"When White Roses Die"

When White Roses Dies
(Inspired by the true events of the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745 and the story behind the traditional Scottish song Loch Lomond)

PART ONE
"I canna believe the Prince would stay so long in Moy," Donald Frasier muttered as he paced across the frozen dirt that composed the road from Inverness. "Lady Mackintosh is three times the soldier, and if it were nae for her asking, I would no have agreed to take this watch tonight." The village blacksmith took his large, fat hands and tucked them underneath his arms as he continued. "By God, this wind is as cold as the North Sea! And it is no comfort to think of the Prince and Lady Mackintosh warm in her hoose while Lord Loudon is about to march a thousand English troops up our arse!" His breath instantly turned to fog with each word. "Well,
you two look the perfect pair perched on that stack o' peat." Donald had to laugh at the two Macgregors, wrapped in a blanket, huddled close to each other.
"Laugh all ya like, Donald. We are warm." The eldest of the two red-heads, Malcolm, spoke. "I'm praying that Alex and Cameron will come running up the road any minute proclaimin the Redcoats are on their way from Inverness. Then we can ride to Moybeg an' sound the alarm. Let General Lochiel and his men take over. I just want ta get back ta Barbara and a hot fire."
"Hah, I bet those two things are one and the same," Donald grinned.
"Better not let her hear you say soch a thing," the younger Macgregor snorted.
"I believe you're right about that. Barbara is a woman I would no have as an enemy."
"I da nae know if she would take offense or not." Malcolm drew his hand from beneath the blanket and started to stroke his long, thick beard. "I canna figure what has come o'er these Hieland women. Lady MacKintosh goin against her husband and supportin Prince Charles' attempt at the throne . They have taken to calling her Colonel Ann . . . then I heard tell of a widow that---"
"STAND FAST, HIELANDERS!!" The voice was rushing towards them.
"It's Alex!" Donald spotted him sprinting up the black road.
The Macgregors swung off their blanket and jumped from their perch.
Donald Frasier grabbed his musket and ran to meet him. "What news?"
Alex MacFarlane gripped the shoulders of the large man, trying to catch his breath. "English . . . they're here . . .quick!" He stood straight and hollered to the other two, "Take cover!"
"How far behind?" Malcolm asked, taking his young son's arm and forcing him down behind the largest of the peat stacks.
"Five miles at the most. They must have dispatched the day Charles got ere. We ave been running the ole way ere. Cameron is coming behind me. Damned brother, would no give up ‘is rattle bag and it ‘as slowed him." Alex was standing at full height and topping Donald by several inches. His light blue eyes scanned the trees for any sign of Cameron. He cursed his brother again under his breath.
"We canna hold ‘em! It's only four of us!" Donald protested.
"Five!" Alex confirmed the thin, golden-topped figure approaching them from the east.
"Five. Oh, well then. That's different!" Donald's sarcasm shone through his near hysterical voice.
"If we leave--- try to make it to Moy--- the English will run us doon like dogs." Alex spoke through clenched teeth. Taking his hands he ran them through his chestnut curls, scratching his scalp, back and forth, trying to think.
His younger brother dropped down beside him, resting his back on the stack. "If we head to Moy . . . , " his soft voice gasped for air. " We will lead them right to the General and he will be taken unaware. There is no way we can outride them. Their horses look better fed than most Jacobites."
Malcolm MacGregor turned to his son, "Take the horse and ride as fast as ye kin ta Moybey and warn the General."
"I'll not leave you." The boy shook his red head.
"MOVE, SON!" Malcolm took the boy by his upper arm and flung him toward his horse.
The young man climbed atop the steed, a broad, thick beast, built for hauling heavy wagons, not for speed. Malcolm slapped it on its haunches, "RIDE!" The boy and the beast disappeared into the dark, frozen night.
Alex and Cameron turned to look at each other as they both started to feel the trembling of the earth. The English and their fat horses were very near.
"We can still save ourselves." Donald reminded the group. "Dammit, there is only four o' us to their thousands!"
"There is only aboot fifty riding as scouts in front. They do not hae tae know how many of us there are." Cameron shot up. "When they approach we'll shoot and yell for our clansmen to attack." He took his musket and propped it at the top of the peat stack. "They do nae hae to know there is only us!"
"Do you think that will work?" Macgregor asked.
"It'll hav tae." Alex positioned himself several paces to the west of Cameron. "Spread out and get ready!"
The clanging of spurs and of armor caused Donald's hands to shake as he aimed his musket into the black void in front of him. Slowly, hazy images of soldiers began to emerge on the narrow road, and the hot breath of the horses formed a white fog preceding them. It was as if they were a ghost army rising out of the mist.
Alex gave the order, "FIRE!" The night filled with the hard sounds of the muskets. Low, deep sounds stabbed at their ears like miniature canons.
"MACGREGORSSSSSS, TAKE YOUR POSITIONS!" Cameron yelled. "FRASIERSSS, TAKE AIM!"
"AYE, GENERAL! MACGREGOR'S READY!" Malcolm joined in.
The red coats of the enemy were visible now. They were firing back, and Alex reloaded as fast as he could. The barrage of gunfire fueled their farce as the players lost sense of direction and aim. "MACFARLANE! PREPARE TO FIRE! READY THE CANONS!" Please, Lord let this work, he prayed. "ON YOUR ORDER, SIR!"
A low grunt came from the area where Donald was kneeling. He couldn't see if he was down. A flash of musket fire from the same direction gave him hope that he had not been killed. Alex's hands were sweating and the musket was slipping as he tried to reload. His heart wanted to pounce from his chest and the only air his lungs could capture was full of thick smoke. The others were still yelling to their imaginary troops.
"MACGREGORS AND MACFARLANES PREPARE TO FIRE!"
Finally, the shouts of "ambush" rose from the ranks of the troops as they start to fall back in confusion. Alex reached in his sporran for his hidden pouch of gunpowder, the last of it.
Then, Alex heard it, loud and clear, "Retreat!"
"Hah! Son of a Whore! It's working!" Alex couldn't control his laughter.
The sounds of horses hooves grew fainter and the only firing was a loud popping from MacGregor's pistol.
"Cameron! You bastard! It worked!" Alex waited for a response.
"Cameron?" His heart skipped. "CAMERON!" He ran to the other side of the road to where his brother had been.
"Over here, Alex!" The sound of his younger brother's voice guided him back to the blacksmith's stack. Malcolm followed, covering Alex.
"Is it bad?" Alex kneeled down beside the huge body of Donald Frasier, sprawled on his back. Cameron was tying a piece of torn cloth around Donald's massive, left arm. The frayed cloth was quickly turning red, almost matching the dark red stripes of his kilt.
"It will be fine, depending on whether or no the blood stops. I canna see tae remove the ball or even if there is one in there. We need tae get him tae a doctor." Cameron finished the bandage. "Are we sure they are all gone?"
"Nay!" Alex responded. "No telling how many are laying out there injuried that might throw a few more shots our way. Besides, the government's troops will be coming back and I'd rather no be here when they do. Can you walk, Donald?"
"Aye, let me up." All three men pulled or pushed until he was upright again. "Let's go. General Lochiel will be comin soon. Let him finish what we started."
They all started to walk down the road , staying close to the thick spruce trees that lined the east.
"Wait." Cameron jogged back to the peat stacks.
"Where are ya going, Lad?" Macgregor asked.
