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CHAPTER 1

February 13th 1692

In my sleep I heard her; softly she whispered my name. Like a hazy fog, her voice hovered above me. Gently enticing, she sought to draw me from sleep. In my dream, I raised my hand toward the voice and touched my grandmother's cheek. She bent toward me, lightly brushing her lips across my forehead. Something was wrong. The sickly, metallic copper stink of fresh blood and death hung in the air of my dream. My throat contracted as I choked on smothering fumes. In the distance I heard the terrifying crackle of flames.

I woke in a rush of panic, clinging pathetically to my covers. The burning smoke hung thick and heavy around me. I retched uncontrollably as it scorched my throat and lungs. Stumbling from my bed, and calling her name, I crawled toward the elderly woman on the other side of the room. I grappled in the dark, smoky room for the tiny frail body of my grandmother and placed my hand upon her chest. It did not rise and fall with the slow rhythmic pattern of life. A pitiful, piercing wail penetrated the room as I wept with despair, loss and fear. From outside the cries of panic and terror were much the same as my own. I could hear the thudding of my pulse in my ears; I felt the cold stone floor beneath my hands and knees as I crawled toward the wooden door of the cottage.

'Let me live, please, dear God let me live' I thought as I burst through the door. I blinked, trying to clear my streaming eyes. The icy wind pounded me with snow as I coughed and choked, desperate to empty my lungs. As my eyes cleared, and I stumbled into the light of burning thatch, I saw a blaze of musket fire. Bodies lay upon the snow-covered street ahead of me. The sulfurous smell of a fired gun hung in the air. I turned as a flicker of moonlight on a polished musket barrel caught my eye and then I watched helplessly as reddened bayonets sliced mercilessly through the heart of my world.

Men, women and children screamed in terror, withering against pain as they fell bludgeoned to death by men of the army. I knew some of them! A tall, thin, wiry man with hair so dark red it could have been copper. Another had a scar from his eye to his chin. I gawped at our guests, horrified by their bloody betrayal.

With the quick thinking and strength of desperation, I stumbled in shock and fear away from the terror, realizing that my glen had fallen forever on a bloodstained carpet of snow. With every step taken in urgent terror-filled panic, I started to run through the blizzard toward the mountains. The air pierced my skin like a blade and my feet burnt with the pain of the frozen ground. There was little shelter as I plunged through the bitter wall of snow and fog. I knew as sure as the daylight that crept through the misty blizzard that I had to find shelter soon. I struggled for breath, my feet and hands numbed; tiredness crept into every muscle and bone of my body.

******

Corran's exhausted body crumpled to the frozen ground, claimed by the piercing sword of the icy wind. Snow whipped the mountain face, as the sun rose slowly in the morning sky. Tiny flickers of warming rays danced through the morning mist, seeking her motionless form, coming to settle on her sunken, lifeless face. The tiny rays of light began to grow and spread across her, moving slowly, like a gentle running stream to blanket her lifeless form in a glow that shimmered and danced with brilliant tones of orange and yellow. Slowly, the light began to warm the melting snow and ice to leave Corran lying in a gloriously warm pool of gently bubbling water. Above her fragile body came a shimmering dome of colors, emanating a glowing rainbow of sparkling light. A single stag appeared through the freezing mist. Bending slowly it pierced the bubble of light with its silver antlers, gently lowering its head through the magical rays of light to nuzzle the tip of its nose against Corran's face.

******

A light of the most magnificent colors shone around me and illuminated a stag with silver antlers. Perhaps I imagined the stag, for it was winter and the stags had lost their antlers, besides, when I looked again it was no longer there. The light above me was warm, like the rays of the sun on a summer afternoon in the glen. I could touch this light: it shimmered and glittered above me like nothing I had ever seen before. I could see the snow-covered ground outside my cocoon. I remembered that I had fled my home, where my grandmother lay dead, but my last conscious memory was of death. With shock I concluded that I must be in heaven for I had surely died. So I rose from my warm pool of water, noticing that the pod of shimmering light had vanished. I wondered what my God wanted me to do. There appeared to be no obvious clue or signal so, on instinct, I turned and headed back down the mountain.

