Post by williemeikle on Jul 29, 2009 15:40:25 GMT
The Flute and the Glen By William Meikle
(One of my early ones, previously published in Kimota #3, 1995 (UK), Dread #9, 1999 (US) )
Jamie lay hidden in the heather on the hilltop and watched the redcoats march past beneath him. So clean, so disciplined, their tunics burning the colour of blood into his brain.
They sang as they marched - songs of great victories, of violent bloodshed and of the longing for the comforts of hearth and home. They were people, men like his father and boys a little older than Jamie himself. They were people, and he hated them with a rage that burned, eating away at his sanity.
They had taken his father, his sister, their farm and his youth. Now he was going to make sure that some of them found their way straight to hell.
The signal came from his right and the bagpipes wailed across the hillside as the clans emerged from their hiding and the kilted horde sprang its ambush.
Jamie was among the first to rise and was already bounding down the hill, the heather pulling at his bare legs, the pipes singing tunes of glory in his head. He never even saw the muzzle flash but the bullet that took him down into blackness slammed into his chest like a kick from a bull. The last thing he heard was the clash of claymore against bayonet as the sides joined in hand to hand fighting.
He came out of the black slowly. His eyes were gummed together and he had to wet his fingertips to prise his eyelids apart. Even that small movement was almost too much for him - the bright cold pain in his chest threatened to overwhelm him and he had to fight to stay conscious.
At first he thought that he had failed to clear his eyes properly, then the night came into focus. A thick mist hung in the valley just beneath him, a blanket of grey that flowed like a river under the velvet night sky. The walls of the glen loomed dark and heavy above and overhead the stars seemed to spin around him.
Somewhere in the far distance the pipes played a pibroch, a lament for the day’s dead that felt like it came from the wind itself.
The drone was echoed by groans and shrieks from deep in the mist.
Down there, among the dead and the dying, something was moving. In its path grown men wept and pleaded, but where it had already passed there was only silence.
Jamie began to back away, his heels digging gouges in the soft earth, the pain in his chest flaring in time with his heartbeat. He knew that he would be able to move faster if he turned onto all fours, but he was unable to drag his eyes away from the scene below him.
Whatever moved through the mist did so silently - the grey vapour pushed in front of it in a great swell that cruised soundlessly over the valley, a wave of death that carried all before it.
The mist was swelling, growing in thickness and consistency, and the fall of chill vapour in his cheeks was enough to get Jamie moving faster, oblivious now to the pain in his chest, his legs pumping and his chest heaving as he forced his way over and through the rough heather.
A cry rent the air, a shriek more like an injured animal than a man.
Jamie stopped, afraid to even breathe as the mist seemed to inhale, rising and falling in a swell that raised it at least ten feet in the centre. Then there was a sigh, a drawn out groan which was echoed by a last fading drone from the distant pipes. Then all was silent, still and dark.
The mist began to disperse, slowly at first, thin wisps tearing off from its edges, then faster, as if a wind was tearing at smoke.
Only seconds later the valley was clear although there was no breeze, no wind - only the crystal stars in the velvet sky overhead. As the last of the mist dissipated Jamie thought he saw something black melt into the shadows on the far side of the glen, but the distance was too far, and when he looked again there was only shadow.
He shivered, just once, a chill that seeped into his bones. He knew he should go down among the dead and say the words over his fallen clansmen, but he couldn’t bring himself to descend even a foot into that vale.
He checked his wound, prodding gingerly with ice cold fingers, and was surprised to find no more than a flesh wound. He would be severely bruised for many weeks, but he would live.
There were tears in his eyes as he turned and began to crawl upwards. Tears, not of pain, but of shame. But he kept crawling, and he didn’t look back.
The night went on endlessly and the hill, the same one he had bounded down in seconds, seemed to have become a mountain as he forced his body upwards. He knew that he could stand, could walk up to the top with little difficulty, but he was loathe to draw attention to himself, loath to call back that grey mist.
The ground beneath him was getting rockier, the vegetation more sparse and he thought he might be nearing the summit when he heard the two-note whistle to his right, the sign of a clansman in trouble
He could have kept on going, indeed somewhere inside a part of him wanted to, but this was no inexplicable mist - this was a clansman, almost a brother, in trouble. He turned to his right and gave the answering whistle and was in turn answered by a groan of pain.