Alex let out an anxious sigh, "Going for his bag pipes, I imagine. Go ahead, we'll catch up. He'll be there till the marn, lest he finds them."
The other two men contiued on. Alex took a second to rub the sweat from his hands onto his kilt, before following Cameron.
"Ya know those things almost cost ya your life, tonight?" Alex reprimanded him as he watched Cameron carefully examine each pipe and brush off sod. "They weigh ya doon, and you're slow as it is."
"I can out run ya on any day, brother, with or without the pipes. I was only protecting your back." Cameron's grin was wide as it filled his thin, soft face, his blonde locks cast into a hundred different, tangled directions.
"Hah! That'll be the bloody day!"
"MacFarlane . . . MacFarlane? . . ." They both stopped and turned. A shape was crawling toward them from the area they had just pelleted. It slowly moved toward the brothers, until it spoke a painful whisper. "Cameron MacFarlane . . . help me."
"Who is it?" Cameron called.
"MacCrimmon . . . Donald Ban MacCrimmon . . ." The body stopped, unable to advance any further.
"It canna be." Cameron whispered as he headed into the middle of the road and crouched down beside the fallen man.
"Cameron! Get out o' the road!" Alex knew he was being ignored. "Dammit!" He ran to Cameron. He could see the man now. He was old, possibly forty. His head was completely white, something he remembered distinctly aiming for. There was a steady pouring of blood from his right ear and from the corner of his mouth. The colors of his kilt identified him. "MacLeod? I thought ye supported the uprising? Why are ye fightin with the government?"
Cameron was opening his shirt, in a hopeless attempt to locate the wound.
"It wasn't his choice, he works for Norman MacLeod, a traitor. Do you no know who this is, Alex?" Cameron's hazel eyes roamed over the stomach wound bleeding uncontrollably. From the blood in his mouth, he knew he was bleeding on the inside, too. He would not live long.
"Unless he's Bonnie Prince Charles hisself, I think we should get the Hell off this road!"
Alex grabbed the arm of his brother.
Cameron jerked it away, "The MacCrimmons are the MacLeod's pipers. Have I no talked a million times about the MacCrimmon School in Skye?"
"Holy Mother! No more about these bloody pipes, Cameron! Let's go and let the man die in peace!"
"Donald Ban MacCrimmon is the finest piper that the Hebrides hae ev'r seen. And because of it, Norman MacLeod offered him up ta march with the government dragoons agin his will."
The old man was barely breathing, "Cameron, you would hav' been a good student," MaCrimmon groaned as if a few nerves in his stomach had came back to life and shot a flash of pain through his gullet. "Damn them, Son! They have taken my pipes . . . wrenched them from my hands after I fell . . . Lord, I will have to take the low road back to Skye without them. The thought of their filthy hands and dirty mouths raping my pipes . . . oh, Lord . . .what's a man ever doon to deserve such a fate . . .Son . . . take . . . papers . . . pocket shirt . . ." His voice was gone, but his eyes were still open and urging Cameron.
"I do no understand? What papers?" Tears were falling on Cameron's cheeks.
"Check in his breast pocket, Cameron." Alex offered and MacCrimmon's eyes confirmed that he was right. Cameron reached inside the jacket of the dying man and found several sheets of folded paper.
"What is it?" Alex asked. Cameron was the only one in the family that could read.
"It's piping music," Cameron's head flashed to the old man, whose eyes were slowly beginnning to close. "It's a song called Cha till, Cha till, Cha till, Macraimein. . . . it's Gaelic, it means "MacCrimmon will not return home" . . . he must have known his fate."
"They say second-sight is rampant in Skye." He watched as Cameron picked up his pipes and placed them over his shoulder. "What are ya doing?"
"The last thing any Scot should hear are the sounds of the pipes, and he deserves it more than most." Cameron tucked the velvet bag beneath his arm.
"Cameron! No! Someone could hear!" He knew he was being ignored, again. The sounds of the pipes pierced his ears. God, they were an awful sound. He stood and walked away to hop onto one of the peat stacks. "Don't you dare play those squeaking pipes in my ears when I'm dying, Cameron MacFarlane." He shouted to him as he continued the lament. "And that could be very soon, if you no shut the Hell up."
Cameron stood and started circling in a small march around the slain musician he had respected and hoped to learn from. Holding the papers that held the hand-scribbled notes, he played the sad, long tune. The wind had stopped. The air became almost stagnant. The smell of gunpowder lingered. Alex's hands were sweating again and he rubbed them over the length of his hard thighs. He watched his young brother play the last few notes, ending the moving refrain.
"Can we go, now?" He asked impatient as Cameron removed his bagpipes.
"I'm not going with you." Cameron made a rare, defiant move against his brother with a tilt to his chin, that Alex found humorous.
"I'm sorry I teased ya aboot your pipes!" Alex stretched out his arms and collasped back onto the stack in frustration. Looking up into the sky and the full, red moon he added, "Why must you be so sensitive? Lord, it is no the way I raised him."
"I'm going to get MacCrimmon's pipes back."
The words burned in Alex's cold ears as he leapt back down from the stack. "Oh, Bloody Hell. You will not!"
He spun Cameron around and grabbed the hair on the back of his head and forced him to look at him. "Do you think death is soch a glorious thing, Cameron?" The blue of his eyes were surrounded by dozens of small red veins. "Do you really believe the low road takes your soul hame to Scotland should ya die on foreign land? Is that what you believe? That it is noble . . . that it is painless?" Alex jerked his hand off Cameron's neck. "Death is cold, Cameron. It's swelling and stench and rot! You'll be mere shite, thickin the soil for English barley. Alex punctuated the last word by kicking dirt onto the face of the stiffing corpse.
"My music," Cameron whispered, his fragile face twisted in disgust from his brother's disrepect for the slain man. " My music will still be ‘ere. So will MacCrimmon's." Cameron turned toward the road, hiking his bagpipes onto his shoulders and walked away.
"I won't be the one to carry you hame, Cameron." Alex said, as he sorted through the belongs of the corpse, finding more gun powder.
Cameron turned around, "Is that what this is aboot?" He was far enough down the road to be cloaked by the dark. The shadows gave him courage to bring up the topic Alex had always forbidden. "Ye asked me if I knew what death was like? I know, Alex. I have known since the day I seen ya comin o'ver Ben Lomond with our father strapped to your back."
"Shut your mouth, Cameron." Alex gritted his teeth as he continued searching the side of the road.
"Do you think you are the only one allowed to remember that?" Cameron continued. "I had been tae this world nine years. I had no understandin why you and our father were in Spain, fightin with the Engish, why doing so kept the English from takin our land. But I understood what the clouded eyes of my father meant, what the blood soaked through your kilt meant."
"Do no continue this, Cameron." Alex's voice was calm. He had found another fallen soldier and was making inventory, acquiring a pistol and more gun powder.
"I hid in behind the skirts of our mother and cried my wee eyes out. I could no stand the sight or the smell of it. All I could focus on was your right hand squeezing the folds o' these very bagpipes I hae wit me now." Cameron had lost sight of Alex. "Why . . . why did you see tae it our father's pipes came hame wit him? You had tae carry his body for days. You said ya salf , they weigh ya doon. Why Alex? Why, if they meant nothin tae ya, if ya hated the sound of em?"
There was only silence to answer him. Alex was gone.


