Valley of the Coe

Although the characters of Eamon and Maureen MacIaian and Brian and Callum Campbell are fictional, the tragedy at Glencoe is, sadly enough, factual.  Many members of Clan Donald lost their lives that fateful night as a result of being a few days late in swearing allegiance to King William the Orange.  They were slowed by inclement weather, but never the less they did swear allegiance, yet were still put to the sword.  The Campbell’s were the instrument of death, however, some members of the attacking party did help a few Donalds escape.  Many of the victims who did not perish inside the walls of Glencoe fled into the maelstrom, most were never seen again.

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         Bang!  Bang!  Bang!  “Confounded door!  Kick it down!  Kill everyone in the room!”
         “Yes sir.”
         The floor creaked and scuffed with the sounds of the soldiers’ boots as they crossed the room in search of their prey.  The room housed several children who had been sent to live in the keep by their parents for the duration of the winter.  It was supposed to be safer than the small Highland villages from which they hailed.  It was supposed to be.
         “They look so peaceful and innocent wha they sleep dun they, Brian?”  The thick Lowland accent seemed to mock the cold morning air.
         “Sweet Jesus, James, they’re only babes.”
         “Wrong.  They’re Donald babes, not really human.”  James Campbell eyed Maureen MacIaian as she laid trembling in her bed.  “What do we have here?  A ‘lil Donald slut for the taking?  Do tell, slut, have you ever been with a man before, I mean a real man, not like these Donald pigs?”  James ran his hand across her tear stained cheek,  “Truthfully, slut, doesn’t that feel good?”
         “James, this is not why we’re here, besides she can’t be more than fourteen.”  Brian Campbell reasoned.
         “You have a lot to learn, cousin, she will not live to see fifteen.  Why not give her a taste of what she’ll be missing?”  James undid his belt.  The sword made a hard clank as it hit the worn, oaken floor.
         “I will not be a part of this madness.  I am a Scottish solider not some Dane marauder.  I refuse to take part in the killing and raping of mere children.  Now unhand her, James, or you will force me to strike you.”  Brian Campbell leveled his sword towards his disrobing cousin across the room.
         “You would betray your kinship and your clan honor for this Donald scum?  I think not.  Now sheath your blade, boy, or I will put you over my knee like the sniveling brat you are...”
         “You leave my sister alone, Campbell, and perhaps I shall let you live.”  Eamon MacIaian had sneaked up behind James and now stood on the bed resting his dagger perilously across the older man’s throat.
         James cast a lazy eye towards Brian, “Does this gnat really propose to tell me what to do?  Lad, you will unhand me now and I will not make you watch as I deflower your sister.  Heed me not, and I will make you listen to her screams before I kill you.  Either way, she will lie down with me, and you will both die.”
         “Aye, we may yet die, Campbell, but not at your hands.”  With deftness uncommon of a ten year old, Eamon ran the blade of his dagger deep and long across James’ throat.  He was dead before the first drop of blood hit the floor.
         “Edward.  Edward, wake up now, son.  You’re having a bad dream.  Edward?”  Greg McDonnell gently shook his son until he came to.  “Edward, are you okay, son?”  Carol McDonnell stood in the dimly lit doorway watching as her husband held their weeping son in his arms.

         “Bridget, Edward had the dream again last night.”  Carol said as they pulled out the parking lot of Bel Air Mall.
         “Oh no, the poor dear.  Was it as bad as before?”  She asked up shifting her silver Volvo to merge with the traffic on I-65.
         “About the same.  I don’t know what to do.  It’s all so frustrating.”  They fell silent.
         Carol McDonnell gazed out the window as the landmarks passed by without fanfare.  Hank Aaron Stadium.  Are the Bay Bears winning?  Who cares?  There was a Coast Guard boat with its lights flashing on Dog River.  So.  One lane of the Wallace Tunnel was closed.  It was all so trivial compared to the fears of her little boy waking up in a pool of sweat two or three times a week claiming he’d killed someone.  As she stared across the wide expanse of Mobile Bay she wondered what on earth could a mother do to help a child whose fear came from some world other than the tangible.