He didn’t recognise the figure he found lying on the ground, but the blue in his tartan showed him as a kinsman, in the same way that the blood at his lips showed he was not long for this world.
‘A boy,’ the man said, struggling to raise himself from the ground. ‘Jist a wee boy.’
Those words brought a fresh bubble of blood to the man’s lips.
‘Wan good cough and ma innards will be out on the grass wi’ ye,’ the highlander said, and almost managed a smile. ‘I’m no good for anything noo, so I suppose you’ll have tae be the one. I need ye tae go doon yon glen and fetch me something.’
Jamie stepped backwards, and the fear showed bright in his eyes.
‘Oh. Ye saw it did ye?’ the man said, and this time there was no humour in his chuckle. ‘Well ye’ve got nothin’ tae worry aboot - it only kills the English - the invaders. Besides, I think it’ll have had its fill for wan night.’
That sentence proved too much for the man and he lay back as a coughing fit hit him hard.
‘Shot in the lung,’ he finally said, his voice getting noticeably weaker. ‘If ye want the redcoats oot of our country, you’ll dae this - if no’ for me, then for your clansmen who died this day.’
Jamie nodded, remembering the bright red uniforms and the arrogant swagger of the redcoat army. He would do anything to see them out of his land, and if the thing in the mist was what it took, then so be it.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
The man on the ground was almost unable to reply. There was a watery gurgle in his throat as he finally spoke and each word cost him another part of what life he had left.
‘No time lad. It is old. It drove the men from the longboats oot of this land, and the Romans before that, and every invader back as far as the minstrels can tell. It comes for the flute.’
A fresh bout of coughing hit him and he grabbed hold of Jamie’s arm, hard, his fingers digging deep into the soft flesh as the pain racked his body.
‘The flute. Find the flute and take it tae the Prince. Your chief, Robert, carried it with him when he fell.’
The clansman coughed, one quiet, almost inaudible gasp. Jamie bent towards him, to ask where he was to find his Chief, but the light had already gone out of the highlander’s eyes. Jamie laid him down gently and said the words over the body. He stood there for long minutes, tears blinding him, before he could force himself to move.
As he stood on top of the hill the glen beneath him sat in deep shadow. He didn’t want to go down there. In fact he didn’t think his legs would carry him even if he ordered them. But if the battles could be won, then he had to do it. A crescent moon was rising over the hill across the glen as he began to make his way down to the dead and it was enough to light his way.
The air got noticeably colder as he got closer to the floor of the valley, but he didn’t think the chill he was feeling was wholly due to the coldness of the air. The moon glinted silver off the weapons strewn on the ground and the thick coppery odour of blood hung heavy in the air and caught at the back of his throat.
His legs were trembling violently as he stepped onto the valley floor and he nearly screamed when the closest body to him seemed to move. Something rose towards him, black and fast, and he had his claymore out before he realised that it was only a crow. He tried not to think what it had been doing at the body as he started to turn the dead over.
Luck was with him. He only had to turn over three bodies before he found himself staring into the dead eyes of Robert, the Clan Chief. He had not just been killed, he had been slaughtered.
Three separate wounds had almost succeeded in parting his head from his body and, just for good measure, a cluster of bayonet wounds punctured his chest. His left hand stretched out away from his body, his fist clenched tight. Jamie felt the stiff fingers break as he prized them open to reveal the small flute.
It was only six inches long, grey-white, made of bone, with crude carvings running along its length. It had been smoothed by the touch of many fingers and the air holes were ragged and torn. It felt warm in his hand as he turned it over and he could sense the power in it, the need to be played.
He was about to place it in his sporran when a shot crashed through the darkness, hitting the body beside him. His Chief jerked, just once, and for a second Jamie had a vision of the man coming back from the dead to protect him. But there was to be no help from that quarter.
He heard voices, and the sound of men running towards him.
‘I got myself a looter,’ a voice shouted. ‘Come on - he’s over here.’
Jamie had no other option. He turned and ran, following the floor of the glen. He was aware that he didn’t know the terrain, that his flight could be halted at any moment, but a further shot behind him steeled his purpose. He ran faster than he would have thought possible, unaware that the wound in his chest had reopened and that thick blood was flowing inside his tunic.