Cameron found refuge that night with a group of the MacGregor clan near the waters of Strath Naird. He recited every detail of the encounter in Moy, especially how gallantly Malcolm MacGregor had fought.
Most of the men had unwrapped the long woolen threads of their kilts and were wearing them as blankets. Others, distrustful of the thin foliage that surrounded them, stayed on alert with weapons drawn. None of these sentries were wearing kilts. They donned the long trousers and thick jackets favored by the English and Lowlanders. Perhaps, some were surrendered from an Englishman at the prompting of a sharp claymore.
Cameron could not help but admire the MacGregors' swords. Several were engraved with rich designs too intricate to be fully appreciated in the dim light of the fire. For most Highlanders, claymores had no such decoration. Chips and scratches were slowly chiseled onto the blade by years of brandishing it against stubborn weeds and branches or jabbing them into a dwindling flame. They were a tool, unlike these shining war weapons sharpened to sever a sternum with one slice.
The six or so MacGregors that made up the camp were certainly more advantaged than most of the impoverished counry-folk that toiled the hills and glens of Scotland. A horse for each man was tied to a close crowd of dark green fir trees that gave the animals more shelter than the cold men were allotted.
"That was quite a skirmish ya had. I wish I'd a been ‘ere to seen it," a Macgregor with thick black hair pulled away from his red face in a neat braid commented. "Tell us , Son. Hae ya heard any rumors on what the Prince is plannin on doin next?. . . After he tires o' shagging Lady MacKintosh, that is." The man grinned and revealed two large gaps in the top row of his teeth. The rest of the men laughed with him, except Cameron.
"There som talk of the Government bringin in troops up from Flanders and gatherin in Aberdeen under the command of the Duke of Cumberland," Cameron offered.
"Is that so?" The black haired man stood and began to walk around the camp.
"But the Prince has plans o' his on." Cameron stood up as well and moved closer to the fire.
"Aye, and what might that be?" The entire camp grew very quiet , waiting for Cameron's response.

