Copyright © 2015 by Mag. Peter Csar Laird of Glencairn, all rights
reserved
Contact: Author
URL: Mysterious Scotland
The
fog hung dull and hazy. A constant drizzle seemed to fall from the dampness
which had crept into the hollow with the twilight. The ground, boggy even
on dry days, splashed and gargled its muddy throat, so utterly soaked it
was bathing in the dumb tears of this autumn dusk.
A
day was drawing to an end, one of those dull rainy days on which light
had hardly reached the ground. A day more similar to its dark counterpart
of night.
A
west wind had arisen. Its invisible fingers prowled through bleak bushes.
They dragged and picked, swirling rotten foliage and debris upward. Mouldering
leaves whirled around in grotesque courses and many an uprooted plant collided
with a lonesome High Cross which dominated this no man's land. The cross
was four meters high and rested on a firm foundation of heavy blocks, mouse
grey and sculptured from an archaic rock which had stoically adapted to
this gloomy place. Mouse grey also was the richly ornamented crown, the
Celtic symbol for Jesus Christ - the round Celt plate from which the powerful
joists of the stone cross pressed out on four sides. Cross and sun - the
perfect synthesis of Christianity and ancient paganism.
The
cross reigned over a shallow hollow between bubbling morass holes. Far
away from the safe paths which approached the fortress of Dumbarton, the
High Cross stood in isolation where a wild grass path found his end.
For
nearly twenty years it had stood here, filling an empty land with living
symbolism. The most gifted stonemasons of the Scottish royal house had
crafted it with such precision that their work of several months could
defy the eternity it represented. It attested to the profound mourning
and eternal remembrance of an irreplaceable loss. Because for so long as
eternity, the glory and memory of the one who met his unfathomable destiny
here in these bleak hills should be glorified.
'Never
will he return!'So it was written
in the topmost stone on the High Cross, written plainly in the simple notches
of the Nordic Ogham script. Not a name, nor the briefest hint of what had
happened here. Only this simple, peculiar manifestation of immense grief.
Such as it was, it was enough because every living soul in Dalriata knew
to whom it was dedicated.
In
spite of the inhospitable murky earth on which it stood, the High Cross
drew pilgrims to its stony feet, roused by an obstinate tale which circulated
throughout the kingdom. At first, there had been the rumour about mysterious
cures which happened at the foot of the High Cross. Blind men claimed to
have found their eyesight again after wetting their eyelids with the morning
dew that gathered in the deeply etched notches of the inscription. Those
who were gravely ill would be healthy if they could spend an icy night
here, and barren women would conceive after their pilgrimage to this sacred
place. The tales of miraculous cures were so plentiful that hardly a member
of the kingdom would not benefit in some way or another by a reverent visit
to touch its ponderous form.
Some
accounted that weird jack-o'-lanterns flitted among the shadows of the
dangerous bog, approaching strangers at their whim, penetrating their bodies
with their victim's breath. Even these phantoms, so the wondrously recovered
swore, would do God's work on their insides before escaping through their
nose again. Others reported mysterious singing which would caused pleasant
shudders of deep veneration and ecstasy. Fantastic descriptions of many
mysterious sights appearing and disappearing, of enchanting, radiant white
flower meadows near midnight in which small, delicate shapes could be seen
hopping about, completed these fairy tale rumours.
Nevertheless,
it was a place avoided in general - and not only because of the spiteful
marsh! Packs of wolves and other slavering predators lay in wait there
at night and did their dark mischief in these naked hills. Let alone those
insidious shady beings who lured wanderers at night to a wet death, and
sparkling apparitions who drove the daring to pure insanity. If the supernatural
were not enough to evoke fear of the place, it was whispered that guilty
criminals, left behind here, found their just punishment by those cruel
ravings of the night. Therefore Dubh Mor, Scottish king of Dumbarton, had
delivered up the most dangerous murderers and thieves, bound and helpless,
to meet their destiny at this feared place. And so the base of the High
Cross had a reputation for the sacred and the profane, and over a wide
distance it was knows as the dreaded execution place for trials by ordeal
– a heathen remnant that stayed on in the converted peoples of Dalriata.
To be found alive after a night with the High Cross affirmed the innocent.
Many
had tried to discover the truth about these inexplicable cures and condemned
deaths. They had to be satisfied with a gruesome but unsuccessful night
in the open, besieged by the lively eyes of wolves. But, one doubtless
fact remained: whether judgement or release, all was attributed to the
one in whose honour the cross had been created. Was it untrue, then, what
was chiseled in the stone - 'Never will he return!'?
*
* * * * * * * * *
It
happened on one of those cheerless rainy days in late autumn after a twilight
which hardly lit the sky at all, so heavy were the clouds that no light
could find its way to the wet ground. Wind had arisen and an evening fog
hung above the deserted High Cross of Dumbarton. The rejected foliage of
the gnarled trees whirled around it. Somewhere outside the bog the howl
of a lonesome wolf vied eerily with the wail of a melancholy screech owl.