         Edwin Holmes, MD-Psychiatry, leaned back in his office chair and ran his hand through his long, light brown hair like a brush, “Describe the dream again for me, Greg, and make sure you don’t leave out any details.”
         “Okay, Doc, according to Edward he is in a castle or something like one.  It is very cold and the wind is blowing.  He says there are no windows but he knows it is snowing.  Edward has never really seen snow.  The last time it snowed here we were in Puerto Rico...”
         “The dream, Greg.”
         “Yes sir.  He knows it is snowing even though he can’t see outside.  Then he hears the sound of soldiers.  He knows they’re soldiers.  He can hear people screaming, then someone starts towards their door...”
         The Doctor, “Their?  He is not alone?”
         “Yes, there are several children in the room with him, one of them is his sister Maureen...”
         “I thought you said you had no other children.”  Dr. Holmes says as he pulls of his glasses, breathes a fog on them, wipes the lenses on his shirt, and places them back on his regal face.
         Greg shook his head, “She’s his sister in the dream.”  Dr. Holmes nodded and Greg proceeded, “Two soldiers walk through the door and one sees Maureen and starts to... uh,”
         The Psychiatrist arches an eyebrow, “Rape her?”
         “Yes.”
         “Mm hmm.”  Crossing his legs and exposing a pair of clogs where most physicians would have worn dress shoes.
         “Does that mean something, Doc?”
         “Continue.”
         Greg McDonnell took a deep breath, “The two soldiers begin to argue about what they are going to do... about the raping and the killing of the children, and while they argue Edward takes a dagger from a drawer and kills one of the men to protect his sister.  That’s usually when he wakes up.  The dream kind of reminds me of some of the old stories my great grand father used to tell me when I was a young boy.  Stories about Robert McGregor and William Wallace and strange Druids and Pictish fairies.  But I have never told Edward those stories.  I haven’t even thought about them in years.  Doc, what can it be?”
         Dr. Holmes glances over some notes he has written before clearing his throat to speak, “It sounds like he has some,” making quotation marks in the air to emphasize his words, “repressed sexual desires that he is feeling guilty about.  I wager to guess that the boy and the man he kills are both Edward.  The other man is also Edward that is why the two men are arguing.  They represent his desire and his conscience in conflict.  It sounds as though your son is entering puberty.  As you well remember from your own childhood the changes in physiology at this age are quite startling.  I suggest that his unconscious mind is simply trying to rationalize what is going on in his conscious mind.  It is as simple as that.” Edwin Holmes begins to stuff his pipe with a fresh bowl of Vanilla Cavendish.
         “So you think it is just the onset of adolescence?  It should pass soon, right?”
         Dr. Holmes took a gentle puff and exhaled it, watching amusedly as a perfect ring streams from his mouth, “That’s right, but I could always be wrong.”

         “Carol, if you ask me you’re feeding him too much red meat.  It is making him blood thirsty and Neanderthalic.  More fiber, Carol, and more organic.”
         “Sarah, you don’t even have any children, how do you know what effect red meat has on an eleven year old?” asked the younger of the two sisters kitchen phone pressed tightly to her ear.
         “I’m a nutritionist, remember?”  Her smugness was evident even over the phone.
         Carol chuckled, “You’re a receptionist at Weight Watchers, I hardly think that qualifies you as a nutritionist.”
         “Okay, maybe you’re right, but after working there for ten years I’ve learned a few things about eating habits.”
         “Maybe you’re right.  I have been meaning to start him on a healthier diet anyway.  We don’t want him getting fat, now do we?”
         Bridget opens a box of low fat, low sodium, wheat crackers and tops several of them with chunks of pepper jack cheese and heaping dollops of sour cream.  After taking a bite she begins rifling through Carol’s mail, “Carol, who do you know in Glasgow?”
         Carol’s face turned a shade paler, “Did you say Glasgow?”
         “Yes, Hon, there’s a letter here from Glasgow?”  Bridget hands the letter to Carol.
         “Sarah, can I call you back?”  She didn’t wait for an answer hanging up the phone with one hand and apprehensively taking the letter with the other.  She stared silently at the return address and then picked the phone up again.
         “Eastern Shore Blueprinting, this is Greg.”
         “Greg, we received a letter from Glasgow today.”  Carol managed to say.
         “Glasgow?  Hold a second, sweetie, I’m on the other line.  Let me get rid of them.”
         Bridget looked at Carol and asked, “What’s the big deal about Glasgow?”
         “Greg’s great-grandfather lives there.  We’ve feared hearing news of his passing for years.  He’s over a hundred years old.”  Carol said as she wiped away a tear, “Greg once spent a summer with his great-grandfather when he was sixteen.  To this day Greg considers that summer the most significant event of his life.”
         “Honey, I’m back.  Will you open the letter and read it to me?”  Greg sounded firm and in control but Carol new his heart was breaking.  She sniffed as she began to read:
Dear Greg,
         I am your cousin, Linda Burke.  I am writing you on behalf of Grand-da.  As you know he will be turning 104 in the spring and he has expressed a desire to see what he still refers to as The New World.  He wants to visit you and your family in Alabama next month.  He says he wishes to experience at least one warm December in his lifetime.  I hope this does not present an inconvenience for you and your family.  An itinerary is enclosed.
Love,
Linda
Dohommnaill gu brath!