PART TWO


"I hear he is goin tae assemble a huge force of Hielanders, including a large number of Frasiers and intercept them at---"
Cameron stopped. His eyes grew wide as he watched one of the younger members of the camp stumble out of the grove of firs, clutching his throat. He made it to the center of the camp before collapsing face first into the low blaze of the fire. Cameron quickly grabbed his feet and pulled him out of the flames that had already consumed his beard and sideburns, filling Cameron's nostrils with the vile scent of burning hair and curdled blood.
The men sprang into action. Several had already thrushed out the firs looking for an assailant. The long, black braid of the leader flew into the air as he spun around with his claymore checking his back. He turned to face Cameron who was slowly rising to his feet, still uncertain of what was going on. His claymore pointed towards Cameron's chest as he lunged in his direction. A loud, hollow thud struck the man on the back of his dark head, exploding it and sending a large chunk of his ear through the air, slapping Cameron on the cheek. Cameron recoiled and fell back on his rear. He scuttled backwards with his hands like a crab, kicking up dirt with his feet. The dust enveloped the last few flames of the fire and in doing so caste them
into total darkness. Several more muskets were fired as Cameron rolled over onto his belly, staying low, crawling away from the camp. He could hear the groans of another man in the distance and the ground beneath his stomach rumbled with the sounds of fleeing horses. His musket was back in the camp. He reached down to his calf and slid out his dirk.
Feeling the bark of a large tree, he curled under its low branches leaning against it to protect his back. A scream echoed from the area of the camp. He tried to control his own voice that wanted to scream as loud or louder than the one he just heard. Holding his breath, he listened for any sound that might reveal how many English were present. Another scream, this one near the shoreline.
Silence. He started breathing again.
A hand clamped over his mouth from behind, pressing his skull against the rough bark. Cameron quickly slashed behind him with his dirk. With his other hand, he pulled at the callous fingers that were suffocating him. Getting the hand slightly lowered, he opened his mouth and bit with all his might.
"ARGGGGHHHH!" The hand yanked away. Cameron got in one good gasp of air before another hand sealed his mouth, again. "Cameron. It's me." Alex whispered in his ear.
"Do nae move." He slid his hand off Cameron's mouth.
"Alex?"
"Shhhh, with your fingers tell me how many were in the camp." The familiar voice was barely audible.
Cameron lifted six fingers as his mind raced in tantum with his heart.
"Stay here. I'll be back. And do nae breath from your mouth. The fog gives ya away."
Cameron rolled onto his feet, staying low. The camp was starting to take shape again as the moon appeared from behind several folds of sky.
Where was everyone? He heard a loud splash, followed shortly by another. Whatever was going on, it was going on near the river.
Was Alex down there? He couldn't wait any longer. What if his brother had been hurt or needed help and he was cowering under a tree? Another splash. Cameron took one more deep breath through his nose and swung from his shelter.
Spying a dead MacGregor, he ran up to him and yanked his sword from his hand. It was a difficult task. He had to press his foot down on the forearm of the corspe and pull with both hands to release it from his locked digits.
Crouching, he headed the fifty yards or so to the water. It was becoming increasingly clear that there was no one alive in the camp. The freezing waters of the river were visible now.
As the trees thinned, he caught sight of Alex.
The red-orange moon had swelled and ascended like a faded sun. The ripples of Strath Naird had begun to reflect the ocher-tinted beams. To Cameron, it appeared that Alex was standing there, his brown waves of hair caught in the wind, looking like God himself as he tossed bodies into a lake of fire.
Racing down to the shore, it occurred to him the obsurdity in challenging the illusion the moon cast on the waters and not the macabre stack of dead or dying men that Alex was disposing. "I told you to stay where ya were." Alex grabbed the wrists of a nude corpse and started dragging him to the edge. "And . . . there were more than six," he added as he propped the body up against his shoulder. With a quick push, he shoved it into the river.
"What are ya doing?" Cameron watched as his brother descended on the next body, stripping it with precision and speed. A skill, like many of Alex's, valuable only during battle.
"Don't just stand there like a fawn, there's one more."
Cameron did as he was told and began removing its clothes and gear. It was a MacGregor. "Why are you putting these men in the river? They deserve a decent burial. My God, do you no care anymore aboot your own mates?" Turning the body over, his hand fell upon something cold. Grasping it, he slowly pulled the dirk out of its back. He held it toward the sky. His eyes narrowed on the handle and with or without light he could recognize the drawing. A figure of a man pointing to a crown with the inscription, "This I will Defend." It was identical to the one carved on his own. The taste of acid filled his mouth as he discovered who had been the hidden enemy that destroyed the MacGregor camp.
"How much are the English paying you?" Cameron spat the words at his brother as he lifted the dirk before him.
"Listen to me." Alex walked over to him and took the dirk. "You need to understand something."
"You kill people, Alex. You kill and it's like sport." Cameron started to shake. The rage foaming in his gut. "This time, you've betrayed the crown in the process. Denied the very words of our family's crest."
The back of Alex's hand slammed against his face like a rock, sending him toppling to the ground, cushioned only by the dead man's large belly. Snatching a medallion off the belt of the corpse, Alex pinned Cameron's throat to the ground with his forearm. He placed the medallion close to Cameron's nose. "You know so bloody much aboot family crests, then tell me what you see here!" Cameron wanted to look at it, but he could not take his gaze away from the steel blue of his brother's eyes. This must be the stare that his enemies see before he kills them.
"LOOK AT IT!" Alex leaned in, pressing harder on Cameron's throat. Ripping his eyes from the dead glare of his brother, he viewed the medallion. A boar's head carved in silver, the mark of the Campbells, shone before him. He was confused.
"They were no MacGregors." Alex released him and stood up, towering over Cameron. "When hae you ever seen a MacGregor in soch fine clothes, or so well armed or feed?"
"But . . . they . . . the tartan . . ." Cameron's pale brows furrowed.
"Aye. They massacred a group of MacGregors farther down the shore. The Campbells
took everything and left them naked to the world." Alex coughed up a pocket of phlegm and spit it into the face of the corpse. "I was just returnin the favor."
Cameron stood. He couldn't control his head from shaking back and forth. The Campbells were notorious for being traitors. They were despised by the Jacobites for their devotion to the English crown even to the point of murdering innocent families at the bidding of the Government. As a child, he was always haunted by the images of the Massacre at Glencoe.
How the Campbells had came to the MacDonalds as guests. Then on the Government's order, they butchered every MacDonald under the age of seventy. He could see the woman in children in his mind's eye running scared into the bloodied snow. Word of the massacre spread through the Highlands and it was never forgotten. The Campbells would never live that bit of their history down and with them taking sides with the English in this very rebellion, it seemed unlikely they were making much effort. He was disoriented. But, the event was coming to light. The fancy clothes, the claymores with their fancy designs, the horses, more than enough for their men, it was all making sense now. "My God, Alex. I almost tipped them off to where the Prince . . ." He couldn't finish. He had never felt such shame at his stupidity and ineptness as a soldier. What in God's name was he doing here? "I'm sorry I doubted you," his eyes were turning red as he tried to control his tears, his voice starting to crack.
"Sometimes, I forget how young you are." Alex took a hold of Cameron and wrapped him in his arms. Rubbing his soft curls, Alex placed a kiss on his forehead.
"You are only eighteen years old. In battle, that is considered an old man. But, in your world of music and poetry it is still a lad. You do nae belong here. Meanwhile, you have tae learn not every Jacobite will be wearing a white rose in his bonnet and the English sometimes wear a tartan." Alex ran his hands along his back and squeezed him tight before letting him go.
"I am your brother. I belong by your side." Cameron wiped his eyes. "I will learn."
"Learn what?" Alex grinned. "How to smell a Campbell? How to ambush? How to kill without conscience?" He tossed Cameron a package of gear nicely packed and tied up with a kilt. "There are greater lessons to learn."
"Why didn't they kill me?" Cameron found a place in the package to thread his arm and hoisted the backpack onto his shoulders. "The Campbells fed me and housed me. What could they have gained? They could have tortured me for information. Why do you think they spared me, Alex?"
"I would be more than happy to answer that question." Both of the MacFarlane boys turned on their heels at the sound of the intruder's voice. "The Government has generously offered several pounds for each supporter of the Stewart throne that is brought into the prison at Carlisle Castle. I admit there is a fair price for the head only, but the Campbells have always been astute businessmen."
"Son of a . . ." Alex signed as he watched several English troops appear out of the woods. Lifting his hands, he walked up to the mounted General.
Cameron watched as Alex strolled up to the officer, right up to him, until the Englishman's bayonet was squarely positioned at Alex's heart. Cameron closed his eyes and begged to himself. Please don't spit on him, please don't spit on him. Too late. He opened his eyes in time to see Alex being vaulted back onto the ground. He shook his head, watching his brother wipe away the blood from his lip. Cameron smiled at him, "I knew you were going tae do that." Both brothers laughed as the English tied them to the back of their horses.


