Corrag Read Online Free PDF Page A

all.
    The one who saved people, and ruined the plan.
    She who remembers all things.
     
     
    Yes I will give you my telling.
    You say tell me what you know—give me names! Soldiers’ names. And I will. I will tell you of the Glencoe massacre, and what I saw—of the musket fire, and the screams, and the herbs I used, and the truth. The truth! Who else knows it, as I know it? I will tell you every part. And I promise you this, Mr Leslie—it will help your cause. It will help you to bring your James back, for what I have to tell makes the Highlanders look wise, and civilised, as they are. It shows their dignity. It says the King we have now is not Orange, but blood-red. I promise you that.
    And in return?
    Speak of me. Of me. Of my little life. Speak of it, when I am gone—for who is left to tell it? None know my story. There is no one left to tell it to, so speak of it from your pulpit, or write it down in ink. Talk of what I tell you, and add no lies to it—it needs none, it brims with love and loss so I see it be quite a fireside tale as it is, all truthful. Say Corrag was good . Say that she did not deserve a fiery death, or lonesome one. All I’ve ever tried to be is kind.
     
     
    I S THIS fair? A fair bargaining? Sit with me and hear my life’s tale, and I will speak, in time, of Glencoe. On a snowy night. When people I loved fell, and died. But some, also, survived.
     
     
    It is Corrag . Cor rag . No other name but that.
    My mother was Cora, sir. But her most common name was hag so she joined them together like two sticks on fire, to make my name. That was her way. Her humour.
    But Corrag is also what they call a finger in the Highland tongue. I never knew it till I walked into those hills. Many folk have pointed theirs at me, so it’s a fitting name. Also, it’s fitting that some mountains are called the word—the tall and snow-topped ones. There is the Corrag Bhuide which I never saw because it’s far north of here. But they say it is beautiful—mist-wearing, and wolf-trodden. It’s all height and wonder in my head.
     
     
    W HO would believe it? A churchman and a captured witch, helping each other like this? But it is so.
    The world has its wonders and I will speak of them.

Dearest Jane
     
    I have plenty to tell you. There is much to write, for today was full of strangeness—so much strangeness that I wonder where to start. Have I not met sinners before? I have. When I was still a bishop, I met plenty of them—thieves and fornicators, and do you remember the man they strung up for having two wives, and blaspheming? That was a foul business. I had hoped to never step near such wickedness twice, in my life. But I wonder if I have met worse.
    This afternoon, I sat with the witch.
    I think I wrote a little to you of how they say she is: savage, dark-hearted, and with lice. He—my landlord, who is the sole source of all I know, thus far—assured me she was quick-tongued and hot-tempered, or so he had heard. I asked how hot-tempered and he said very, I hear. She is the wickedest person that has been in that cell—and that cell’s seen some rogues, sir! And he filled up a tankard.
    I took my Bible, of course. I do not like being near wickedness, and I confess to you that as I walked through the snow to the tollbooth, I felt an apprehension in me. A nervousness, perhaps. So I recited as I walked, which heartened me. “But the Lord is faithful, and He will strengthen and keep you safe from the Evil One” (2 Thessalonians 3:3—as you know).
    Let me tell you of the tollbooth where she is kept. It is near the castle, in this town. It’s a sombre prison, certainly—half on the ground and half beneath it. It was built, I am told, to keep the Highland cattle-thieves before they were hung up on Doom Hill, and perhaps it was anxiousness on my part, but I thought I smelt cows there. It has the smell of a byre—dung and dampness. Also, the odour that comes from soiled bodies and fear—the gallows at