Last night, the Literery society went off rather well. All there had a wonderful time. My entry for last evening was part 1 of a story entitled: The Highlander’s Quest.
Out across the moors could be seen a great, powerful steed, black as the night, bearing his master home at full gallop. The horse was foaming, clearly after a long day’s ride. The rider appeared to be in nearly the same condition, partially hanging out of the saddle and only keeping his seat with a hand on the gleaming mane which streamed behind his noble beast.
The mount had much spirit and stamina, yet it was mostly owing to him that his master remained in the saddle. He moved as gently as a horse possibly can while galloping. From over the nearest hill, peat smoke could be seen rising into the dismal sky. It was this point that the horse and rider streaked towards.
Upon reaching the top of the hill, horse rearing up on hind legs, the rider wheeled about, searching furtively about for any sign of pursuit. The wind picked up and blew his streaming hair and tartan out behind him. Momentarily satisfied, he turned and spurred his mount down into the glen, where a wee cottage was to be seen.
From below a voice could be heard, calling out to the matriarch of the family. Before the rider could gallop half way down the hill, from within the cottage a short, stocky woman stepped out and walked slowly toward the foot of the hill. There she stayed until, moments later, the horse slid to a stop less than a foot away from her.
“Now, Will, what tidings do ye bring from Drumclog?”
“Not good, mother,” replied the rider. “The dragoons burned all in their blood-thirsty path. Slaughter an’ desolation are all that’s left o’ Drumclog?”
“An’ yer father?” the poor woman asked in a choked voice.
“None came out alive,” Will replied in a dazed voice.
The mother turned away, silently weeping for her lost husband. The stillness was disturbed only by the whistling wind, sweeping over the moor. Suddenly the mother, turned back towards her son, brushing away tears.
“I have tae be strong for my wee bairns,” she said slowly.
Finally, she turned her face upward and laid a hand upon her son’s. It was ice cold. He slipped out of the saddle and fell, his mother just barely catching him. There he hung, partially out of the saddle.
“Lindsey!” the mother called out, turning towards the cottage.
A girl, presumably the person to whom the name belonged, came out of the cottage and ran up the hillside toward them.
“Lend me a hand, lass,” mother called out to her.
Together, mother and daughter carried Will into the cottage, and laid him on a palette near the fire. Mother worked quickly, discovering several chest wounds.
“Lindsey, get clean rags and some warm water. Then tell Duncan and Malcolm tae keep outside and tend tae Will’s horse.”
Lindsey hurried away and brought back the things her mother asked for, then slammed the door behind her as she left the cottage. Less than a minute later she burst in again.
“Mother! Dragoons! They line the very hills!”
Beyond the Clouds 