Exerpt from Dum Spiro Spero: The Warrior of Kintail

     Robert knocked again, frustrated that they were not answering.  His knuckles were

sore, hands raw from digging the grave, back of his hand split open thanks to the Grant's

sword that morning.  He continued to knock.  They had to be there; they were always at

home.  With a pleading voice, he called out, "Alec?  Jenny?  It's Robert.  Are ye there?" 

He listened closely and heard footsteps coming towards him.  The strong oak door opened at

last with its familiar creak.

     Alec stood there in his proper Sunday attire: formal plaid, sheathed claymore, clean

face, brushed hair, trimmed beard.  He bade Robert enter, then shut the door behind until it

gave its secure, locking click.

     Jenny was in the armchair by the fire, one hand at her face, crying quietly as she had

when Chief John's wife passed away, the only other time Robert remembered her losing even

a bit of her composure.

     "Tremain onla jusht left wi' the newsh," Alec informed him in no more than a whisper,

his lisp coming out clearer for it.  "We took it rather hard."

     At once Robert realized his mistake and backed up against the door. "I shouldna have

come then," he said quickly, starting to apologize for his presence.  "'Twas Tremain's place

tae tell ye. I've... I've nae right tae be here."

     Alec put his hand on the lad's shoulder.  "Better here than at the pub, Robbie.  It

sheemsh tae me ye could ushe a nice plashe tae shtay right now."

     Robert nodded, agreeing but not wanting to stay for all the ubasque in the world. 

"Aye, weel, there's my house wi' the lads here in town.  I can go there, fer none o' them

will be about, I daresay.  And the one down in the glen; Da and Alasdair will tak me in fer

famila sake."

     "If ye dinna want tae gae, ye'll alwaysh have a plashe wi' ush, Robbie.  Ye ken that,

aye?"  Alec stepped closer and said in a deep, lowered voice, "I willna tell ye tae shtay.  I

canna, ye ken that.  But I will tell ye that ye owe Jenny a hug.  Let her ken ye're in one

pieshe.  Give her that much at least, aye?  Women worra, ye ken.  Let her shee ye're shtill

ye."

     Robert nodded hesitantly. "I'll stay this one night."  He thought quickly, rationalizing

his excuse. "It's Sunday and tae me there's nowhere closer tae God than in this house.  Aye,

I'll stay this night and be gone in the morn."

     Hearing his voice, Jenny called out his name in a half-sob, half-relieved tone.

      With a strong, assuring pat on the back from Alec, Robert went to Jenny, his arms

wide and his heart thankful.  She daintily dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and looked up

at him with all the sympathy she had.

     "I'm here, Jenny," Robert whispered to the plump but delicate woman.  "And I'm well

intact."

     Tenderly they embraced, Jenny moving to the bench so they two could sit beside each

other. She put her arms around him, as if cradling her babe, and squeezed him tightly against

her.  "Though I walk through the valley o' the shadow o' death," she began reciting halfway

through the twenty-third psalm, the one she'd made him memorize the night Chief John's

wife had died.  "I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort

me."

     Remembering the rest with ease, Robert whispered the last line, thinking of wee

Busby's noble death. "And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever."

     Jenny picked up on what guilt-stricken emotions she could detect in his voice, and was

almost afraid to confront him with them.  "Robbie, is..." she stopped, not knowing which

words to use to make her question sound soft.  "Is there anathin' ye'd like tae tell?  Or--"

     Robert sprang to his feet, leaving behind the comfort of her arms as they grew

uncomfortable and confining.  "What?" he asked accusingly.

     Jenny sighed.  "Robbie--"

     His temper was flaring, his anger ten-fold.  The last thing he needed was more blame

placed upon his shoulders.  "What!" he yelled pointedly to the silent room.

     Jenny shook her head.  "Naught, Robbie.  Onla, if ye do have somethin' tae tell me--"

     He could stand it no longer, and let it all out in one big rush.  "What do you want me

tae say?  That it was my fault?  Do ye want tae see me cry?  Tae admit he wasna reada? 

That we all werena?"

     Jenny's lips were motionless.  Her silence spoke for itself.

     Robert looked from Jenny to Alec, who was just as silent, staring down at the ground.

     Robert understood.  Men died in battle, whether for cows or land or honor; it was not

anyone's fault.  But how could Robert tell them?  How could they understand without seeing

for themselves?  Without watching Busby single-handedly hold off the entire band of Grants

as Robert and Tremain ran to join.  Without seeing the lad's blood-spattered kilt fly in the

breeze as he charged for the MacLennans with sword drawn and doing its duty.  Without

witnessing Busby's heroism as he slew one after another before he, himself, was cut down. 

The remains of Robert's heart flew to his throat as he stammered, "I... I shouldna have come

tae ye..." he backed up again, going straight for the door. "'Twas daft o' me.  Ye'll nae

understand.  None could understand who didna see it."  With that he opened the door,

slipped out, and slammed it hard behind him.

     He rounded the corner and walked away from Alec's and Jenny's little house with not a

tear in his eye, just rage in his heart enough to fill the spot where wee Busby had been.