His breath was beginning to come faster and hotter until his lungs burned with fire. More shots struck the ground around him. He felt an itch in his back, aware that at any moment he could be dead.
He looked around, desperate for any point of cover, but there was only shadow and blackness. He wasn’t able to carry on. He dropped to the ground, pulling his plaid around him and trying to still the trembling in his limbs. His only hope was that they would pass him in the darkness.
For long minutes it seemed that the ploy would work. He heard voices around him, but none close. The voices faded, and Jamie began to breathe more easily. His relief was short lived. There was a sudden rustle to his left. He threw off his plaid and looked up into the face of a young English soldier.
‘I’ve got him - he’s over here,’ the redcoat shouted. Jamie had no time to draw his claymore. He lunged at the soldier, head butting him in the stomach and forcing him to the ground. He stood over the youth and would have drawn his sword there and then if it were not for the sound of redcoats running towards them. It sounded like there were many of them.
And that was when the flute jerked in his hand, twice.
‘Stand still or I’ll shoot.’ A voice called from the darkness.
Jamie didn’t think about his next action - it was as if the flute did it for him. He raised the bone to his lips and blew - two notes, a shrill high pitched rising note, a breath, and a long low drone.
By the time he lowered the flute he was looking down the barrels of a dozen guns.
‘What have we here?’ A voice to his left said, just before a blinding pain hit him under the ear. He fell to the ground, hard, and had to curl himself into a ball as kicks were rained on his body. Blackness began to creep in at the edges of his sight and he was weakening. His arms had just fallen away from his head, leaving it unprotected. He lay still, waiting for the kick that would send him away from the pain. And then the screaming started.
It was several seconds before Jamie realised that he wasn’t being kicked, and several seconds after that before he opened his eyes.
The mist was back.
And within it men were screaming and crying, men were dying. A red haze hung in the air, and the deep metallic odour clung to the back of Jamie’s throat. Something was moving through the vapour, something huge and black. Men fell before it, and behind it there was only silence.
Jamie pushed himself into a crouch, and was immediately knocked over again. He tumbled and rolled on the ground before he realised his opponent wasn’t fighting back. He looked down into the frightened face of the youth that had found him earlier.
‘Help me.’ The youth said, his face screwed up in despair, hot tears pouring down his cheeks. Jamie lifted him up to a standing position. He knew he should hate this red coated soldier in front of him, but all he could see was a frightened boy, a boy no older than himself. He put out a hand, either to steady the boy or to comfort him - he wasn’t sure which, but he was never to get a chance to find out.
It came out of the mist. At first it was only a shapeless blackness among the grey, then slowly it came into focus. It was eight feet tall, towering over the youths. Red gobbets of meat dripped from its claws and its talons, each as long as Jamie’s arm, were stained with blood along the whole of their length. Its eyes burned with a red heat, a heat which flared and blazed as it reached for the redcoat.
‘No!’ Jamie shouted, pulling the youth towards him. He was batted aside, gently, almost reverently, a blow which did no harm but sent him sprawling breathless to the ground.
Jamie could only watch as the soldier was drawn into the creature’s embrace, and he closed his eyes when the talons entered the body and began to tear. What he couldn’t shut out were the screams. He would hear that terror every time he closed his eyes.
Finally all was silent. Jamie opened his eyes, having to wipe away tears before being able to look around. The creature was bent over the youth’s body. It stood, raised to its full height and the mist flowed around it like a cape. It looked straight at Jamie, the heat in its eyes dimmer now, and then it did the thing which almost caused Jamie to laugh.
It bowed, a show of respect, its great head almost touching the ground. Jamie felt the flute move in his hand as the creature turned and faded back into the mist. As it receded, it began to fade, taking the mist with it. Only seconds later Jamie was standing under a sky that was beginning to lighten, the stars winking out, standing in the middle of a charnel house of slaughter.
He looked down at the flute in his hand, the thin piece of bone that turned again as he held it. Without a second thought he took it in both hands and broke it into two jagged pieces that he left on the ground as he walked out of the glen.
They would win the battles as men or they would not win at all.
That’s what he would tell the Prince when he joined him at the gathering.
At the top of the hill Jamie looked back, only once, before turning his face away and beginning the walk north, the walk to the gathering at the moor of Culloden.
