ESLENE
by Grant Watson
Copyright (c) 1996.
First published in Ka Faraq Gatri #3, April 1996.
If you wish to reprint this work of fiction in a newsletter or fanzine,
please e-mail Grant Watson at nzone@iinet.net.au to arrange sending a
contributor's copy.
(23rd August, 1996)

He died at sunset, the last glimmering rays over the loch fading beneath
the approaching bank of thick, dark clouds. His kinsmen were beside him as
his eyes closed, his final vision an alluring image of his people and his
clan.
   They lit candles that night, burning in all corners of his home.
Highlanders kept watch over them, replacing and relighting them until the
break of dawn. Then, at a changing of the guard, they retired to their own
homes to sleep, replaced by old women who continued the guard, sentinels of
the dead as the body rested upon the bier in the centre of the room.
   It was on the second day that a stranger came to the settlement. He was
an Englishman, and the elder farmers found some concern in this. He was a
slight man, with dark hair and a voluminous coat of some thick animal fur.
'I have come to pay my respects,' said the stranger, 'for I am known to the
deceased. Indeed I would have gladly given my life for his.'
   The stranger was admitted to the corpse, where he watched in silent
contemplation for some hours. Finally, after placing a golden sovereign
into it's cold, lifeless hand, he departed from the dead man's home, and
walked alone into the fog that rolled from the hills down to the glen. That
night, the caoine began, it's soft vocal lamentations continuing throughout
the night.
   Our laird is dead.
   Our laird is dead.
   We shall remember him.
   It was on the third day that another Englishman came to the settlement.
He was older, taller, wearing typically extravagant clothes for the fops
the English gentlemen made themselves to be. However he too requested entry
to the dead man's home, even reciting the self same dialogue as his
predecessor: 'I have come to pay my respects, for I am known to the
deceased. Indeed, I would have gladly given my life for his.' He remained
only briefly, placing a solitary red rose upon the body's chest. The
second stranger departed, following the way of his forebear.
   Our laird is dead.
   Our laird is dead.
   His deeds were noble.
   We shall remember him.
   On the fourth day, as the caoine drew to it's conclusion, yet a third
Englishman came to the settlement. He too was tall, but with darker
clothing, and a long woollen scarf wrapped around his neck. He looked down
from his noble brow, removing a battered, shapeless brown hat from his head
as he spoke. 'I have come to pay my respects, for I am known to the
deceased. Indeed, I would have gladly given my life for his.' Alone in the
home, he placed a dirk, a Highlander's dagger, into the body's other hand.
With sad expression and a slow gait, he departed into the night.
   It was on the fourth night that the wake began.
   A bowl was placed on the body's chest, and filled with fruits and
breads. The people of the tiny hamlet celebrated, singing and dancing
raucously into the early morning. The people spoke quietly in corners while
the children played in the firelight. He was remembered; a noble,
courageous highlander.
   On the fifth day, and the sixth, two more Englishmen did come to the
village. With self-same words and self-same deeds, they paid their last
respects, leaving a small gemstone upon the body's right eye and an
embroidered cloth upon it's forehead. Throughout day and night, the
settlement continued with feasting and games, as the memories filtered
through and swelled to their foremost thoughts. Both strangers refused to
participate in the celebrations, departing into the night, alone and
shrouded in a terrible, deep darkness.
   It was on the seventh day that the final stranger came to the settlement.
   He was dressed in odd attire, as were his predecessors, yet he spoke
with a soft Scots accent and carried with him some totem of black cloth and
metal pole, it's hooked end coloured a gory red. 'I have come to pay my
respects,' he told the sentinels at the door to the house, 'for I was known
to the deceased. Indeed, I would have given my life for him.'
   One of the elder farmers stopped the final stranger from entering. 'Five
of your kind have been before,' he told him, 'from what place did you know
this man?' The stranger smiled sadly to the elder, and drew from his pocket
a rod of Aspen, carved along it's length. 'I am the visitor that comes, and
I claim the right for the fey.'
   The elder nodded, averting his eyes from the talisman as the stranger
passed silently within the dead laird's home.