The walls of Carlisle Castle were thick with mold. The cells that lined the hall of the dungeon were packed with rebels. The smell of urine and sweat was overhelming. Alex and Cameron shared a cell with five other men and a young boy no more than seven or eight years old. The cell was only twelve feet wide. They were lucky. They had a small window, only four or five inches high, but it was a luxury few others had. Alex had been to Carlisle before. It was his friendship with one of the guards that afforded them the valued, windowed cell. Unfortunately, the English were executing Scots on a daily basis and the window gave them a perfect view of the scaffold.
Cameron was amazed at Alex's charm with the soldiers here and with the ones that had escorted them to England. You would have thought they were old school chums, laughing and joking together, sharing battle stories. He even convinced them to let Cameron bring along his pipes. It would make the journey less painful for the both of them , not to have to listen to his whining and lament for them, he explained. They agreed, with the condition he never played one single tune on them, or they would be destroyed. That had been Alex's condition, not the English's. Alex was a soldier's soldier. He garnished respect wherever he went. Cameron had known that since he was very young. He used to think it was because Alex was so tall. He knew differently now.
Most of the men had been here for weeks. Cameron couldn't remember how long they had been there. Long enough to watch the pounds melt away on himself and the others. The English fed them broth and rye on somedays. Somedays there was nothing. Twice, Alex had snatched a pigeon that had landed on the seal of their window and they ate the fat birds, feet and beak. Alex fared better than most. He shared most of his meals with the small boy. No one had a name there---too many spies. Except the child, whose name was Thomas. They knew nothing more, except that his grandfather was somewhere in the prison, and that they had been captured for stealing a rabbit from a local inn and turned over to the Government. Thomas had tried to escape once, and now he layed withering from a broken arm---an injury, serious enough to kill a man under these conditions, let alone a child.
The nights were freezing and the men huddled around on the cold, damp floor. There was only room for one to lay down and, of course, that person would hold onto Thomas, who regularly cried himself to sleep. Cameron, who always had the heart of a poet, was regularly put upon to tell of Scotland and to recite Celtic verse and stories. But, above all stories, the ones he was asked to tell about most were the ones about him and his true love, Nellie Buchanan.
"Tell us, Lad . . . tell us so we fall asleep in peace and with sweet dreams, tell us what it feels like to have a woman's hand on your thigh. I have forgotten." A young man, near Cameron's age whose head had been shaved, pleaded from his upright position in the corner.
Cameron closed his eyes and pictured Nellie. She was standing at the foot of Ben Lomond, her long auburn hair caught in the warm breeze flowing off the Loch. "It feels like the soft wings of a dozen butterflies trembling all over you." The men groaned with pleasure.
"Ya'll get no nearer tae God then that, Laddies!" An older man with one arm offered over the chorus of sighs. "Go on, Son. Tell us what happened on the night ya left."
Alex let out a chuckle. "Go on, tell them." The blue of Alex's eyes danced like the devil as he stood and gripped the shoulder of his younger brother. "It was the day she made a man of ‘em!"
The men were frenzied now with laughter and prodding. "Tell us! Tell us! Please, don't be shy!" Cameron cut his eyes at Alex to thank him for the situation.
"Alright, alright , ya dirty ol' buggers, I'll tell ya!" Cameron's cheeks were turning pink as he glanced over to make sure Tommy was still sleeping.
"I can still here the cry of the hawk in the sky that day. A sky as clear as the soul of Christ. I stood across Loch Lomond and viewed her standing in the shade of the brae. The hillside had burst forth that very marn with heather. The purple and blue of it reflected on the water and Loch Lomond herself appeared to be made of floowers. It made me want to walk across it. I swear, she makes me feel as though I could walk across the waters. I could have stayed and stared at her all day."
"She was wearing a white dress that fell to her bare feet. Her hair was like the newborn fawn's so dark and red and the wind played with it and lifted it and wrapped it round the curve of her waist. She was nature's pride. Had I no felt the need to stare into the violet of her eyes, I would never have moved. But, once in front of her, I did nae regret the journey. My love's eyes shine like the heather. A rich purple hue, that ya know God musta designed especially for Scotland and for Nellie Buchanan's eyes."
"I had never seen tears in them before. When I told her I was leaving to fight for Charlie's crown she wept. It tore my heart, it claws at it now, the thought of her tears. My eyes caught one of the drops as it fell from the black of her lashes and traveled o'er the soft curve of her check. I followed its path as it took the road under her chin and doon her long neck. Just before it fell into the deep valley between her breasts, I caught it with my finger. Slowly, I retraced the damp path, until I was back at her sad eyes. I leaned in and kissed her lips, tasted a fruit sweeter than the plum. When the touch ended, I would not have known what day it twas! I could no think of the words to say what my heart was singing."
"I told her, ‘Forever, Nellie. We will be together, forever.' She reached doon and took my hands in hers. She led me to a thick patch of heather and she layed doon in it and gently she pulled me on top of her. Taking her long tender fingers, she ran them though my hair and urged my ear to her lips, and she whispered, ‘Forever, begins today, Cameron.'

PART THREE (FINAL)

"And that is all of my Nellie you sheep shaggers will ever hear!" Cameron grinned and tossed a blanket over the wide eyes of some of his more ardent listeners as they cussed him. He stood and walked to the window, pulling away some of a dirty kilt that had been shoved into its crevice to block the cold. Sticking his nose next to the hole, he took in a deep breath.
"I think the thing I hate most aboot England is it's smell." Alex placed a hand on Cameron's shoulder as he stepped up behind him. "Not like Scotland's. No matter how many of her children are slain or how many dreams or lost there is always the scent of life and new beginnings blowing doon off the Hielands. I have never smelled it in any other country."
"Well said, my brother." Cameron replaced the insulation. "Alex, if I do nae make it, promise you'll watch over Nellie. I know you would see to it no harm came to her."
"You, Thomas and now Nellie, Good Lord how many children can a man with no wife have?" Alex smiled and patted his little brother on the cheek. "Of course, I will."