Roaring, murmuring, lisping, gargling and bubbling, the sounds of nature
resisted the inherent solemnity of the place. Had a wanderer gone astray
here that late evening, he would have heard only these. Otherwise, to what
should he have paid attention, here in the midst of wet ruin?
Perhaps
to soft, strangely melancholy sounds wafting below the fog, or to the jack-o'-lanterns
licking ghostly flames over the water holes? The wanderer was far enough
away for them not to make him a victim of their deceit. Perhaps it is a
stout, hunchbacked shape which would have excited his attention, that one
crouching there at the foot of the High Cross. It could have been so, had
he passed alone, this nightly witness...
"Brude!
Brude! Turn
back!"
The
crippled creature squatting in the shadow of the cross started, raising
its hands as if to shield itself from attack as it stared out into the
bog. The voices were still there.
"Brude!
We are your home, your family! Turn back!"
A
cool foggy haze snaked over the deserted swamp. Colourful jack-o'-lanterns
danced gracefully towards the humpback. Soon glittering spheres swirled
about the frightened creature. He had hoped it was only an illusion…in
vain did he try to escape unnoticed. They saw huim and approached. What
should he do?
"Remember,
Brude! Remember how heavy the humiliation you have carried from their taunts!
You are afflicted with ignominy! Let us wipe it out! Stay!"
But,
the stooped figure held his crooked arms over his wrinkled head, looking
desperately about to find a place to hide. His snow-white hair spun about
his ugly face as if it were part of the haze which spitefully had encircled
the colossal cross.
"Once
you came here and called for us, Brude! And we promised we would come.
Don't look back, Brude! You may never return!"
"I
want ... back ... back!" The poor creature started to flee. With astonishing
speed, the short legs carried his twisted body over the brown grass, passing
dangerously close to a mudhole that yawned in the morass.
"... back
... back again ..."
"Brude!
Brude! They will whip you and move you to the pillory, they will mock you!
We love you, we want to soothe your pain! You are one of us, Brude! Of
us! Don't
forget!"
"Dalriata! Back
again ... back ... cannot stay ... may not stay!"
On
top of a little hill the exhausted hunchback fell to the ground.
"Dubh
Mor! Dubh Mor!"
His
glassy eyes roamed the abandoned countryside imploringly and rested on
a mighty boulder whose vague outline dominated the drizzling horizon. Flickering
lights on the thick walls of the fortress, a low roaring of the nearby
creek, the soft murmur of shaking treetops…
"Dalriata
... Dubh
Mor ... flesh and blood ... blood ..."
"Brude!
Brude! We
have heard you twice and you may call only once again! Forget,
Brude! Your
welfare lies in your forgetting, in this alone!"
"...cannot
...may not forget...Dubh Mor! Dubh Mor!"
Like
a moan rising out of the throat of a mortally wounded animal, his lips
stammered these words again and again. Fixing on the castle hill, blanketed
in fog, a look unspeakably sad and filled with deep longing filled his
eyes.
"My
flesh and my blood ... Dubh Mor! Dubh Mor!"
"Brude!
Brude! One last time we warn you! You will reap naught but scorn and affliction!
Turn back to us! You only may call once again!"
"No!
No! Let me go! Dubh Mor! Dubh Mor!"
The
hunchback sprang up panic stricken onto his crippled feet and stumbled
down the slope, tripping and jerking while his nervous fingers sought a
fasthold on the tall wet stalks that emerged here and there from the mud.
Inspired by an immense will, he braced upon his rickety legs only to drop
and tumble like a deformed ball hardly human in shape.
"Must
go...Dubh Mor... is waiting ..."
"Brude!
Nobody is waiting for you and they will never believe you! Dalriata isn't
your world any more! Abandon it! Let them live their lives in ignorance!"
"Dubh
Mor .. must believe! All of them must believe!... this despair ... hurts
so much ...!"
And
the old hunchback wept quietly, tears streaming over the creased cheeks.
His bony fingers wiped at them furtively. "They must ... must understand
... must believe ..."
"Brude!
Brude ...!"
"I
go ... they will believe ... away! Away with you!"
A
little object burned like a hot coal in his clenched fist. It was a small
box wet with tears and sparkling like the jack-o'-lanterns which encircled
him. Confused, expressionless eyes stared at it…this tiny box mockingly
peeping out between his cramped fingers.
"No,
not found... not stolen…is mine! You must believe me ..."
"Brude!
Brude!"
But
the old man was no longer aware of the warning voices around him. He had
made his decision already long ago. He toddled off through the ghostly
wall of light blue flames, then he limped away, away from the magical protection
of the High Cross, away to the mighty, split mountain dome of Dumbarton
that lay opposite to the sacred place.