Confused and afraid I made my journey from the mighty peaks that guard the entrance to the glen. The wind was vengeful and cruel; the snow powdery and deep. I pulled my plaid tighter around me, wondering absently when I had acquired it. Trudging, mindlessly through the snow, numbed by pain and sadness, I stumbled on the corpse of an old man, his body already partially eaten by scavengers. I knelt on the icy ground beside him and closed his lifeless, staring eyes.

"There but for the grace of God go I," I whispered, crossing myself and, as I stood and turned from the body, I realized that I must in fact be alive.

Coming through the final pass, into the narrow sweeping valley of the glen, I found myself overcome by loneliness and panic. The damp, smoky stink of smoldering cinders hung heavily in the mist that clouded my path. The old wood to the side of the path no longer hummed its enchanting lure; instead it whispered hauntingly to me of terror and fear. My heart pounded as I drew closer to the village. Catching my foot on a protruding rock, I gasped in fright and stumbled sideways, steadying myself against the trunk of an ancient tree. Tearing myself from its reassuring warmth, I continued my walk along the desolate path to our valley, to the remains of the houses that had once been the homes of my friends; fields where our cattle had once grazed, now an empty reminder.

Traveling through the twists and turns of the path, the mist began to lift and I saw for the first time the true horror and cowardice of the King of England's orders and the savage scar of eternal shame they had left gouged across this majestic place I used to call home.

I had no time for further thought as, some distance away, I spotted the Red Coats. There were three or four of them but the hazy remnants of the morning mist made a definite headcount impossible. I was breathing hard and fast, my head pounding. I fled, off the path and into the forest. Branches tore at my face and arms. I stumbled blindly over rocks and crevices, running for my life.

Somewhere behind me, a musket fired. I felt the force of the shot, my body slumped heavily to the ground, the forest swam around me and then I saw a light, a magnificent, beautiful light. Gracefully poised in front of the light was the stag with the silver antlers. It glided toward me, lowering its head and nudging me gently. Peace and calm swept over me as I closed my eyes and allowed darkness to descend.

******

CHAPTER 2

I awoke, bewildered and confused, crumpled on the floor of a small crevice in a hillside. A thin line of light shone through the entrance, affording enough illumination to make out the stone walls of the shelter. I slowly moved my hand to my throbbing head, groaning as a stabbing pain pierced my back. I felt the drying blood from my wounds and understood vaguely that I had been hurt.

With effort, I pulled myself up but slumped sideways against the cold stone wall, too exhausted to stand. The light was dimming and I realized that nightfall was approaching. I wondered how I had got into the cave and where the Red Coats were. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, filling my lungs with much-needed air. Slowly I raised my eyelids, squinting to adjust to the diminishing light.

I did not see him at first, and then, slowly, he was in front of me; standing tall and sturdy, his long powerful legs slightly apart, looking down at my slumped, helpless form on the floor. Shaking violently, I shuffled backwards. My back jarred as it hit the cold rock face behind me. I flinched, catching my breath as I realized my captor was now positioned between me and the opening to the crevice. My eyes darted from side to side, frantically seeking safety. I caught a glimmer of the shiny metal of his dirk. Cautiously I traced my eyes over his fisted right hand as the full shape of the weapon came into focus. His hold on the polished mountain ash handle was relaxed, the tip of the blade facing the floor. Glancing up, above his hand, to the arm by his side I noticed for the first time that this was a soldier of the English King. Knowing I must meet his eyes, I raised my head to the recognition of a Campbell. I recoiled in panic as he lowered himself in front of me, his lightly tanned face inches from mine, framed either side by heavy curtains of black wavy hair. I held the look of his dark staring eyes and screamed.

"Don't be afraid, lass, I won't hurt you. Mind, there are some that wouldn't think twice of doing so." With his left hand he held out a leather flask and laid it on the floor next to my trembling hand. I stared at the dark stranger. "You are hurt," he said, casting a glance over my face and arms, his eyes wandering to the bloody stains on the front of my shift. I lifted my hands gently to my breasts, feeling the crust of the stain. "I found you in the forest face down in the snow and covered in blood. I thought you were dead for sure," he said.

