The Lass

The Lass

They all knew who she was, although they seldom saw her.  Some met her in the mountains, her hair as long and dark as the mist which flowed liked smoke down the lofty corries.  Others caught sight of her with her skirt caught up from firm young legs, as she danced through the ripening corn, her locks a burnished halo in the dawn light.  And those who talked with her on the beach, when the dying sun poured gold over their island bays, remembered cheeks like ripe apples, framed by amber curls.

Her voice was low, and made them think of glassy burns caressing rounded boulders.  Her frequent laugh was woven through with friendly chiding if they became too proud.  But her lips, red as rowan berries, most often framed encouragement or advice, as down to earth as the peat hags and kail yards where so many days were spent.  They said they wouldn’t call her pretty, and indeed, if that word echoes neat and tidy sweetness, then indeed she was not.  But in her homespun simplicity mixed with wild mystery, she could at times be beautiful.

But best of all were her eyes.  Amazing orbs they were, lustrous like the balls of glass that bob suspending fishing nets from atop the grey sea.  Some said that they were purple or topaz, others declared them darkest blue or even black.\PBut their startling feature was the way that they reflected in their clear dark depths all that was around them.roThere the folk saw their landscape, so familiar that it caught their breath, as when you walk again the childhood road from school, and every crooked stone or bending tree brings back the sense of home.grAnd there they saw themselves reflected too, and knew for certain who they were.

So they loved her, and when she danced, swirling in a vital, careless frenzy, and holding out warm, supple hands to them in invitation, they felt a warmth of belonging that could not find expression.amFor they were folk who had little use for words, but whose feelings ran deep like the dark minches and firths that surrounded them. FAnd thus the countless seasons passed, familiar verses in the poem of their plain lives.

Now and then, men would come, high on sleek black horses.ilTheir thin hands, their oval faces, their soft shirts and cuffs – all were pale and smooth.esAnd so were the long words they used, which left the folks in awe, not knowing what to say. (Sometimes these smooth ones would ask to take the lass, and she would look to her folk to see if they agreed.x8But they were confused.6)The smooth ones must know best, and said they needed her, that she would help them win their distant wars, or make them all grow rich and strong. And as she rode away, folk watched her chin glowing against her dark shoulder as she gazed back till she was out of sight.  But always she came back at last.

Then came the day the smooth ones told them that the lass must leave for ever.  There was another, they said, who was rich and beautiful, and whom in time these folk would learn to love as well or better.   It seemed the lass had lost her usefulness.  But she would not go.  Instead she fell down as if dead upon the pebbled earth, and lay still.  Then the folk raged and shrieked, and ran amuck on cobbled streets, and wept.  They lifted her gently, and carried her to a tiny croft, and laid her there to see if she would wake.  But she did not.  The smooth ones said she would most surely die, and told the folk to leave her, as was surely best.  So they slowly parted, and their heavy footsteps dented the peaty turf, which filled with dark pools, reflecting nothing.

The years trudged on.  The other one was indeed rich and beautiful.  Tight golden ringlets framed her pretty face, and tiny feet like white mice played in and out of silken robes, and walked on neat green lawns.  They tried to love her, and to believe that she loved them, but she was far away and seldom saw them.  They aped her way of speech and dress, and learned to dance and sing as she did, in neat and measured tone.  But when they travelled near enough to see into her eyes, she seemed to look beyond them, and not to realise who they were.

The decades marched on.  Now and again, the folk were content.  Now and again, they were not.  They still recalled the lass, and told their children of her, beside the sweet peat smoke, or the black-leaded range in their single end, or in the slimy holds of emigration ships.  They told them how she danced with them, and when the children begged for her return, they told them she was dead.  But in their hearts they wondered if they told the truth.

Still she lay in the silent croft.  It became overgrown, first by twisting brambles and bright green nettles, then by buzzing tenements and factories.  Shipyard cranes towered over it, and folk crawled in them like spiders trapped in webs of their own making.  And far away, across an oil black sea, flames blossomed like yellow flowers which nod on the distant machair.

Others came, escaping polished marching boots, or dust-bowl hunger, or simple hatred.  And through the mists of this new land, they recognised her presence, and joined the flow of wordless longing.

No one really knew when folk began to say that perhaps she was not dead.  The first who did were laughed to scorn, or told that they were mad.  But gradually, the folk became more curious.  They searched through books and music and memories and souls.  At last they found the tumbled stones and there she lay, quiet and still, but surely only sleeping.

The smooth ones heard what they had done, and came in sleek black cars to see.  They agreed that she was not dead, and said how glad they were, but warned the folk not to hope she could awake.  Her coma was too deep they said, and certainly she could not hear them, or even know that they were near.  And they left the folks unsure, not knowing what to say.  They looked from them to her and back again, and slowly left.

But they could not forget that she was yet alive and beautiful.  They began to believe that if they called to her, perhaps she just might hear.  The smooth ones warned them with concern.  After all, she now had slept so long, it must be that if she woke she would be frail, or weak of mind.  Even if not, how ever could she live with the rushing world that now was theirs – would would not fit, she could not cope.  Best not to call her.  If they called and she stayed still, what fools they all would seem for chasing such a fantasy.  Thus it was that uncertainly they gathered where she lay, and called her.  But their voices were doubtful, out of tune, and soon fell silent.  Confused, they stumbled back to office blocks and shopfloors.

But some who lingered saw her eyelids move, as if the glorious orbs responded, and her soft  hands returned the warmth of tender touch.   Word of this slowly spread, as near twenty years fled by.  Their belief grew stronger.  They found and listened to each other’s voices as they had long forgotten how to do.  And so they came again, this time walking quietly, but with firmer stride.  And they called her, their voices ringing together, from kelp-skirted piers, square glass schools, and shopping malls.

And she stretched and sat up, yawning, rubbing her eyes with plump brown fists.  Then, whirling her strong young legs to the floor, she laughed, and called them daft for ever thinking she was dead, and told them to get a move on and find some clothes for her to wear, or sure she’d look a proper sight in housing schemes and shops. 

And jumping up, she took their hands and ran with them outside to dance on rain-wet tarmac streets.  And in the gleam of city lights, they looked into her laughing eyes, and saw themselves reflected, and knew again exactly who they were.

Meg Lindsay, 13/9/1997