Bruar's Rest

needed attention now. She dashed home to her small croft not more than half a mile away, stopping at Margaret Mackay’s to ask her to spare some of her breast milk; it would be sufficient until she was able to milk her cow.

     
    That night and the following day she busied herself with her new charges. She had no way of knowing whether her brother had buried their mother, or, more to the point, fallen foul of the angry coastal dwellers who looked to the Seer for guidance. In their ignorance, they would think a one-eyed seer could only part-see their future, and what good was that?
    But the lack of news brought her little peace. Still worried, and feeling in his state of dire mourning that Rory might do himself an injury, or worse, she wrapped the baby in a shawl, tied him to her front, and with wee Bruar at her side went back to the place that not so long ago held nothing but the promise of new life and a future teeming with happy times.
    Turning the bend in the road before walking through the sanddunes she saw a spiral of thick, black smoke. ‘Stay here, Bruar,’ she said, motioning the child to sit in a patch of long grass. Down she went, hoping the burning heap wasn’t what she thought. A distinctive smell intermingled with ash and flame and was gently carried skyward by a soft breeze. As the odour found her nostrils she covered her mouth with one hand, tripping fingers of her other hand through a string of rosary beads and muttering prayer after prayer.
    A stick hung loosely from his hand as he pushed pieces of burning garments into the eager flame, tears flowing freely from swollen red eyes. As her shadow fell across the sun’s light, he looked up and croaked, ‘I know you think it bad what I’ve done, but sister, it was her way, that if ever she went before me I had to burn everything.’
    ‘It’s blasphemous, brother, to burn flesh. Jesus will come back at Judgement Day, and he won’t find her. Think of it when your time comes: she will not be waiting, but eternity waits for you beyond the furthest star.’
    ‘Oh, sister, can’t you see my life is here and now? She was my heavenly star, now gone forever. What care I of eternity, your Jesus or anything else? However, if you go back to the ruined cottage you’ll find I’ve buried her in the ground—this is our tent and belongings. What you smell is the blood-soaked bed covers.’
    ‘You have two fine boys who need a father. Now what kind of a man puts his own feelings before those of his children?’
    ‘I am no use to them. Please, Helen, can you see to them until...?’
    He didn’t finish. Already fisherfolk, smelling the burning clothes, were coming over the dunes. He kissed the new infant’s spotlessly clean face, smelling his freshness. Wiping tears from Helen’s cheeks, he said, ‘Kiss my wee Bruar, and when you tell them of me, don’t mention the drink. And if you can, forgive me.’
    He pulled a canvas haversack over his arms, positioned a cloth cap over a thick head of curly hair. A crooked stick lay half hidden in the sand, he lifted it and was soon striding along the beach.
    ‘Rory Stewart,’ a voice called, from over by the highest sand brae.
    Fists curled into granite-hard knots at the sound of that voice. Slowly he turned to see Balnakiel, his tormentor, leaning on a crutch, face half-smothered by a dirty, blood-soaked bandage. ‘Come here, young man, I have to tell you something.’
    ‘I’ve no mind to apologise to the like of you,’ said Rory, walking off faster now than he’d intended.
    ‘If the boot was on my foot, lad, I’d have done the same thing.’
    Rory stopped in his tracks. His wife’s dead body was still a vivid picture in his mind and he shouted, ‘Why?’
    Old Balnakiel looked to the heavens and said, ‘what’s before you, boy, will not go by you. I saw your woman, surrounded she was, by the Ban Sidh , 1 they were lowering her shroud and singing her death song.’ He hobbled closer to where Rory stood, and partly whispered with a soft growl, ‘Just as crystal clear as I see them lower yours!’
    From head to heel Rory felt the shiver of a hidden terror, a terror that had dogged him from childhood to manhood. His awe of the sea prophet was now apparent; he feared his own end. In his head he heard himself shout ‘when, and by whose hand?’ but the words would not come out. His tent was now a flicker of ash, already lifting into the breeze; his spirit was broken and he needed a drink.
    Without