More days past. The weather had turned warm and Alex heard someone say it was April. Cameron, himself and Thomas were the last of the original prisoners. Most of the men that had listened to Cameron's tales of Nellie were dead now. Hung, drawn, some burned alive and Alex watched each one from the window. The men that had arrived today talked about a big campaign that Bonnie Prince Charles was about to wage against government troops in route to storm Inverness. They confirmed the rumors started several weeks ago. The Prince was going to cut them off at Culloden Moor. Alex sat down and scratched his scalp. " Damn fool", he had called him, almost setting off a fight in the small cell, but he couldn't help himself. It was a fool plan. He stood and began pacing again. Cameron remarked about how desperate Alex was to join the Jacobites on the field, and he was right. He could barely stand it. If only he could squeeze through the bars on the window. He would run full speed ahead to join the Frasiers headed to Culledon this very minute. It was going to be a bloody battle, he could feel it. His stomach gnawed at him, but this time it wasn't from hunger. It was his blood pounding through his veins, demanding the rise of his claymore and his legs spasmed with the thought of running onto the field of battle. Even if it there was no way they would be the victors. As he had explained it very bluntly and impatiently to Cameron, "there would be no peat-stacks to hide behind."
Alex watched Cameron sitting there grooming his pipes and he thought for a moment he could understand how much it killed him not to be able to play. How he wanted to play today, play on the field, thrust his claymore into the heart of every Englishman. He wanted to hear them scream and beg for their lives like he had heard his own countrymen wail every morning at the scaffold.
Oh, to have your soul, Cameron, he thought. It was true when Cameron said he killed without conscience. He did. Every soul he sent to hell took a little of his with him and it had been that way since he was thirteen. His spirit was gone, and he wondered if his brother knew how often he borrowed his, just to make it to the next day. He wondered too, if Cameron knew that he would die to protect him, to protect that tender, musical soul that perpetuated Alex as much as it did Cameron.
He knew it was crazy, but the uprising was all going to be over by morning. Culledon Moor was going to be the deciding factor.
"Cameron. Play your pipes." The men in the cell began to clap on hearing Alex's words,
almost as if they had heard his thoughts.
"Wha . . .?" Cameron's mouth dropped.
"I won't ask again! Most of the English troops are headed to Inverness. Carlisle has few guards tonight. We will probably all die, tomorrow. If not from a noose, from hunger."
"Are ya sure?" Cameron fumbled to his feet.
"Play, Laddie. Play!" The shouts were coming from all over the hall. "PLAY! Play, and damn them all, MacFarlane! Play so's are boys kin ere ya, all the way tae Inverness!"
"Play the "Atol Gathering" for Murray and his Frasiers!"
"If my brother will start off the song?" Cameron put is mouth on the pipes. Oh, the feel of it. He pointed to Alex to start the chorus.
Alex's voice filled the castle. "Wha will ride with gallent Murray, wha will ride for Geordie's sel'. He's the flower o' Glen Isla, and the darlin' o' Dunkeld. See the white rose in his bonnet, see his banner o'ver the Tay. His guid sword he now has drawn it, and has flung his sheath away."
The rest joined in for the next verse.
"Every faithful Murray follows, first of heroes, best of men. Every true and trusty Stewart, Blythely leaves his native glen. Athol lads are lads of honour, Westland rogues are rebels a'.
When we come within their border, We may gar the Campbell's claw"
Cameron began working the pipes to a frenzy.
"Menzies he's our friend and brother, Gask and Strowan are nae slack. Noble Perth has ta'en the field, and a' the Drummonds at his back. Let us ride wi' gallant Murray, Let us fight for Charlie's crown. From the right we'll never sinder, til we bring the tyrants down."
The floors of the prison shook with the stomping of a hundred inspired feet. They repeated the chorus, their hands clapping like thunder. Alex began to dance a jig in the tiny open space made for him by the men.
Then Cameron took off with his pipes. The dormant muscles of his forearm fluttered into action as if God had intended it to be used for that very purpose. His fingers flew across the keys faster then the eye could catch and there was not a hungry or tortured heart that was not lifted by it. Thomas pulled his small frame from the floor and joined in the dance with Alex. Then, above the music, he shouted. "Lord , if I die tae night, let it be whilst doin a jig!"
The rooms were warmed with the hopping and kicking of large men and kilts swirled in every direction.
When it was finished everyone dropped to the floor as if it were their last breath they had used to sing the tune.

The next morning, the guards didn't bother to discipline the prisoners for their outburst. They were too busy reveling in their victory over the poor Scots at Culloden Moor. The expected onslaught of prisoners never came as the day drugded on. General Cmberland, who was now known as "The Butcher" ordered every wounded Scot shot or burned where it layed on the field. No prisoners were taken.
The guards entered the hallway, passing out lists of who were to be executed that afternoon and who was to be released. On this beautiful Spring afternoon, everyone had a name.
Cameron was the only one conscious in the last few cells who could read, and the dungeon echoed with the sounds of Scottish names. The ones to be set free today and tomorrow were read. No sense saying out loud who was going to be condemned. It was a matter of elimination.
Alex knew the guards had taken a shine to him and he hoped his effort to kiss their arse had paid off, not just for himself but for Cameron and Thomas.
Cameron read the names. "Duncan McKinney, James MacPherson, Raymond MacPherson, Quentin MacGregor, John MacGregor, John O'Donnel, ALEXANDER MACFARLANE!" Cameron's name should come next. "Richard McLeod." His voice trailed.
"Donald MacLeod. . .That's all that's going hame today, boys. It's a short list."
"What about tomorrow? Read those names." Alex was impatient. Others had begun crying; most names were not on the list.
"Okay. This is the list of men going hame tomorrow. John McKintosh, Robert Mckintosh, Scully Mckintosh, Duncan Smith, Marcus McWilliams, THOMAS McWilliams," He stopped to hug the child, who ran to Alex and gripped his legs.
"Marcus is my grandfather! Alex, I'm going hame!" His thin, tiny arms held onto Alex's knees.
"Who else, dammit! Are you on there!!"
"Only one name left." Cameron swallowed. "Cameron McFarlane."