         “Carol, you aren’t playing a joke on me are you?  That’s really what it says?  Grand-da is coming here?”  His voice was baptized in relief.

         The blizzard raged out side.  Through the swirling winds and buffeting snow the sounds of men could be heard outside the walls of the keep.  Before long there was a party of frostbitten men standing in the great hall.  They were given dry clothes and mead.  The high chief ordered a feast according to highland tradition and a celebration ensued.
         The site was one of disorientation to Eamon who had just three days earlier arrived at Glencoe on horseback himself.  These men were Campbell, and they were feasting in the great hall of Glencoe keep.  Eamon understood the honor that bound his clansmen to welcoming their sworn enemy into their home in time of need, but he’d never seen it acted out before.  In fact, these were the first Campbell he had ever seen.  They did not look like ogres and gargoyles as he had been taught.  They looked like everyone he had ever met, save the color of their tartans.
         Maureen held Eamon’s hand as they watched the food march by.  Plates of fresh berries and breads, spits with roasted venison, and puddings both sweet and savory graced the tables as men who couldn’t stand the sight of each other on any normal day sat boasting to one another of conquests on the battlefield and other more intimate places.  The wine flowed as amply as the lies until the time for the children to bed approached.
         The scene changed.  Eamon, in bedclothes, was soaked in a thick, red substance.  He knew without knowing that it was the blood of James Campbell that soiled his nightshirt.  Maureen was forcing a cloak and mitts onto his body. 
         Brian Campbell stood peering out the door, “The hallway is clear, now, let us hurry.”  Several children scurried out the door.  Maureen tugged at Eamon who stood staring at the lifeless man next to the bed.  Brian snapped him up and bellowed, “What’s done is done, lad, now unless you wish to meet a similar fate as old James you will run.”
         The screams of one of the children echoed down the hallway.  Edwin MacBeth lay impaled by a short sword.  A soldier wearing Campbell plaid pulled his saber as he approached the other children.  Brian Campbell mumbled an expletive as he met his counterpart in mid-strike.  The clash of steel shattered the room with a frightening sound that was followed by an even more deafening silence.  Brother stood against brother, each resolute in his intent.
         Brian was the first to speak, “Brother, how can we as men, as Campbell men, allow or partake in the slaughtering of innocent children?”
         “They are dogs.  They are worse than dogs.  My conscience is clear.” Callum rebutted through clinched teeth.
         “Have you ever heard of their clan slaying our children?  Callum, there is no good that can come from this act.  Let us not become the dregs of Scotland because of the petty avarice of some English King.” Callum eased his stance a bit and Brian continued, “They will sing songs of this night, Callum.  Not songs of triumph, but of shame.  Clan Campbell, men so bold they attack their enemy while they sleep.  Campbell the fierce who butcher their enemy no matter how young or infirm.  Is that how you want to be remembered?  Mark my words, brother, this is our destiny, but if you join me now maybe we can begin to repair what Argyle has forsaken.”
         The fire smoldered in Callum Campbell’s eyes, “There is wisdom in your words, brother.  In the thirst for fortune it seems we have forgotten our sense of honor.  Lead the way, Brian, and let us remove ourselves from this abomination.  When free of this infernal matter, I will seek an audience with Argyle to discuss it in detail.”
         The children followed the brothers out of the keep and into the darkness.  The last sight of Glencoe that Eamon would ever see would be through a tempest of snow and a vale of flames as the soldiers consummated their treachery with fire.

