Cruel Snow

I. Iain

It was almost midwinter, and the morning sun had not long risen. The crest of the western mountains still obscured much of its light, and half of Glencoe was cast in shadow by their peaks.

Since autumn, the usually lush glen had become a wasteland of frost. The pine trees were alone in their greenness, all others having long been stripped bare by the cold, and the ground was white with snow. The nights were lingering past their welcome, and even during the days, the sky remained an icy shade of grey. A harsh wind coursed through from the north, bringing with it a chill so bitter that it made its way into one's heart and bones, freezing them so that it seemed they might never thaw.

Even Iain MacDonald, who had been born in the glen and spent all thirty-three of his winters there, was not entirely hardened to the cold. He was glad when he reached the hall of his father's house and found that inside, the hearths had been lit and were blazing with flames. Half the clansmen had already arrived, and Iain took his usual seat as he watched the remainder of them file in, their mingling voices echoing between the stone walls. By the time the hall was filled, the air was warm and thick with the scent of damp tartan and the peat from their boots.

A hush fell swiftly over the men as the doors opened and Iain's father entered the fray. Age may have lined the face and greyed the once fox-red hair of Alasdair Ruadh MacIain MacDonald, but he remained as respected a leader as he had in the days of his youth. He had not yet begun to stoop or limp, and he did not so much walk as stride across the room, his equally straight-backed wife — Iain's mother, Geillis — following behind him, her steps matching his.

When he reached the top end of the hall, Alasdair took his seat in a large wooden chair facing the men. His bright eyes scanned the crowd as if he were surveying the faces before him, before they came to rest on his eldest son.

'And where is your brother?' he asked Iain.

Iain did not know. He usually preferred to be ignorant of his younger brother Sandy's whereabouts, and even more so of his misdoings. He needed not provide an answer however, for one of the men spoke for him.

'Most likely he is out lifting cattle, if I ken young Sandy,' a voice called out, loud and brash, followed by a round of chuckles.

Accusing the chief's son of theft should have been considered disrespectful, but Alasdair laughed the loudest of all.

'Aye, but we were all young and foolish once, no?" he said. Beside him, Geillis' lips pursed almost imperceptibly. 'I suggest that we begin without the lad. Who is first? Aye, Rabbie Gow.'

A smith from the southern end of the glen rose to his feet and addressed Alasdair directly, the first of many clansmen to do so. In turn, they discussed their rents and complained about their neighbours. There was negotiation over of a sale of on man's livestock, the betrothal of two men's respective children, and a row over the honour of another's wayward daughter. Iain himself had little to say, but from his seat near the front, he took note of each point, observing how his father listened and responded to each of his men, and watching the scribe's quill edge its way across the parchment. His concentration was only broken when the creak and slam of the doors drew everyone's attention away from the business at hand. Like all others in the hall, Iain turned to see who had arrived, and he sighed as his eyes fell on the latecomer: his brother, Sandy.

Sandy did not seem the slightest bit abashed by his lack of punctuality. He jovially acknowledged the smiles of the younger men and ignored the disapproving stares of his mother and older brother as he made his way through the hall. When he reached Aladair's chair, he bowed his head in respect. Iain frowned, half-suspicious already.

'Have ye anything to say, lad?' his father asked Sandy, who straightened up immediately and looked him in the eye.

'Aye, Faither. I have a request.'