                                 *     *     *

     The buzz of whiskey filled his head, pushing out thought after thought, leaving no

room for guilt, for sadness, for regret.  All he could feel were the happy, carefree dizziness

and light head.

     "Ye want in on this hand, Robert?" shouted a man from the card table.  "Ye still got

yer luck?"

     Luck. It could have been any of them.  It could have been Robert. But it had been

Busby.  Wee Busby.

     "Robert, it's poker!"

     Poker.  Busby had been good at poker.  He would have enjoyed playing a game just

about then.

     "Eh, laddie, ye want in on the action?"

     Action. Too much action.  Swords on every side.  Stabbing, cutting, doing their worst

in the hands of mere men.

     "Weel, then.  Ante up!"

     Up.  Up against his neck he felt the blade of a dagger.  His own was tight in his hand. 

Goddamn those Grants.  Cowards, all of them, to slay such a young lad over cattle.  Coward

of Robert to mourn over that which he could not change, that which should never have been.

     As he stood from his pub stool, his legs immediately gave way, and he crashed to the

ground.  The crowd of drunk Scots laughed at him though Robert was too drunk to hear

anything but his own stomach rumbling.  His jaw throbbed from the fall, and he cringed at

the smell of stale whiskey and vomit stained into the floorboards.  Robert groggily rose and

made it to the card table, falling into a chair and slapping down the last bit of money he had

in the world.  "Give me a hand o' cards ye pawkie bastards or I'll use my sword tae cut out

yer worthless hearts while ye're still livin' wi' them."

     They laughed and continued to do so until Robert won the first hand with four tens,

and then the second with only three of a kind.  Realizing that he was in no position to be

ridiculed, they quickly quieted down.

     Damn them all.  Every sheath with a sword.  Every hand with a dirk.  Every sock with

a dagger.  Every man with the power to kill... and every man alive who had never told wee

Busby MacLennan to keep guard of his right side.  Pawkie bastards the lot of them.  Even

Alec and Jenny.  Especially Alec and Jenny.

                                 *     *     *

     "Robert?"

     Robert couldn't lift his head.  He wouldn't, unless it were someone with a flask of

whiskey for him to force down his throat.  "Who'sh askin'?" he slurred, his jaw bruised from

the fall he'd taken earlier that evening and weighted down with the numbness of too much

alcohol.

     He heard a chuckle.  "Yer brother, ye pissed fool."

     Robert lifted his head.

     It was Alasdair.  Alasdair in the pub he'd once sworn was only for the deamons. 

Alasdair with a beard growing in, light whiskers if that only.  Alasdair who looked nervous

to be talking to him.

     Robert swallowed and closed his eyes, not wanting to look at anyone, let alone family.

"Why're ye here?"

     Alasdair sighed.  "I was told tae come and get ye afore ye drank yerself tae death. 

There's a man outside who wants tae say some words on ye."

     Robert groaned, knowing that it had to be Alec.  As Robert wondered how long Alec

had been watching him, he remembered the first time they'd met and how much his teacher's

few words of approval had then meant to him.  "Piss off, laddie, and tell Alec he's nae my

da."

     Silence.  Softly the lad answered, "'Twasna Alec who sent me."

     Robert, however drunk, could not help but be a little curious. "Who then?"

     Alasdair patted his brother on the shoulder. "'Twas Malcolm Arnoch MacLennan

himself."

     The name set bells off in Robert's mind.  "Busby's faither?"

     Not knowing who Busby was, Alasdair replied in frustration, "Faither tae many lads,

Robert, among other things."  Deviously, "An excellent swordsman fer one."

     Robert contemplated having his brother tell Malcolm Arnoch that he had passed out, or

better yet, that he were dead; he decided just to get it over with.  Robert stood on shaky legs

and downed the last bit of whiskey in the bottle before him on his way out.  He stumbled out

the doorway and drew his sword, still stained with blood from that morning's fight.

     Robert saw the look of shock on his younger brother's face and shouted aloud, "Get

out o' here, lad!  Lest ye see things about yer brother ye'd be better off nae knowin'!"  With

a small gasp, Alasdair darted away, down to the end of the village and the path leading to the

little house in the glen.     The night was chill and damp, the mist from the hills rolling down and settling in the

village as usual, though this time it seemed to have a sadder air to it.  This time the moon

above was hidden by gray clouds of confusion, the stars were drowned out by the spill of

blood, and the scent of the night wild flowers were laced with the stench of decaying corpses-

so many men dead.  One too many.

     Feeling utterly sick to his stomach, Robert turned to Busby's father.  The man was his

height, his build, with ten, almost twenty years on him.  He wore his formal plaid, though it

looked more worn and informal than Alec's had that night.  Robert noticed the man's great

broadsword at his side, and at once envisioned it running through his aching heart; it was a

welcome thought.  With a gulp of rotting air, Robert made his point by throwing his own

sword down with a clank.  "Gae ahead, Malcolm Arnoch.  Blame me fer it.  That's what

they all do.  They try tae find a place-" he paused a moment to choke down the whiskey that

was bubbling up his throat with emotion. "A place tae put their anger so they dinna feel it so

vera much.  If ye see it that way, then ye've no choice but tae slay me.  Come on." Robert

walked closer.  "I amna fau yet, so ye can say ye killed me like a warrior, protectin' yer

standards, yer dead son, yer famila honor, whatever ye like.  The reason has nae meaning,

onla the deed.  So slay me."  Robert was a foot away, staring straight head into the man's

eyes... Busby's eyes.