         It wasn’t a particularly busy rush hour, but Greg was nervous about getting to the airport, therefore he was not handling the traffic very well.  “Hey, Chief, turn signals are not optional!  Moron.”
         “Greg, calm down.”  Carol gently patted her husband’s leg.
         “Sorry.”
         As the traffic surged and sagged its way westward on Airport Boulevard, Greg managed to suppress any further outbursts.  The traffic at the airport was light, as usual so finding a parking spot was not hard.  The three McDonnell’s made their way through the doors of Mobile Regional Airport and checked to see if the flight was on time.  Continental flight 6543 from Boston was, in fact, on time.  The flight attendant opened the doorway leading from the runway and within minutes a wheel chair came through the door, its passenger grumbling and fidgeting with each step the escort took.
         “I’m not a child, pup, let me be.”
         “Mr. McDonnell, yore grandbaby gave instructions that you be taken ever-where by wheelchar, and until your family takes over carin’ for ya.  You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”  Drawled the attendant.
         “That’s a loovly accent you have, pup, what are you doing later?”
         “Eatin’ dinner with muh husband, but thank ya.”  She smiled flirtatiously.
         Greg stepped up to the attendant, “I’ll take him over for you now, ma’am.”
         “Don’t let him take me, luv, he’s not me grandson, me grandson is a wee lad.”  he gestured with his hand indicating a height of around five and a half feet.
         Greg laughed, “Grand-da, you haven’t changed a bit.”
         The old man sprang out of the chair like he was launched from a cannon and threw his arms around his great-grandson, “Gregory, lad, it’s been too long.”
         “Yes it has.  Grand-da, this is my wife, Carol.”
         Carol reached her hand out to greet her in-law, “Mr. McDonnell, I‘ve heard so much about you.”
         “Call me Grand-da, lass.  I don’t like me family calling me Mister anything.”
         “Okay, Grand-da.” She giggled.
         “Grand-da,” Greg interjected, “this is my son.  We named him Edward, after you.”
         Edward perked up, “Your name is Edward, too?”
         Greg answered, “Sort of, son.  Grand-da’s name is the Gaelic version of your name.  His name is Eamon.”
         Edward’s face went white, his hands began to shake, and retreated he behind his mother’s skirt.

         Greg parked his white Jeep Grand Cherokee on Dauphin Street directly in front of Wintzell’s.  They had chosen the quintessential Mobile restaurant for Eamon’s first taste of American food.  A menu was not needed as Greg had been eating at Wintzell’s his entire life.  A dozen oysters on the half shell as an appetizer where soon followed by fried soft-shell crab “poor-boys” for Edward, Greg and Grand-da.  Carol, who had never quite developed a taste for the Gulf Coast delicacy, enjoyed a fried shrimp “poor-boy” in its stead.
         Carol became concerned when Edward did not finish his supper.  The youngest McDonnell loved eating at Wintzell’s, but did not seem interested in his dinner this particular night.  Once the meal was completed the four piled back into the truck to make the trip back across the bay to Spanish Fort.  Edward sat in the back seat with his mother, tightly holding her hand and staring wide-eyed at his great-great-grandfather who was himself staring wide-eyed at the splendor of Mobile Bay.
         Upon seeing the rugged outline of the battleship USS Alabama, Grand-da replied, “Are ye expecting trouble, lad?”
         Greg emitted a soft laugh and answered, “No, Grand-da, that is the USS Alabama.  It was a very famous and heroic ship during World War II and Korea.  It is a museum now.  Edward and I have been there many times.  We can go take a tour while you are here if you like.”
         “Aye, I would like that indeed, Gregory,” his statement was interrupted by a yawn, “but not today I’m afraid.  I fear sleep will not be long in coming.”
         After Greg’s great-grandfather had unpacked and gone to bed Greg and Carol sat down with Edward.  Greg held his sons in his closely while Carol talked to him in that tender way that only a mother can, “Edward, why did you start acting funny after you met Grand-da?  Does he scare you?”
         Edward nodded, but did not speak.
         Carol tried once again to get her son to open up, “Why does he scare you?”
         “I’m Eamon.” he managed to say.
         “Excuse me, son?”  Greg asked.
         “In the dream, my name is Eamon.”  His parents fell silent in shock.