His hand moved to pick up the flask and he gulped several large mouthfuls of its contents. I could smell the musty fumes of the liquid as he sighed, allowing the mixture to slide comfortingly down the back of his throat. Removing his jacket, he draped it over my shoulders. "You must be cold," he muttered, more to himself than me, and once more offered me the flask. This time I took it.

"Who are you?" I inquired, unable to hide the fear in my voice.

"Simon Campbell," he replied, apologetically.

"Aye, I see you are a Campbell of Glenlyon," I said. "But why are you helping me?" my tone was cynical and accusing, "or is this more Campbell trickery?"

"This is no trickery, I mean you no harm", he whispered softy, "I'll tell you, lass, we had our orders, from the King of England himself, they were. 'To fall on the MacDonalds of Glencoe, and put all under seventy to the sword.' I have no stomach for such work," he sighed, and met my eyes. "So I broke my sword and fouled my rifle and now, like you, I hide like a scared rabbit in a hole." He rose to his feet. "I did my best to warn folk what we were about and told them that the Southern passes were not guarded." He stood for some moments, his face turned slightly from mine but the shadows did not hide the horror behind his dark eyes. "I am a violent man, and have killed many times in war but I have never before witnessed butchery such as that." I watched him, speechless, an uneasy knot tightening in the pit of my stomach. In spite of his people's betrayal I felt the simple human need to comfort him.

"You seem an honorable man, Mr. Campbell, and I am sure you have not killed a man other than in honorable battle." Deliberately, he turned to face me, his eyes surveying mine quizzically. I met his gaze, sensing the agony in his soul. He must have recognized the same uneasy pain in my eyes because he reached his hand out to touch me and then stopped, as if checking himself and withdrew awkwardly.

"We share the same pain, but in how we came by it, I have more choice than you," he said simply.

"Do you think, Mr. Campbell that because you have chosen your path that it will be any easier than mine?" He gave a throaty grunt and shook his head.

"No, lass, it probably will not." The shadow of a frown creased his brow, his wide jaw tensed and the regular beat of the pulse at the side of his neck quickened. He had probably lost as much as I in this valley. Self-consciously, I realized that I was staring at him and dropped my eyes to gaze unseeing at the ground. We were silent for a long period, during which Mr. Campbell consumed several large sips of the amber liquid in the flask. Finally, drawing a long sigh, he broke the silence. "You must be hungry?" he said, turning to pick up a cloth sack from which he removed a loaf of dry bread. I had not thought about food or the need for it since fleeing the valley the morning of the massacre and the mention of it now made my stomach churn with hunger. I nodded fervently, as he broke small chunks off the bread, and handed them to me. I accepted the offer gratefully, ravenously consuming the dry crusty bread as if it were the finest cuts of our precious cattle. "Tell me, lass, what should I call you?"

"I am Corran."

"Well then, wee Corran," he responded, lifting the flask in an exaggerated toast. "I am very pleased to know you," he said, allowing the briefest hint of humor to cross his lips.

"And I you, Mr. Campbell," I replied shyly.

"A toast," he said softly, "to the future."

"What will you do now?" I asked.

"Well, I cannot go back to my home, and I won't be going back to the army, that is unless I have a fancy to be hanged for desertion or treason," he paused briefly, taking another sip of the whiskey. "But more than that, I am not sure of yet."

I was starting to feel drowsy. The bread had filled my stomach and the whiskey was doing its job well. Dusk was drawing in and the night mist hung heavily in the crevice. I pulled the red coat higher and tighter around me in an effort to keep out the damp evening air.

"Are you tired Corran?" he asked gently.

"Aye, Mr. Campbell, I am," I replied, yawning widely.

"Why not rest a wee while then? You will be safe enough here for now." His tone was warm, gentle and reassuring but terror still clung to my soul.