(One of my early ones, previously published in Kimota #3, 1995 (UK), Dread #9, 1999 (US) )
Jamie lay hidden in the heather on the hilltop and watched the redcoats march past beneath him. So clean, so disciplined, their tunics burning the colour of blood into his brain.
They sang as they marched - songs of great victories, of violent bloodshed and of the longing for the comforts of hearth and home. They were people, men like his father and boys a little older than Jamie himself. They were people, and he hated them with a rage that burned, eating away at his sanity.
They had taken his father, his sister, their farm and his youth. Now he was going to make sure that some of them found their way straight to hell.
The signal came from his right and the bagpipes wailed across the hillside as the clans emerged from their hiding and the kilted horde sprang its ambush.
Jamie was among the first to rise and was already bounding down the hill, the heather pulling at his bare legs, the pipes singing tunes of glory in his head. He never even saw the muzzle flash but the bullet that took him down into blackness slammed into his chest like a kick from a bull. The last thing he heard was the clash of claymore against bayonet as the sides joined in hand to hand fighting.
He came out of the black slowly. His eyes were gummed together and he had to wet his fingertips to prise his eyelids apart. Even that small movement was almost too much for him - the bright cold pain in his chest threatened to overwhelm him and he had to fight to stay conscious.
At first he thought that he had failed to clear his eyes properly, then the night came into focus. A thick mist hung in the valley just beneath him, a blanket of grey that flowed like a river under the velvet night sky. The walls of the glen loomed dark and heavy above and overhead the stars seemed to spin around him.
Somewhere in the far distance the pipes played a pibroch, a lament for the day’s dead that felt like it came from the wind itself.
The drone was echoed by groans and shrieks from deep in the mist.
Down there, among the dead and the dying, something was moving. In its path grown men wept and pleaded, but where it had already passed there was only silence.
Jamie began to back away, his heels digging gouges in the soft earth, the pain in his chest flaring in time with his heartbeat. He knew that he would be able to move faster if he turned onto all fours, but he was unable to drag his eyes away from the scene below him.
Whatever moved through the mist did so silently - the grey vapour pushed in front of it in a great swell that cruised soundlessly over the valley, a wave of death that carried all before it.
The mist was swelling, growing in thickness and consistency, and the fall of chill vapour in his cheeks was enough to get Jamie moving faster, oblivious now to the pain in his chest, his legs pumping and his chest heaving as he forced his way over and through the rough heather.
A cry rent the air, a shriek more like an injured animal than a man.
Jamie stopped, afraid to even breathe as the mist seemed to inhale, rising and falling in a swell that raised it at least ten feet in the centre. Then there was a sigh, a drawn out groan which was echoed by a last fading drone from the distant pipes. Then all was silent, still and dark.
The mist began to disperse, slowly at first, thin wisps tearing off from its edges, then faster, as if a wind was tearing at smoke.
Only seconds later the valley was clear although there was no breeze, no wind - only the crystal stars in the velvet sky overhead. As the last of the mist dissipated Jamie thought he saw something black melt into the shadows on the far side of the glen, but the distance was too far, and when he looked again there was only shadow.
He shivered, just once, a chill that seeped into his bones. He knew he should go down among the dead and say the words over his fallen clansmen, but he couldn’t bring himself to descend even a foot into that vale.
He checked his wound, prodding gingerly with ice cold fingers, and was surprised to find no more than a flesh wound. He would be severely bruised for many weeks, but he would live.
There were tears in his eyes as he turned and began to crawl upwards. Tears, not of pain, but of shame. But he kept crawling, and he didn’t look back.
The night went on endlessly and the hill, the same one he had bounded down in seconds, seemed to have become a mountain as he forced his body upwards. He knew that he could stand, could walk up to the top with little difficulty, but he was loathe to draw attention to himself, loath to call back that grey mist.
The ground beneath him was getting rockier, the vegetation more sparse and he thought he might be nearing the summit when he heard the two-note whistle to his right, the sign of a clansman in trouble
He could have kept on going, indeed somewhere inside a part of him wanted to, but this was no inexplicable mist - this was a clansman, almost a brother, in trouble. He turned to his right and gave the answering whistle and was in turn answered by a groan of pain.