     Malcolm said nothing.

     So Robert tried again, leaning forward, standing so close he nearly touched noses with

the man.  This time he yelled into the silence of the night with all the fire left in his belly,

"Slay me ye pawkie bastard!  Ye coward!  Slay me fer yer son!"

     The man blinked and took a step backwards.  Calmly, with an almost-smile, "I'd been

expecting a lad, nae a man."

     Robert felt angry tears in his eyes and wanted to use his sword on himself over them. 

He wanted to ease all the pain.  He wanted to make Busby's sobbing voice cease in his mind

forever. "What," Robert shouted, his voice almost cracking, "is that supposed to mean?"

     The man shrugged, his plaid slipping off his shoulder, his hand catching it and bringing

it back up.  "Just as it sounds.  Ye're a man, a full-grown man wi' mind and sword and

stomach enough tae cover yer honor."  He stopped as he looked down at the sword.  "How

many o' them did ye kill?"

     Robert, not touched by the man's comments, answered plainly, "Six, and wounded three-

 nae, four, countin' the one Tremain and I attacked taegether."

     "And my son?  How many?"

     Robert thought a moment, then regretted the fact that he did not know.  He replied

with a strong, "Fifteen left dead on the field when we were done.  Onla one of them ours, in

that.  But how many were Busby's doing, I dinna know.  A warrior fights alongside his men,

nae counts their victories fer them."

     "Wise man," Malcolm muttered with admiration. "But nae wise enough tae ken why

I've come."

     Giving him as much of his short attitude as he could, Robert answered back, "So why

dinna ye tell me?"

     The father thought of smiling, but decided it would be best for them both for him not

to at the moment. "I came tae thank ye fer my son's life."

     Robert was taken aback.  He shifted his weight and narrowed his eyes.  "Busby's

dead."

     Malcolm nodded.  "Aye, Tremain told me.  That's why I'm here, lad.  Busby died in

battle.  He died fightin'.  He died wi' the honor nae all o' us have.  And ye, ye were his

friend.  Ye shared his life wi' him.  Ye taught him and learned from him.  And most

importantla, ye stood beside him and fought when ye were called tae.  And ye held him in

yer arms as he died."  The father paused to swallow hard.  "I couldna come tae give ye

anathin' but respect, Robert Douglas MacLennan of the Dugald MacLennan home.  I came

tae give ye my thanks and offer ye my debt of gratitude, fer what it's worth.  Should ye e'er

be needin' o' my services, ye'll have me.  I promise ye that."  The man squatted down and

gingerly retrieved Robert's sword, treating it with the utmost respect and gentility.  He wiped

it clean upon his kilt and offered it back to its rightful owner.

     The lad took it up and, with easy fluidity, slid it back into its sheath.  Then he cracked

a smile.  "Does this mean ye arena gaein' tae slay me?"

     Malcolm Arnoch chuckled and held an arm open.  "Aye, lad.  I want tae give ye my

life, nae tak yers from ye."

     Robert went into his arms, hugging him as if they were son and father, neither man

knowing who was which.

     Malcolm smelled almost like Busby, that deep fragrance of sweat so unique to

everyone.  Robert breathed it in, the memories all coming back in one great flood.  He

remembered the first time they had met in the very pub Robert had nearly just drunk himself

to death in.  He recalled that night and following day when Busby had taken ill but refused to

return to the village as a coward.  He could hear in his mind the confession Busby told only

Robert, and the playful romp that followed Robert's concern for his welfare.

     "Ye cry better than I," Robert heard Malcolm say softly.  "Wi' yer heart and yer mind,

nae yer eyes. 'Tis the cry o' a warrior, that."  Busby's father backed away, out of the

embrace, looking at Robert straight on.  For a brief moment he saw the innocent face of a

wee laddie staring back at him; then the adult in Robert resurfaced, erasing all existence of

the weaker lad he had once been.

     Robert nodded and stepped back, himself, with final words, "I'll ne'er forget o' him."

     Nodding, Malcolm noted his sincerity.  "Aye, I ken, and I'm glad fer it.  And I'll be

damned if I dinna remember ye, or my promise tae ye."

     They parted in silence.  Malcolm Arnoch headed home to his house filled with one less

son, while Robert collapsed where he was, unable to stand a moment longer.  His stomach

churned, his mind reeled, his heat raced.  Robert vomited thoroughly and passed out almost

immediately afterwards.  The remainder of the night passed by unnoticed as he slept, face in

the dirt just as he had many times before he'd met the group, but this time with pleasant

thoughts of Busby circling about in his head