Alex chose to head for the Cheviot mountains to gain entry into Scotland. This way he would avoid the lands the Campbells owned. Even though he and Cameron had bet on who would be the first to reach Scotland, he took his time. This time they should enter side by side.
The only thing that kept him from waiting at the gate of Carlisle for his brother were the screams and begging of the Scots that were being put to death. For efficiency's sake, they had decided that burning them alive would be the quickest, cheapest way.
Still, after a day, he had only gone as far as a few miles from the castle. He expected Cameron any minute.
"ALEX! ALEX!!" He turned to see little Thomas running to catch up with him.
"Thomas!" Alex lifted him up and swung him in the air. "It is good to see ya."
"Alex." The small child was out of breath. The stricken look in the child's eyes clued Alex that there was bad news coming.
"What is it son? Is it your Grandfather? Did you no find him?"
"Alex, it's Cameron. "
A shock ran through him. "What aboot Cameron?"
"He . . . they . . . he . . .lied . . he . . ." The boy was crying now.
"What is it son? Lied aboot what?" Alex was trying to stay calm.
"He wasn't on the list." The words shattered his world.
Alex's knees hit the ground. He tried to speak but a hand was clutching his heart.
"He is being burned this very minute . . . I tried to catch you, Alex . . . I tried . . ."
The boy shook Alex's shoulders. "Alex, Alex?"
"No, God!" was all he could manage to force from his lips. He reached down and started to tear the grass up from the ground as if he could destroy England blade by blade.
"Oh, no, oh, no. Please God, no let this be true."
Thomas was visibly scared of Alex and his reaction. " He . . . Cameron . . . told me tae give ya these."
Alex's eyes flooded with tears as through the mist of them he saw Thomas take the green velvet pipes from his arm. "He said to tell you," the child stopped for a moment, not wanting to miss any words. "He said you take the high road and he'd take the low road , but he'd be in Scotland before ye."
Alex reached for the pipes and cradled them in his arms. He was choking as his voice screamed and wailed at the same time. "Oh, God , oh, God . . . don't let this be true. Don't have taken Cameron, please God , please, if you're real, dont have taken ‘im. Sweet Mary! Nooooooo!"
"He said he knew you would have died to try an' save ‘im. So, he lied an' said ‘is name twas on the list. Alex, don't cry. I have to go, Alex. I'm sorry. My grandfather and me are sailing for Skye. I had to tell you, to give you the. . . I'm sorry." Thomas wrapped his arms around Alex's neck and let him sob on his tiny shoulder for a few moments before letting go and running away to find his grandfather.
Alex sat down and continued to cry as he clutched the bag of Alex's pipes. "Why? Why Cameron, God?" He found it hard to breath, he was crying so hard. "He was so innocent, Lord."
He continued to cry, tear after tear spilling across his sunken cheeks.
In the distance he saw the castle and the smoke from it begin to billow. The grey smoke circled and bloomed.
Alex jumped to his feet as he watched the smoke travel over the stone walls and into the air, and turn toward Scotland.
It was headed for the Cheviots and Alex sprang to his feet.
He started jogging to higher ground. He had to catch up with it. His bare legs were scraped by the thorns of the Grouse as he ran over their yellow blooms, mindless of everything, but the smoke.
There. There is the hill it will cross. Alex vaulted for it and tripped and crawled up its rolling mound of rocks and dirt. Finally, he reached its peak. The smoke was heading right toward him. He stretched out his arms and let the ashes of his brother and of the other men flow over him. Their remains tingling all over his arms and legs, as it whispered against the tiny hair of his limbs.
He sucked it in, suck in the very soul of his brother. Filled his lungs with him, trying to capture as much of it as he could. He closed his eyes and let the smoke fill his ears till he could start to hear his brother's voice. He heard the pipes rendering, and for the first time , the sound was beautiful to him. It was not just notes pushed through a tube. It was the breath of his brother. The life of him. The sound of him.
When the smoke had passed, Alex turned to the North and to Scotland and watched what was left of it fly toward home.
"CAMERONNNNNNN!" He yelled after it. With an exhilaration he had not known since childhood, he took flight after it. He ran over each hill and glen with out taking his eyes off the fading smoke. His feet flew across the tops of moors and he thought his lungs would burst. Then as he made his way down the Cheviots he smelled it. LIFE. And the scent wrapped its arms around him like a baby and cradled him home, home to Loch Lomond and to Nellie and to his mother, to all the things he had been fighting for, but never knew.
He didn't stop running. He kept going, faster and faster , fueled by this marvelous scent. His legs beat upon the ground and the world was flying past him. He kept running, until there was no England, no Scotland, no Jacobites, no Hanoverians, no land, no sky. He ran until there was nothing left but winds and spirits, music and breath and all those other glorious things that can pass unaware between nations . . . and brothers.

THE END

"A Sword that Would Not Melt"