He didn’t recognise the figure he found lying on the ground, but the blue in his tartan showed him as a kinsman, in the same way that the blood at his lips showed he was not long for this world.
‘A boy,’ the man said, struggling to raise himself from the ground. ‘Jist a wee boy.’
Those words brought a fresh bubble of blood to the man’s lips.
‘Wan good cough and ma innards will be out on the grass wi’ ye,’ the highlander said, and almost managed a smile. ‘I’m no good for anything noo, so I suppose you’ll have tae be the one. I need ye tae go doon yon glen and fetch me something.’
Jamie stepped backwards, and the fear showed bright in his eyes.
‘Oh. Ye saw it did ye?’ the man said, and this time there was no humour in his chuckle. ‘Well ye’ve got nothin’ tae worry aboot - it only kills the English - the invaders. Besides, I think it’ll have had its fill for wan night.’
That sentence proved too much for the man and he lay back as a coughing fit hit him hard.
‘Shot in the lung,’ he finally said, his voice getting noticeably weaker. ‘If ye want the redcoats oot of our country, you’ll dae this - if no’ for me, then for your clansmen who died this day.’
Jamie nodded, remembering the bright red uniforms and the arrogant swagger of the redcoat army. He would do anything to see them out of his land, and if the thing in the mist was what it took, then so be it.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
The man on the ground was almost unable to reply. There was a watery gurgle in his throat as he finally spoke and each word cost him another part of what life he had left.
‘No time lad. It is old. It drove the men from the longboats oot of this land, and the Romans before that, and every invader back as far as the minstrels can tell. It comes for the flute.’
A fresh bout of coughing hit him and he grabbed hold of Jamie’s arm, hard, his fingers digging deep into the soft flesh as the pain racked his body.
‘The flute. Find the flute and take it tae the Prince. Your chief, Robert, carried it with him when he fell.’
The clansman coughed, one quiet, almost inaudible gasp. Jamie bent towards him, to ask where he was to find his Chief, but the light had already gone out of the highlander’s eyes. Jamie laid him down gently and said the words over the body. He stood there for long minutes, tears blinding him, before he could force himself to move.
As he stood on top of the hill the glen beneath him sat in deep shadow. He didn’t want to go down there. In fact he didn’t think his legs would carry him even if he ordered them. But if the battles could be won, then he had to do it. A crescent moon was rising over the hill across the glen as he began to make his way down to the dead and it was enough to light his way.
The air got noticeably colder as he got closer to the floor of the valley, but he didn’t think the chill he was feeling was wholly due to the coldness of the air. The moon glinted silver off the weapons strewn on the ground and the thick coppery odour of blood hung heavy in the air and caught at the back of his throat.
His legs were trembling violently as he stepped onto the valley floor and he nearly screamed when the closest body to him seemed to move. Something rose towards him, black and fast, and he had his claymore out before he realised that it was only a crow. He tried not to think what it had been doing at the body as he started to turn the dead over.
Luck was with him. He only had to turn over three bodies before he found himself staring into the dead eyes of Robert, the Clan Chief. He had not just been killed, he had been slaughtered.
Three separate wounds had almost succeeded in parting his head from his body and, just for good measure, a cluster of bayonet wounds punctured his chest. His left hand stretched out away from his body, his fist clenched tight. Jamie felt the stiff fingers break as he prized them open to reveal the small flute.
It was only six inches long, grey-white, made of bone, with crude carvings running along its length. It had been smoothed by the touch of many fingers and the air holes were ragged and torn. It felt warm in his hand as he turned it over and he could sense the power in it, the need to be played.
He was about to place it in his sporran when a shot crashed through the darkness, hitting the body beside him. His Chief jerked, just once, and for a second Jamie had a vision of the man coming back from the dead to protect him. But there was to be no help from that quarter.
He heard voices, and the sound of men running towards him.
‘I got myself a looter,’ a voice shouted. ‘Come on - he’s over here.’
Jamie had no other option. He turned and ran, following the floor of the glen. He was aware that he didn’t know the terrain, that his flight could be halted at any moment, but a further shot behind him steeled his purpose. He ran faster than he would have thought possible, unaware that the wound in his chest had reopened and that thick blood was flowing inside his tunic.