         Late that night the dream returned.  Again Edward awoke screaming, but this time it was the visitor who reached the frightened child first, his room being right next door and himself unable to sleep at what was, after all, ten in the morning in Scotland.
         As Greg stepped into the room the old man gently held the boy in his arms, “There now, lad, what was so scerry that it woke you in such an uproar?”
         Greg answered for his son, “He has had a recurring nightmare for the last several months.  It seems your visit has triggered it again.”
         “Me visit has triggered it?  How do you mean, Gregory?”
         “He told us last night that in the dream... in the dream his name is Eamon.”  Greg stared at his feet, “I’m sorry, Grand-da.”
         “Sorry for what?  It is not your fault that my name is the same as the one in his dream.  Edward, tell Grand-da about your dream.”  Eamon looked at Greg, “It helps to talk about it ya know?”  Greg nodded his approval as Carol joined him in the room.
         Edward recounted his dream for them.  When he had finished Grand-da exclaimed, “He has the sight!”
         Greg voiced what they were all wondering, “The sight?”
         “Aye, the sight.  Few have it; it is a gift from the Almighty.  It is believed that certain individuals are born with a second sight that allows them to see the future or the past as if they were living it.  Young Edward has not been having a nightmare, he has been seeing the past.”  He looked at Edward, “Lad, in your dream you say your name is Eamon, is it Eamon MacIaian?”
         Edward was startled, “Yes sir.”
         “Then your sister’s name would be Maureen?”  Edward nodded his head.  “The place where you are staying, is it Glencoe keep?”
         Greg thought aloud, “Glencoe.”  The word trailed off as if he had spoken a forbidden incantation.
         “Glencoe?”  Carol asked as Edward agreed that that was the name of the place where his dream took place.
         Greg almost smiled as he remembered allowed the tale he had learned many years ago in Glasgow, “Glencoe- the valley of the weeping.  In the late 1600’s the members of Clan Donald that lived in this rugged vale along the river Coe were assassinated in the beds by members of Clan Campbell on orders from William the Orange, king of England.  The official explanation was that it was an example of the king’s response to acts of treason, thievery, and betrayal committed by the Donalds of Glencoe.  In reality it was nothing more than a barbaric show of force by a king who cared only for himself.”
         “The controversy is not about why it happened, but the way it happened.  For centuries highlanders had lived by certain folkways of honor and generosity.  One of the grandest traditions was that if someone came to your door in need, even if they were your sworn enemy, you took them in and showed them all hospitality.  That is what happened in Glencoe.  The Campbell’s arrived during a blizzard requesting shelter and food.  The Donalds, bound by years of tradition, took in there their adversaries and feed them the best meat and gave them their finest wine.  The Campbells stayed with them several days.”
         “One night while all were asleep, the Campbell acted on their orders which were to kill everyone with the last name MacDonald, women and children included.”
         Carol gasped and Eamon emitted a whispered, “Aye.”
         Edward looked up and asked, “In the dream they killed everyone, not just people with last name MacDonald.  In the dream they killed a boy who’s name was McBeth and my name was MacIaian.”
         “Aye, lad, but they were all of the Clan Donald just as we are.”  Gesturing to the shield with a gauntlet clad fist hanging above Edward’s bed.  “There are many different spelling’s of the name, and many other names that are septs of Clan Donald like McBeth, MacIaian, and Burke, but we are all of Donald lineage, son.”
         Greg began to reason, “So he is dreaming of the massacre?”
         “He is indeed, and of a particular story I have heard many times.  The story of young Eamon MacIaian who killed a soldier defending his sister’s honor and escaped into the night with the aide of two brothers named Callum and Brian Campbell.”
         Edward asked, “What happened to them?”
         Grand-da replied, “Do you want to hear that they lived happily ever after?”  Edward bobbed his head up and down.  “Well let’s see.  Maureen and Brian Campbell were married a year later and sailed away to live in what was then the English colony of Massachusetts.  Callum joined the priesthood and lived out his life in Rome.”
         Edward was bouncing off the walls by now, “What happened to Eamon?”
         “Calm down, lad, I’m getting to that.  Eamon went live on the Isle of Skye, the center of the Donald fortune, and became a heralded leader in the fight for freedom from English servitude.  It is not a bad dream you’ve been having, Edward, but history relived.  Now, back to bed with you, lad.”
         “Yes sir.”  Edward was beaming with a liveliness that his parents hadn’t seen in months.
         They turned out the light in Edward’s room and went into the kitchen where Carol quietly fixed them some buttermilk, the Southern tranquilizer.
         Eamon noticed her reserve, “Why so quiet, pup?”
         Greg looked at her and read her thoughts in the way that lovers do, “Her maiden name is Campbell.”
         “Yes, Grand-da, and I didn’t want you to condemn me because of my heritage.  I never knew of the tragedy at Glencoe until just now.”
         He smiled broadly, “There are those that to this day who would curse you to your grave, but I am not one of those.  Me ma, God rest her soul, was named Erin Campbell before she joined me da in matrimony.”  He winked at her in a whimsical, reassuring manner, “We are all God’s children, Carol, and he has thought enough of you to allow you to marry into his favorite family.”  He picked up his glass of buttermilk and saluted his descendant and said, “Dohommnaill gu brath!”
         Greg smiled at his wife and returned the salute in English, “Donald forever.”