Corrag by Susan Fletcher Page A

call it. Mother Nature’s church, for her brambles wrapped round the pulpit, and her sermon was soft pigeon calls. Her hymns were beetles clicking over wood.
    More churches should be like that church, maybe.
     
     
    W E kept from towns. You ask for their names like I rode through them, or stayed a while. But I did my best to keep away from where people were, and witch.
    When I met people it was mostly by chance. It was by coming to a place where two paths met and on the other path would be someone. We’d slow, eye each other. But most night-time travellers do not want to be seen, and so are happy to pretend to have seen nothing, as well. I met a man and his wife, running. I did not ask why, but her belly was round—perhaps she was not his wife. I blinked kindly at them, gave a small smile. They did the same. We did small exchanges, too—herbs for an egg, or a crust of bread. And we said no words, but on the edge of a wood, where its trees met a field which was grey with moonlight, we wished each other well, with our eyes. Hide well. Be safe.
    I also saw a man on a rock, one daybreak. He was sitting with his legs tucked up, and looking east. I sat myself beside him for a while. I felt his sorrow, and when he spoke he said they say my mind is gone in his Scottish voice. He did not look at me. His eyes were on the sun coming up, which told me his mind was not gone at all, that he was like me—sometimes so amazed by a sight that all he could do was stare. So we watched the sun come up together, and heard the distant bells ring in Christmas Day, and we shared the stale bread I’d found in the church, and some wine.
    And Covenanters? Did I tell you of them? I saw them, in a wood. Don’t ask me what they were, for I don’t rightly know. But I reckon they were one faith being hunted by the other. I reckon they were people who were frightened for their lives because of who their God was, so they did their praying to Him very secretly—in trees, and at night. Not much could find them that way. Only owls, and a fox or two. And me, of course—an English thing with a half-sad face who saw beauty in a leafless tree. Who had no-one to tell of these people in woods, so their secret was safe, with me.
     
     
    O N , and on. We had our brave times. Those were when we’d pass a sign for carrots or fresh milk, and want some. So I’d lick my thumb and clean my face with it. I’d tidy my hair, and knock on a door. I’d smile. I tried a Scottish accent to the carrot-selling man, and he blinked, shook his head, said pardon? When I used my proper voice he stepped back. But still, I got some carrots—maybe voices do not matter if there are pennies to be had.
    In fog, we came to a farm. I came through the mist in a mist-coloured cloak, on a mist-coloured horse. And I tried to buy some oats, for my mare was looking thin. The farmer’s wife stared beadily, said what’s in that purse? I looked down. Some leaves were spilling from it, which she saw. I had no words. I shrugged. She said if you have cures in there, I need some.
    What for?
    Nightmares. My boy has so many he fears sleep, and has grown ill.
    And I helped her with that. I gave some peony, and spoke of its virtues, and she nodded and gave us some oats. But later, as I groomed the mare with thistles in a wood, I heard there she is! Witch! She cured my wee boy! Witch! Witch! How unfair. What a kindness returned. I could not see her, for the fog—but it was surely her. And the mare sighed, lifted her foreleg so I might climb aboard, and I said go—as best you can in all this fog. She went. She saw the way. And we did not knock on doors, after that.
    We drank bog-water. We slept in old byres.
    We passed a ditch, thought of settling down in it, when a twig snapped and the mare reared up. A boy was crouching in there. Why are you hiding? I was cross with him. He did not say a word. But in the fields I heard dogs, barking, and he whimpered at the sound, and I knew he was frightened