Ignis fatuus
Duke Cumberland stood on the field, his red-coated soldiers in front of him, as he witnessed the fall of a thousand tartan-clad warriors. Wave upon wave of Scotsmen charged forward, their targes held out in front and their claymores poised to strike. The strike never came. Cumberland's men thrust their bayonets diagonally, subverting the small shield and piercing the Scottish armour. Wave upon wave of Scotsmen fell.
Duke Cumberland looked on, and he was pleased.
"Time for bed Neamhan," called mum, her voice echoing around the stone walls of Kilravock Castle.
"Already? She's not a wee little girl anymore, Riagh," came dad's booming voice. He beamed at his daughter, and ruffled her hair. She giggled delightedly in response, grinning at her parents.
"Dídean, that's enough. Neamhan Rós, get to bed"
Neamhan stomped upstairs, much to her parents' protests. She arrived at her room, flung the door, flopped down on her bed and gazed out of her window. Through the frosted panes she saw Culloden Forest, the scenery she had grown to know and love. The dark band of trees, with its many paths and mysteries, was split by the River Nairn, a glistening ribbon with light from the castle. Towering above this were the rolling hills of the Cairngorms, over-looked by the majestic, fog shrouded peak of Ben Macdui. Clouds, illuminated from beneath by the candle-lit village, obscured the stars that night. The harsh cawing of a crow sounded over-head as a shadow of the bird sped towards the forest. Neamhan's eye had explored every edge of this nightscape, night after night, and nothing changed.
She turned away from the window as her parents walked in to put her to bed. As her father eased the door shut, Neamhan blew out the candle on her bedside table, plunging her room into darkness.
Deep in the forest, a light appeared.
The army was on the move again. Their latest victory still put a spring in their step, and at their head rode the Duke. Resplendent on his horse and proud of his forces, they marched on south, over the Rivers Spey and Findhorn, each step bringing them closer to Culloden.
"Sir, I was wondering, what can it mean to see strange lights in the forest?"
Ghillie Dhu pondered the question, looking out of the window to the trees. "Floating lights, you say, hmm?"
"Yes, sir, I saw one last night, I swear I did. It was small, but really, really bright and..." With a wave of his hand, Ghillie cut her off.
"Neamhan, have I taught you nothing in our science lessons? These lights are reflections of the moon, no more." And with that, the conversation was over.
Later that night, when all the day was done, Neamhan went to bed. For several hours she lay huddled under her sheets, the candles blown out, and the cold spring night sapping the warmth from her room. So tired was she that she almost fell asleep, when the walls around her were lit up with a preternatural glow. Neamhan peered around the window-sill, and gazed upon the scene outside. A cold, bright point hung in the air between the trees. No bigger than a candle flame, its light created pitch black shadows spreading out from the trees, and reflected on the wavelets of the river, bringing to life a hundred brilliant points of light.
Out the door of her old room she ran, down the wooden stairs, along the stone hallways, and straight into her unsuspecting teacher.
"And where would you be off to at so late an hour, then, lass?" The innocent question held an air about it that made the girl pause, and mutter, "Nowhere, sir"
"Well, off you go to nowhere then," he joked, the smile returning naturally to his face. As his young charge sped off again, he called out after her, "Be sure not to go after those lights, they're not things for girls to be seeing." The solemn warning followed Neamhan out the oak door and to the edge of the wall that spread around the castle. Finding her usual hole in the defensive structure took a little longer in the dark, but soon Neamhan had arrived at the river bank and stood facing the blockade of trees before her. From deep in the trees, the light continued to shine. Neamhan put one foot over the line of trees, dead branches snapping beneath her with sharp cracks. Neamhan barely heard them over the sound of her own heart thudding in her ears, and she put another foot down.
"Your Grace, the Scots are advancing."
Heralds and messengers were scurrying back and forth from the Duke to his army almost constantly now, keeping him updated on the state of the battle.
"Retract the torches from the forest, then. It's no good them knowing where we are."
"Very good, sir."
Bounding along the path, Neamhan passed a hundred trees, their knarled branches and knotted roots reaching out to her, trying to pull her back. She paid them no notice, and ran further, right to the light.
It had gone.
In the place where she had last seen it there was nought but a hole in the ground, and all around she could hear whispers, and the rustle of branches. Suddenly, she became aware of the cold, and the distance from the castle she had run.
There were more lights, further in the forest, and as her heart leapt in hope, she set off once more. She had gone only a few steps when a sharp crack echoed through the wood, followed by a hard thump which came from next to her. A soldier, a dark blotch blooming from his chest, lay motionless on the ground. A still warm lantern shattered as it fell from his still warm hand. Neamhan stood, dumbfounded, then screamed.
A piercing cry shatters the night silence; birds flee from their trees; the soldiers whip their heads round, scanning the night scene.
"The Caoineag, the locals call it," mutters the guard next to the Duke.
"I have no time for fairy tales, captain. Get back to your post," the Duke shoots back. The terse reply sends the disgraced man away, but he returns within minutes, a ghost of his former self.
"There's movement in the forest, sir."
Neamhan ran on, blinded in the dark of the woods, with no moonlight penetrating the canopy. Malicious roots reached up to hold her and twisted branches blocked her path. She paid them no heed, and ran on.
The Duke stands by the battle field, waiting for the advance. A flash of tartan in the forest catches his eye. He raises his rifle, takes aim, and fires.
A cacophony of noise erupted around her. She didn't notice. Soldiers of both side charged, cavalry galloped past and artillery thundered from behind the lines of warriors. She didn't notice. She had eyes only for the rose that had appeared on her chest, spreading out, and taking her life with it.
Smoke hangs in the air around the field. The forest is no more than a dark band on the edge of vision. Tartan kilts and scarlet coats flood the battle ground. But he doesn't notice. He has eyes only for a girl who lies there, just in front. She lies there, at peace, with her scarlet rose upon her kilt.