---

A Sword That Will Not Melt
Based on the Celtic Legend
By: Elizabeth Mckaskle

"You're going to Hell!" Daniel's voice taunted, as Tommy's dirty legs carried him across the Johnson's driveway over to his.
Running up to the large figure seated under the carport, he huffed. "Granddaddy! I hate Daniel! He keeps saying I'm going to Hell because I won't go get the ball when it goes up under the house." Dropping the baseball glove, he placed both hands on his hips. "He says he asked me to do it, and I'm suppose to do it cause he asked and I'm not a good Christian cause if I was a good Christian I would do anything he asked me to do. But, I'm not the one who threw the ball under the house. He did. If he was a good Christian he wouldn't keep throwing the ball under the house. Right, Granddaddy?"
Thomas MacAskill's slate eyes studied his thin, cotton-headed grandson for a moment. Taking the last roasted peanut, he crushed the shell and popped the pink nuts into a nearly invisible mouth hidden deep in a pile of grey whiskers. He continued in silence, as he brushed the traces of peanut shells off his brown work pants into a waiting paper bag marked Piggly Wiggly strategically placed between his long thighs. His last surviving red hairs formed thick brushes over his drooping lids and they furrowed as he tilted his head; the final stage in the "what in the world are you talking about" look that passed regularly between the two.
Tommy's arms flopped down to his sides as he let out a very loud sigh. "Granddaddy, tell Daniel I'm not going to Hell." His cheeks blushed to red as he stared at a rolly polly making its way across the concrete floor of the carport. Tommy concentrated on keeping his head down so his Granddaddy wouldn't see that he was on the verge of crying.
"Well, Lad," the elder spoke. His tongue still, after sixty years in the US, tainted with a scottish accent. "I could do just that. But, the truth being, ya are goina to go ta Hell."
Tommy's grey-blue eyes blinked as he snapped his head up. "NO I"M NOT! I'm always good. I say my prayers every night. I always let Flora leave the night-lite on, even though it bugs me and I tell my Momma I love her, everyday . . . even when she's been drinking---"
"So, Brenda's been drinkin agan, has she?"
Tommy, realizing the mistake, crossed his legs and fell frustrated onto the cold, smooth floor. Reaching near the black boot of his Granddaddy, he tapped the silver armour of the tiny bug until it twitched to its side and curled into a perfect, little ball. Tommy picked it up and held it gently in the palm of his hand. "I'm not going to Hell."
"I was hoping that you would. I know I'll be goin." His Granddaddy leaned forward. "I was depending on you being there wit me."
The six year old's head tilted. "Why are you going to Hell?"
"It has ta do wit one of your ancestors, Murdock MacAskill."
"Did he live in Scotland?"
"No. No, this was many years before our people landed on the Isle of Skye. We were Norsemen and we first went ta Ireland."
"I've never heard of that place." Staying focused on keeping his hand still, he asked, "Is that near Shreveport?"
The old man laughed, shaking his wide shoulders. "It could na be farther in either miles or spirit." Returning to the story, he began. As always, he reached for his packet of Red Man Chewing Tobacco and pinched a lump between his gum and cheek.
"Ireland, Lad, is an island at the bottom of Scotland. It's as green as the Cuillin Hills are grey."
"I remember where the Cuillins are." Tommy interrupted. "They're on Skye." He rose to his knees and with his free hand pointed to his own eyes. Stretching his pale, thin brows high as he could, he whispered, "Can you see them?"
The old man peered deep into the reflection of his grandson's eyes. "Yes, there they are . . .grey and blue . . . wit a dab of green. Lord, love ya. It's as if I were there."
He sat back down satisfied and adequately intrigued. "Go on. Tell me what happened in Ourland."
"Murdock MacAskill, a great man, stood an easy six feet and five inches. Pale, blond hair he had that ran ta his waist wit eyes black as nigh. Strapped to his back a sharp, five-foot sword." The brown paper bag was converted into a spitton as he discharged a large stream of juice.
"One day, Murdock is travelin and he comes ‘cross a large gatherin of peoples. He walks up to em and being he's a man o'such stature the crowd spreads open. Murdock spies a man in the center wearing a fine, expensive robe of bright green. Your forebear, wit a smile, walks up ta the man and introduces hasself. And who should the man in green be? Noone odder than Saint Patrick! A very important Holy man in Ireland. He tells Murdock that he has came to give the Sacrements to the heathens. Do ya understand, Lad? He was convertin them ta Cath'lic."
"I know what Catholics are. My friends Julie and Paul go to Our Lady of Fatima instead of Ouachita Elementary." Tommy watched the small bug open slightly, entranced in two worlds. "What are heathens?"
"Peoples who na worship the Lord and who live ignorant and savage lives. I can tell ya that the MacAskill men have always been learn'd men and Murdock did nay take kind the word."
‘What is the purpose of the Sacrement and what good will it do these fine people?' Murdock asked.
Saint Patrick looked at him standing there in his leather and fur and says, ‘You can nay enter the realm o'heaven lest ye be blest.'
‘But,' say Murdock, ‘I have lived all my life fighting for freedom and justice. I have been a good son and a good father. I have nev'r wrong'd any man, less he wrong'd me or my breathen first. Is this life of a fair man not deserving of heav'n?'
‘Nay!' says Saint Patrick, ‘ye must have the blessing o' the church.'
Murdock was furious and the crowd had gane quiet."
"What did he say?" Tommy nearly dropped the rolly polly.
"Well he stepped up to almost an inch o' Saint Patr'k's nose and said, ‘If this be true, then I tell you, that Hell is full of righteous men!" With that, Murdock unsheathed his sword and held it high so tha sun shone oft it. The peoples in the crowd gasped. ‘I vow before you and God that I will travel into the very cave o' Hell and fight every demon and beast your church can conjure, to set free the just men which you have condemned.'
Murdock dropped his sword and swung around to walk away, when he heard Saint Patrick laughing. ‘Don't you know, MacAskill, that in Hell your sword would melt?'
Stopping, he turn back. ‘Then I shall not rest, nor any of my sons til a sword is found that can withstand the furnace of Hell. When this sword is found, we will free those trapped in the fires and with these freemen my second task will be to storm heav'n and throw out the likes of you!'
Saint Patrick stopped laughing." He ended the story with a final spit. "Filthy habit, I'm quittin in the marn."
"Did he find one? Did he find a sword that wouldn't melt?" Tommy sprang up.
"No, he died, with nay having dun so. But, he did lead the MacAskills out o' Ireland to build a hame in Skye."
Thomas Murdock MacAskill unfolded his long legs and stood, shadowing the small child. "It's up to us, Tommy. We have ta keep searchin. The fires of Hell can melt even steel, but they can't melt the spirit. Can I count on ya, Lad?"
Tommy's hand fell and the bug bounced and rolled until it landed in a crack in the concrete. "I want to go with you, Granddaddy! We'll fight together . . . you and me and Murdock!"
"I nev'r doubted ya for a second." His large hands gripped the underarms of the boy, lifting and shaking him like a puppy until Tommy started to giggle.
"Hello, Thomas. I thought I heard that deep voice of yours."
"Good Afternoon, Virginia. Ceud mile failte." He sat the youngster down. Thomas brushed his red and grey curls with his hands, tucking the short strands behind his ears.
"That's Scottish for a hundred, thousand welcomes." Tommy answered the puzzled look on Miss Johnson's face.
"Gaelic . . . it's Gaelic." Thomas' lips curled to a nervous smile. "Tommy, go play wit Daniel."
"Alright. Bye, Miss Johnson."
"Bye, Tommy ." Virginia's voice was soft and lilting as it trailed behind the child.
She turned back to catch his grandfather staring at her light, yellow dress.
"The sun must envy ya in that dress, Virginia. You certainly, brighten this cloudy Fall afternoon."
"Now, see. That's exactly why I come over here, Thomas. You're such a charmer. God bless you for being such a liar." Virginia's hand pulled from behind her back to reveal a pair of tree clippers. "I was wondering if you would help me with my Sassafras tree. It's starting to drop those dark blue berries all over my deck, I reached some of the limbs but there are a few too high---"
"Not another word, Lass." Thomas stepped forward and took the clippers from her tiny hand. The movement, caused the skin on the back of their hands to brush. A movement that each of them silently noted. "Lead the way. I'm at your service."
As they walked around to the back of the Johnson's house, he caught a glance of the two children locked in mortal combat with two thin tree limbs.
Later, Virginia and him would watch the grandchildren, as they swung on the front porch swing of the Johnson's home, sipping on Sassafra tea. A picture perfect dawn, interrupted only by Daniel Johnson stomping up the wooden porch stairs, "Grandma! Tommy called me a heathen!"

End
By: Elizabeth Mckaskle
All rights reserved

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