In
the shadows of the giant megalith they seized him, seized him with bursting
and scornful laughter, dragged at his worm-eaten jerkin until it burst.
Strong sinewy fingers grabbed the spindly arms, throwing him into the damp
dust of the narrow esplanade. Strong rope cut his wrists, and a disgusting
gag stopped up the toothless mouth, choking the moaning creature almost
to death.
"Let
us greet you again, High King of Dalriata!", their mockery rose in hoarse
cries. "Well, you have returned to the castle of your fathers once again,
have you? Well now, so that you may again enjoy the hospitality of your
unworthy governor, we shall take you to see him! He still has many conveniences
to offer!"
And
they drove the helpless old man forward like livestock to auction, up the
two hundred and fifty steps which led to the White Tower of Dumbarton.
They had not gone far before they had to take his arms in theirs so that
their deathly tired guest would not stumble. So he was dragged, more than
led, through the narrow arch in the megalith. They trailed him, shoving
him into a trot up the stone stair. Night's blackness settled upon them
as soon as the damp cleft that split the castle rock was reached. They
continued on toward the hissing torchlight which marked the next castle
gate and stopped.
"Whom
do you bring there?
It
was a guard who had spoken from his position which straddled the access
way to the combat area that was halfway up the castle grounds.
"It
is the hunchback!", one of the torturers cried. "He's returned!"
"He
has returned?" Amazed, the sentinel quickly stepped aside and let the mob
pass by with their wretched freight.
"He
really has dared to come back?"
"Yes,
he's a devil of a fellow!", one of the warriors grunted cynically as he
passed. "He shall get what is due him, to be sure! Dubh Mor will teach
him what happens to those who dare to jest about his magnanimity! Brude,
the missing High King of Dalriata returns as a ridiculous cripple! Pah!"
And
so he who was mockingly called 'High King' was dragged further on. His
naked feet staggered up hill and down dale, wounded by the jagged razor-sharp
edges of innumerable stone steps. Indifferently his lame legs shuffled
over the rough gravel of the lower castle court, in the dark heart of the
funnel that ran between the two domed tops of the castle hill. Unbelieving
faces stared out of miserable huts. Gaped, as if they couldn't trust their
own eyes as to who was again passing that way, some whispered while many
a rough throat bawled insults and slander.
"The
High King of Dalriata has returned! He's actually risen from the dead!
Really! We must do homage to him for all the miracles he has done for his
people!"
And
whoever of these was allowed to leave his work, joined in the nightly spectacle
scornfully, mincing behind the sad convoy behind the growing throng. The
jeering and the jeered wound their way along a deep precipice. Nestling
against the naked rock it arched over the tapering castle hill on its way
to the strong Tower of Dumbarton
As
they reached the peak, guards once again stepped from the shadows, measuring
the meaning of the strange procession with puzzled eyes. Torches, the flames
spitting mercilessly in the powerful winds that swept those heights, blocked
the open entrance of the fortress rising up to the overcast sky like a
gigantic forefinger pointing to an unseen kingdom.
"Halt!
Who desires to pass?"
"Brude
has returned! The High King claims his realm!", the crowd howled. "He asks
for Dubh Mor! Dubh Mor! Dubh Mor! Take care! Your throne is lost! Your
throne ..."
Suddenly
the mob fell silent. A mighty shape peeled itself from the surrounding
darkness. "What are you crying there, you mad dogs?"
Dubh
Mor strode down the steps, pushed his guards roughly aside and thrust himself
threateningly before of the sunken old man. A pricking gaze penetrated
the limp body.
"The
hunchback ...!" The words fell in brittle pieces. Then, as the paralysis
of confused astonishment passed, sudden rage loosened the bonds of speechlessness.
"This
bug at my bust ...!" His enormous hands, more like paws, sprung around
the dried neck of the old cripple, ready to press the last scrap of life
out of the maltreated body. But, they only clasped it, not closing to a
deathly pressure as if an invisible power impeded them from carrying Dubh
Mor's intentions to their fullest conclusion. Finally the great arms, vibrating
from anger, fell.
"Are
you driven by the devil, old fool? Don't you remember the words of your
king commanding you never to return?"
Dumbly
nodding, the aged head lifted with infinite slowness. Death weary, pleading
eyes replied with an unspeakable sadness to the furious ruler.
"You
must be mad!", Dubh Mor mumbled tonelessly. "I promised you death and still,
you returned! Must the king of Dalriata soil himself with your stinking
blood? What do you mean, old man? Shall I do it? Advise me! You who impudently
claims to be my father! Yes, give me your paternal advice. Shall I personally
push you down the rock? Or shall I leave you to the wolves lurking outside
the castle walls? You take me to embarrassment! And before my gathered
people!"