"Are you sure we will be safe here?" I tried to hold my voice steady, hoping not to betray my fear but exhaustion and whiskey had robbed me of the control I sought.

"Aye, it'll do nicely. No one will find us here, if you stay still and quiet that is," he said.

Later, I awoke to the comfort and warmth of his body. We were sitting, backs to the hard rock face of the cave. Huddled together, like two old friends, my head resting gently on his shoulder, his coat, draped, like a blanket over my knees. I lifted my head, slowly, trying not to wake him. He felt me shift and instinctively his eyes sprang open, his hand darted for his dirk.

"Shh, shh, it's alright, Mr. Campbell," I whispered soothingly.

"Sorry, lass, I didn't mean to startle you," he replied, returning his dirk to its sheath. He stood up, running his hands through his long, thick, curly, black hair. I smiled at his unsuccessful attempt to neaten his hair, thinking with amusement that it would probably take a lot more than a quick rub with his hands to tame the wild mop on top of his head.

"Did you sleep well, Mr. Campbell?" I inquired, averting my eyes and trying to hide the amusement in my voice.

"Oh aye, that I did," he said, his eyes lingering on the blood stains that crusted my shift. "Perhaps," he said, gently touching my blood and mud-stained cheek, "we could both use a stream of water to tidy ourselves a bit."

We made our way deeper into the woods. It was a still, clear morning and the warmth of the sun was a welcome gift. The snow glistened and crunched beneath our feet like a bed of shattered crystals and tiny drops of water fell from the long, clear icicles that hung from the trees.

It didn't take us long to find a stream of water. There were several inches of ice and snow to clear from the top of the stream before the running water was exposed. Mr. Campbell removed his dirk from his belt and stabbed purposefully at the cap of ice, chiseling a hole in its surface large enough to fit his hands through. He plunged his fists through the gap, filling his hands with icy water, and then splashed it liberally over his head. Dripping wet, he shook his head fiercely. His long, black curls swung wildly as the ice cold water sprayed off his hair. Cautiously, I dipped one hand into the exposed stream and let out a whimpered wail of shock as the ice cold water engulfed my hand. A small pool of crystal clear water lay in my palm and I looked down at it tentatively. I raised my hand and splashed the water onto my face. My cheeks stung like fire as the water hit me. I turned to see him watching me. His face held a slight frown as he raised his hand to his head, rubbing it roughly through the mass of long wet curls.

"What's wrong?" I asked. He shook his head slowly and the curls of his long black hair swung freely around his face.

"Nothing, nothing at all, now, do you feel better?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Yes Mr. Campbell, thank you," I replied, rubbing my hands together in an attempt to warm them.

"Shall we go?" he asked, taking my hand and tucking it under his arm for warmth.

The top of my head barely reached the wide expanse of his broad shoulders, as I stood dwarfed beside him.

"Aye, I suppose we should," I responded reluctantly.

"I must go back into the village, lass; there are things I need to do there. Do you want to come with me, or would you prefer me to take you back to the crevice? It won't be an easy thing for you to go back, I know."

"No, Mr. Campbell, I want to go back, I too have things I must do there. Do you think it is safe?" I asked.

"Aye, I dare say it will be, I don't expect to find the army still there, but we ought to be careful nonetheless."

"What makes you think they will be gone Mr. Campbell?"

"Well I don't know for sure, but I do know that they brought their empty wagons into the glen and when they left the wagons were full. They have taken the cattle already, so there is no other business for them here."

We headed back toward the path to the village, cautiously and acutely aware of every unfamiliar sound. We were silent for much of the journey, the only sound to be heard being that of the ravens as they squawked ominously over the bloodied bodies of the dead.

"I need to find my grandmother and see her buried," I blurted, conscious of the erratic nature and high pitch of my voice.

He nodded. "Aye, lass, that you must do."

I stumbled down the track, coming ever closer to the place of my birth. The bile rose inside me, burning my throat, just as the smoke had done that morning. I could see the blackened remains of my home and felt myself running frantically toward it, crying out for my grandmother as I did. The roof had collapsed, making it almost impossible to identify individual objects amongst the charred remnants. Sobbing hysterically, my knees buckled and I fell to the ground.