His breath was beginning to come faster and hotter until his lungs burned with fire. More shots struck the ground around him. He felt an itch in his back, aware that at any moment he could be dead.
He looked around, desperate for any point of cover, but there was only shadow and blackness. He wasn’t able to carry on. He dropped to the ground, pulling his plaid around him and trying to still the trembling in his limbs. His only hope was that they would pass him in the darkness.
For long minutes it seemed that the ploy would work. He heard voices around him, but none close. The voices faded, and Jamie began to breathe more easily. His relief was short lived. There was a sudden rustle to his left. He threw off his plaid and looked up into the face of a young English soldier.
‘I’ve got him - he’s over here,’ the redcoat shouted. Jamie had no time to draw his claymore. He lunged at the soldier, head butting him in the stomach and forcing him to the ground. He stood over the youth and would have drawn his sword there and then if it were not for the sound of redcoats running towards them. It sounded like there were many of them.
And that was when the flute jerked in his hand, twice.
‘Stand still or I’ll shoot.’ A voice called from the darkness.
Jamie didn’t think about his next action - it was as if the flute did it for him. He raised the bone to his lips and blew - two notes, a shrill high pitched rising note, a breath, and a long low drone.
By the time he lowered the flute he was looking down the barrels of a dozen guns.
‘What have we here?’ A voice to his left said, just before a blinding pain hit him under the ear. He fell to the ground, hard, and had to curl himself into a ball as kicks were rained on his body. Blackness began to creep in at the edges of his sight and he was weakening. His arms had just fallen away from his head, leaving it unprotected. He lay still, waiting for the kick that would send him away from the pain. And then the screaming started.
It was several seconds before Jamie realised that he wasn’t being kicked, and several seconds after that before he opened his eyes.
The mist was back.
And within it men were screaming and crying, men were dying. A red haze hung in the air, and the deep metallic odour clung to the back of Jamie’s throat. Something was moving through the vapour, something huge and black. Men fell before it, and behind it there was only silence.
Jamie pushed himself into a crouch, and was immediately knocked over again. He tumbled and rolled on the ground before he realised his opponent wasn’t fighting back. He looked down into the frightened face of the youth that had found him earlier.
‘Help me.’ The youth said, his face screwed up in despair, hot tears pouring down his cheeks. Jamie lifted him up to a standing position. He knew he should hate this red coated soldier in front of him, but all he could see was a frightened boy, a boy no older than himself. He put out a hand, either to steady the boy or to comfort him - he wasn’t sure which, but he was never to get a chance to find out.
It came out of the mist. At first it was only a shapeless blackness among the grey, then slowly it came into focus. It was eight feet tall, towering over the youths. Red gobbets of meat dripped from its claws and its talons, each as long as Jamie’s arm, were stained with blood along the whole of their length. Its eyes burned with a red heat, a heat which flared and blazed as it reached for the redcoat.
‘No!’ Jamie shouted, pulling the youth towards him. He was batted aside, gently, almost reverently, a blow which did no harm but sent him sprawling breathless to the ground.
Jamie could only watch as the soldier was drawn into the creature’s embrace, and he closed his eyes when the talons entered the body and began to tear. What he couldn’t shut out were the screams. He would hear that terror every time he closed his eyes.
Finally all was silent. Jamie opened his eyes, having to wipe away tears before being able to look around. The creature was bent over the youth’s body. It stood, raised to its full height and the mist flowed around it like a cape. It looked straight at Jamie, the heat in its eyes dimmer now, and then it did the thing which almost caused Jamie to laugh.
It bowed, a show of respect, its great head almost touching the ground. Jamie felt the flute move in his hand as the creature turned and faded back into the mist. As it receded, it began to fade, taking the mist with it. Only seconds later Jamie was standing under a sky that was beginning to lighten, the stars winking out, standing in the middle of a charnel house of slaughter.
He looked down at the flute in his hand, the thin piece of bone that turned again as he held it. Without a second thought he took it in both hands and broke it into two jagged pieces that he left on the ground as he walked out of the glen.
They would win the battles as men or they would not win at all.
That’s what he would tell the Prince when he joined him at the gathering.
At the top of the hill Jamie looked back, only once, before turning his face away and beginning the walk north, the walk to the gathering at the moor of Culloden.