'This is the last day to bid farewell, my friend.' said the Doctor. He
turned to the old woman seated in the corner, where she knitted silently
while watching the candles that burned low to their bowls. Sensing his
intent, she lifted herself stiffly from her place and quietly left the
room. The Doctor circled the body in the flickering light.
   'I have come five times already,' he said, 'trying to say farewell. I
could never fully consider the correct words until now. I gave you five
gifts for your passage. Wealth in one hand, courage in the other, love in
your heart. Knowledge in your mind and clarity in your eye.' He paused,
smiling sadly again. 'You possessed these things, my friend. All of these
things and more than I could ever express.'
   From the pocket of his loose, brown jacket, the Doctor took a large
bottle. Taking a carved wooden bowl from the floor, he loosened the
bottle's cap, allowing the saltwater from within the flow freely. 'Water
from the North Sea,' the Doctor explained, 'the ocean of passage for your
people. The ocean where you saw her remain, in another place and time.'
   The Doctor took an amount of the water in his hand, and let it run
gently over the body's pale, cold chest. He rubbed it, washing the chest
of the highlander as he continued to speak. 'You loved her. I knew it
then, but her destiny lay elsewhere and I was not capable to interfering
with that.' He moved down, from chest to stomach, washing and cleansing the
body for passage. 'Perhaps I should have. Were it now, and I was given the
same choice? What then?'
   He washed his arms, slowly and meticulously working across the body.
'She loved you too. I hope that you realised that. She loved you as much as
you did her. But neither of you were able to speak out.'
   'And now I wash you, preparing you for passage through Tir-fo-Thonn,
and I realise all that could have been, and perhaps should have. I don't
know any more. I never did. Was I right? Should I have left her there on
some solitary beach while I watched your heart break before my eyes?'
   He washed his legs, and feet, rubbing and cleansing the soles. 'And now
you lie dead, and both of my own hearts have broken.'
   'We could have travelled for years longer. You might have wound up in
another time, on another world. A different destiny. A longer life,
perhaps.' He reconsidered. 'No. This was your place. Elected to laird of
the clan, a leader and a famous warrior and counselled guardian of your
lands and people. You did yourself proud, my friend. You did me proud.'
   The Doctor stopped, his water run out, the body washed and prepared. He
longer found a way to smile.

The people of the village were called into the home as the Doctor measured
the corpse. He used they fey, carved from Aspen wood with Ogham letters and
symbols. All hid their gaze from the fey, as the Doctor moved it along the
length and width of the body with slow, steady precision. Finally, he
completed his task, and secreted the shamanic rod within his jacket. 'It is
time.' he announced, lifting his hat from the floor and walking from the
room.

At sunset, while soft light was glimmering gently on the waves of the loch,
a solitary piper began playing on the hill. As it's slow, melancholy drone
crossed the air, torches were lit, people were assembled as the mournful
procession began. The body was lifted from it's home by seven men of the
village, and carried across the glen to where the memorial stones lay,
gathering time and moss in the approaching darkness. Behind them came all
of the people of the village, and from nearby villages and other clans and
lairds and Scottish peoples. The caoine began once more, the tearful,
heartfelt lament harmonising with the pipes as they carried across the
glen. At the gravesite, a hole had been prepared that afternoon,
meticulously constructed from the Doctor's exacting measurements.
   As he walked, the Doctor remembered.
   He remembered a time in 1746, where he first met the young highlander.
He remembered his travels, other friends and companions, their names and
faces flashing past. He remembered ocean realms and strange, alien planets,
unearthly sounds and smells echoing loudly in his memories. Cybertombs and
Himalayan mountains. Airports and moonbases, eighteenth centuries,
nineteenth centuries, and far beyond.
   They reached the grave, and the caoine reached a crescendo, as the
priest began his incantations for the spirit's ascension. The Doctor's mind
was elsewhere, moving from Skaro to Dulkis to Gallifrey, fleeting images of
toy soldiers and menacing Cybermen greeting his every reminiscence. He
stopped by the grave, stabbing his umbrella into the ground and removing
his hat.
   As the body was lowered into the pit, the Doctor studied it intently,
securing every last and final detail into his mind. The claymore in the
body's hands, the shield across it's chest, the edges of it's wooden bed
littered with gifts and remembrances.
   As the laird of the clan McLaren disappeared from view, the Doctor wept.
His grief was silent, steady tears flowing down both cheeks as the priest
uttered latin and waved his hands in the air. After some minutes, the first
people of the settlement began to leave the gravesite. Down in the centre,
a feast was being prepared, and already a bright, lilting music flowed
lightly across the night air.
   The Doctor was the last to leave, drawing a handful of earth from the
ground and watching over the dark, cold pit before him. 'Cha robh do
leithid romhad, agus cha bhi do leithid as do dheidh.' he whispered. 'Thine
equal was not before thee, and thine equal shall not be after thee.' He
scattered the earth over the hole, a final tear flowing across his cheek.
'Farewell, my friend.'
   He drew his umbrella from the ground and walked away.