"Christ!" he muttered in exclamation. "May the Lord have mercy on us all." A shiver passed through him as he glanced once more over the derelict ruins of the cottage, his eyes surveying the filthy mess of slaughter. He filled his lungs with a quick, deep breath and rubbed his hands roughly through his hair, he watched as the grief tore deeper through my consciousness.

I felt his arms around me, dragging me away. I fought wildly with him, flaying my arms frantically; my body shook violently as he lowered me onto the cool ground outside the cottage. He bent down in front of me, his large frame blocking my view of the ruins. His powerful arms were around me, his strong hands on my back. Holding me tightly to his chest he soothingly rocked me like a frightened child.

"It's alright, lass. I will see her bones buried this day," he whispered softly, "but now it's time to go." He took hold of my trembling hands and helped me to my feet. Blindly, I let him guide me away and back into the woods. He took me to the cave, handed me his flask and suggested that I consume a large quantity of its content. Tossing me his jacket, he turned and left. I took his advice and it was not long before the flask almost was empty. Very soon, consumed by grief, exhaustion took hold.

When I awoke, it was to find him watching me. He rubbed his forehead as if to shift a headache.

"It is done. Your grandmother is buried," he said, rubbing his dirt-stained hands roughly together.

"Thank you Mr. Campbell, I am most grateful for your kindness," I said, massaging my throbbing temple. "How long have I been asleep?"

"A while," he said kindly.

I noticed he had changed his clothes and was now wearing a belted plaid, a long white cotton shirt and trousers. I also noticed on the floor, by some bags, a flintlock pistol that I had not seen before.

"You have changed Mr. Campbell?" I remarked, hoping my voice didn't sound accusing.

"Aye, that I have," he shrugged; aware that I had guessed where the clothes and pistol had come from.

"I don't blame you Mr. Campbell," I whispered.

"I know you don't, but even if you did, it wouldn't change things," he paused, inhaling slowly a steady long breath. "You know we cannot stay here in the glen?"

I looked up at him, a frown deepening on my forehead as I did. "I know that well enough Mr. Campbell but I have no idea where I should go or what I should do. Have you a plan for yourself?" I asked flatly.

"That I do," he replied simply.

A dark shadow had crossed his face and the danger in his future was clearly marked in his features. Sighing deeply he continued, "I have nothing to offer you, but if you wish to come with me I would welcome your company."

"You would have me with you?"

"Aye, lass, but there are dangers in following me, not least of which is the fact that I am a wanted man, on the run from the King of England's army." His lips thinned and the muscles of his wide jaw twitched as his body tensed. "The Red Coats won't give up their hunt for me, and if they find me they will show neither of us any mercy." His eyes met mine showing a strength far greater than my own, and I had no doubt that I would follow this man.

"They are risks I will have to take," I replied simply, straightening my shoulders. He rubbed his forehead thoughtfully.

"If that is what you wish, then you can come with me." He was still looking down at me, one corner of his mouth curling slightly upwards. "Just one thing lass?" he asked.

"Aye, Mr. Campbell, what would that be?" I replied seriously.

He cleared his throat gruffly before responding. "Could you please stop calling me 'Mr. Campbell'?"

The tension lifted as he beamed down at me, a twinkle of playful humor darting across his eyes. I returned his smile, feeling a hint of life return to my body as I enjoyed the simple pleasure of a shared smile. He raised the flask of whiskey to his mouth and drank hard. "Have we a deal then?" he teased.

"I should think we have... Simon," I replied, using his name for the first time.

"I have something for you," he said, turning to pick up a bundle of cloth. I took it from him, noticing as I did that it consisted of a plaid, an ankle length dress, stockings and a pair of boots. "Tonight, I mean to light us a warming fire and cook us this wee scoundrel," he boasted proudly, displaying the carcass of a small hare. "You put those clean clothes on and I will fetch us some twigs for a fire."

******