere this time, brother.’ Megan was ignored by the woman whom she took to be Helen, as she patted the coffin and stood silently, obviously praying.
    The priest offered his companion a hand, but she was already on solid ground. Helen approached, having said her piece to the coffin, and much to Megan’s surprise threw welcoming arms around her. ‘Lovely girl you are, Bruar chose well. This letter your friend sent us—terrible. Not just Rory, but the boys too. What manner of curse would take so many of the one line? Poor wee thing, you must be shattered.’
    A hankie was already soaked with tears, and Megan could tell by her nervous shaking voice that this poor soul was grieving. The letter held all the explanations about her family’s loss; there was no need to open the wound further.
    The priest left them to become acquainted; he’d a funeral to arrange. It was early evening, and first thing in the morning they’d lay Rory to rest, thanks to the dedication of Megan and Doctor Mackenzie.
    The two women chatted for ages, drinking tea and eating bread well into the early hours, but Megan was exhausted. The hard journey spent worrying in case anything should happen to Rory’s remains had taken its toll. In a bed with soft pillows and a large patchwork quilt, she slept like a baby, not moving a muscle until a cool early morning breeze whistled through a crack in the window-frame. When she awoke, a hand holding out a warm, sweet cup of strong tea welcomed her to a new dawn.
    ‘Did you sleep well enough? Take your time in drinking this and don’t come ben the house until you feel like it. There will only be three of us at Rory’s burial, us and the good Father—oh, and not forgetting two grave-diggers. I’ve dressed my brother’s box with a black drape; the horses are fed and watered, so after a bit breakfast we’ll get off. The road down to Balnakiel is short.’
    ‘Is he not being put into the Parbh? Bruar told me that was the last place, and as he’s gone, that’s why I thought...’
    ‘No lassie, we can’t cross over the water with a coffin, so Father has organised a wee plot down at Balnakiel graveyard. I know why you think his remains should go into the Stewart burial ground, but there’s not enough men to ferry him over, so the nearest burial ground will have to do.’
    Megan felt robbed, her thoughts were troubled and she wished she’d buried Rory back in the glens beside Annie in the wood. All this train journey and three days travelling through bog roads seemed in vain. However, Helen was not a strong woman, and as the priest seemed to be organising matters it was out of her hands.
    After the funeral she’d say her goodbyes and trek back to Thurso. The doctor’s eyesight and health were failing rapidly; he would be in need of help.
    Father Flynn had dressed himself as if he were conducting a regal funeral. He’d all his purple and gold vestments hanging perfectly, his hair combed straight and a little cap perched like a scone to the back of his head. His most precious missal was clasped firmly. Megan had never witnessed a Catholic funeral and was both curious and apprehensive. To complete the entourage, two gravediggers stood on either side of the carriage, cloth caps in hand.
    Nestled behind a wall of ancient stone, crossed by a meandering burn filled with marigolds, the little graveyard was filled with history. To its back, towering into mist, rose the mountains of Sutherland. Before it, Pentland Water, (near which Bruar, wide-eyed and excited,