"Dubh
Mor! Believe me! Must believe me!"
The
hunchback knelt, his agony apparent to all, in front of Dubh Mor's tall
powerful shape.
"The
proof ... my dear son ... look! The proof ..."
"You
want to prove your claim?”
Frowning,
Dubh Mor suddenly paused, and for an instant the bared teeth disappeared
behind an unkempt, jet black beard. A low murmur had hardly begun to rise
like a wave in the rows of onlookers when he demanded, "Lift him up!"
"It
is our custom to grant a final wish to the doomed. Now then, old man, try
it! Show me your proof! Let me see what it is that avows that you are a
king of Dalriata?"
Raised
up on wobbly legs the old man staggered feebly while nervously rummaging
about in a small pocket sewn inside the shredded lining of his jerkin,
worn so bare that it was a mere string of patches falling limply over his
emaciated torso. His hand clasped what it sought and his glazed eyes held
a faint glimmer of life as he pulled his hand from the vest.
"Here...
proof ... the seal of Dalriata ... my seal ... my son ...!"
A
glittering object clattered onto the bare stone. Dubh Mor stooped to pick
it up, examining it suspiciously in the blazing torchlight. His face hardened
like rock.
"The
seal box of my father, Brude!", he stammered, staring as one hypnotised
at the brilliant splendour of the precious gems which adorned a small box
of gleaming heavy gold.
"Yes,
it's true! This is my father's. It disappeared with him."
"Dubh
Mor...dear son ...do you believe me... now?" the old man softly asked.
"From
where have you stolen the most precious treasure of my family?" Dubh Mor
seized the creature and knocked him down with one powerful stroke.
"Not
found ...not stolen…is mine... believe me...son...!", he whimpered. A brutal
kick landed on the crippled hump of the old man's back and he cried out
in pain.
"Were
you the malicious culprit who murdered my dear father? Say it, old man!
Was it you who buried his body in profane earth? I know you robbed him
as he lay dying! Confess, you murdering dog, you rabble! You lured your
king into an ambush and killed him in cold blood as he hunted in the hills!
Confess, or I shall separate your disgusting hump from the rest of you
with my own hands!"
"Son
...believe me..."
"So,
you will not confess?" Dubh Mor yelled furiously. "Take this as a proof
of my abhorrence!" With a whirring that the hunchback knew well, a sword
left its sheath.
"Son
... the seal ... is mine ...!" His words were muffled as strong hands rolled
him onto his belly, and a sharp blade cut through the jerkin and made its
bloody way deep into the ugly bulge.
"Do
you confess your misdeed now, villain?"
"Dubh
Mor...aaah!" The iron penetrated deeper and deeper into the deformed mass.
An abominable layer of clotting and streaming blood surrounded the bones
scraped from the old man's spine. Pain stole each spark of consciousness,
and the white head limply glided aside.
Displeased,
Dubh Mor pulled the sword out of the gaping wound. "He has dared to oppose
me again!", he mumbled angrily. "But what's the use of his stubborn cunning
lies? Down with him! His presence offends the memory of my dear father!
Guards! Bring him to the High Cross where he has done his bloody deed!
He shall receive his just punishment there!"
A
pouring rain drummed hopelessly upon the broken body of the old man when
they raised him to the shaft of the huge Celtic cross. It was hardly more
than a heap of bleeding flesh they deposited there – a mass in which heartbeats,
far too soft, fought desperately against the inevitable expiration of life.
"What
shall happen to him now, M'lord?", one of the guards clattered.
Dubh
Mor stepped before the violated creature and looked upon him lost in thought.
"Even the blade of my sword did not suffice to snatch a confession from
this villain. Leave him to the mercy, or the revenge, of his victim to
whom this shrine is dedicated. Tomorrow we will see, whether the wolves
have torn him apart or..."
He
broke off pensively, his gaze once more turned to the unconscious old man.
"...Or whether he has told the truth." he finally added reluctantly.
"Sir!
You are doubting?", a bearded giant yelled and looked at him in amazement.
"The
trial by ordeal will bring truth to the light!", Dubh Mor replied mumbling.
The turning to the ones behind he cried, "Tie him up and leave him to the
wolves! He is no more than a mouthful. They will be still be hungry when
they have ended their measly meal. And should they be so disgusted that
even they disdain him, the worms will take care of him."
These
were bold words and the gathered crowd suspected the lump which choked
his throat. Deeply embarrassed they lowered their heads while Dubh Mor
swung himself on the back of his horse. Brashly he gave him the spurs and
galloped to the castle hill.
But,
when he returned with witnesses on the following morning to allay his gnawing
doubt, he found the High Cross empty. The old man had gone without a trace.
It was as if the ground had swallowed him. Well, the High King of Dalriata
had gone home to those like him because had he been allowed to call once
more.
And
never will he return ...