The Underhill Journal

On a day when the clouds are hanging low, the winds are raging high and the post christmas slump is starting to set in, I wrote this.  Not very cheery.

I feel like I should be slipping away

Everything in my world has turned to grey

Smothered beneath a thick, charcoal cloud

That steals my need to speak out loud

The monochrome thoughts in my head

The things I know should be said

Silence is grey, devoid of colour

Red anger gone, bleached by this other

All consuming, paralysing emotion

Freezing my mind, ending any forward motion

That otherwise might lead me out of this place

Where Im penned in by things I can't face

Depression, so horrifyingly bland

How can anyone else understand 

What it feels like to be sunk down so low?

Others smile, laugh and live, how can they know?

I'm alone, my self-absorption a quarantine 

So that this self-loathing can go unseen

Sadness spreads like contagious infection

Growing in long silences and internal refelction

I don't want to be the one to pass it on

That's a lead straight-jacket I cannot don

So it comes again back to this

For as long as these feelings I can't dismiss

I feel like I should be slipping away

Everything in my world has turned to grey

This is a piece I wrote a while back for our local Free Paper, the Glenkens Gazette.  It is a dramatisation of real events that took place in our little Glen in the 1600's, during what is now referred to as "The Killing Times".

The Story of James McMichael

My name is James McMichael, which was also the name of my father, although now they call him "Black" James McMichael. The law says that my father was a murderer, and after he died they put his body in a gibbet and left it to rot where all the Clachan could see it. Yet the people of the Clachan cried to see it, and in secret they whispered behind their hands that my father was a Martyr, not a murderer. It was the Killing Times, and fear stalked the quiet streets and country lanes of the Glenkens, while the law was turned on its head by the anger of the King at what he believed was our insurrection. 

My father was a man of conviction and my mother always said that none but God himself could change my fathers mind once he had made it up. It was certainly the case when he joined the Solemn League, and he declared that no Royal proclamation was going to make him give it up. 

Then the King set out the fines and punishments for not attending the Kirk, and still Father would not change his mind. He refused to let us go, saying he would never bow his head in prayer to the King when Jesus alone deserved our praise. 

So strong was his belief, that when I was but a small child, Father marched with many other Covenanter's to fight against the King's men, unafraid of what might happen as he believed he was in Gods' hands. They were defeated, horribly, for they were armed with not much more than farm tools and handmade weapons, but defeat did not dent my Father's belief one bit either. He simply came back home and bided his time. 

It was in the year 1684, when I was 14 years old, that things became very black indeed. The King sent Graham of Claverhouse and his Dragoons to hunt down the Covenanter's and force us back to the Kirk. Violence and death followed in his wake as he ruthlessly went about weeding out the Covenanters from the local folk. 

Soon, because of the fear that Claverhouse brought amongst us, once trusted men became informers and there were spies among our ranks. Father became suspicious of all but a few of his fellows. Often, I would lie awake to listen as Father sat up late at night with his closest friends, Robert Stewart, John Grierson and Robert Ferguson, talking in soft voices. I knew in my heart they were plotting. 

The day that my father earned the name "Black" James is burned deeply into my memory, and I can think of nothing that will remove it so long as I live. The Curate of Carsphairn, Peter Pierson, had been giving away the names of Covenanters freely, buying the favour of Grierson of Lag, who was stationed within a stones throw of the Kirk at Carsphairn. Father had me drive him and the other men to Carsphairn, where they planned to plead the Covenanters case with the Curate, hoping to silence him with reason. It was December and dark already as we trundled slowly up the road. Frost was in the air, for Winters' bite was hard upon us. Father told me to wait outside when we came to the Manse and to be prepared to leave as fast as I could should anything go wrong. 

I waited, shivering in the cold outside, sick to the stomach with a sense of foreboding. Then, with a crack as deafening as thunder, a shot resounded from within the Manse. Forgetting my fathers instructions I rushed inside, to hear my Fathers voice booming in the parlour. Before him, lying in a pool of crimson, was the Curate, clutching feebly at his chest. The stench of gunpowder was in the air and I felt bile rise in my throat when I saw that  my Father held a Musket in his hands which he pointed still at the Curate as he spoke. 

"Let the Lord judge you now, for you have sinned against him. You adhere to the King's blasphemy, and I have given you justice for it!" 

My father stood surrounded by his friends, all of whom wore grim expressions that spoke of their solidarity. My heart was thumping and my knees turned to water, for I was afraid of the soldiers I was sure would come at the sound of the shot. Then, as I had dreaded, the thunder of horses hooves came echoing through the night, rousing me from my stupor.  My father would be killed if he were caught as he was. 

"Flee Father! The Dragoons are coming!" I cried. 

Stewart and Grierson turned at once to go, Ferguson made to follow them but stopped and put a hand to my fathers shoulder when it seemed he would not move. 

"Wait," I heard my father say, and he walked to where the Curate lay, his lifeblood ebbing away onto the floor of the Manse. There, my father stood and waited until the last light of life had disappeared from Curate's eyes.  He whispered a soft prayer under his breath before finally reaching down to gently draw the Curates eyelids closed. 

"Please Father!" I cried, for I could see the Dragoons leaping from their horses in the yard outside. My father looked up at me and nodded, then he and Ferguson fled out of the Kirk by the back door. The Dragoons came pouring in the front door, yelling in the Kings name. I threw myself behind a curtain, praying to God that they would not see me. They rushed passed the Curates body, giving it not a single glance, and poured out again by the same door my father had taken. At that moment, I was afraid that I would never see my father alive again. 

It was dark still when I was shaken roughly from sleep. I let out a cry of fear, my dream sodden mind telling me this was Claverhouse come to drag me away for my part in Piersons murder. A hand smothered the noise, making me snap my eyes open and struggle to sit upright. 

"Whisht lad, it is only I," came a voice I instantly recognised as Robert Stewarts, "We don't want to wake your brothers and sisters," he added, taking his hand away from my mouth. 

"My father?" I asked, hoping that he would be near, and safe. 

"He is in hiding, son. He cannot return here now," Stewart told me, "Now come with me, I need your assistance lad, but I can't explain here," 

I scrambled out of bed, full of relief to hear that my father was safe, yet apprehension was gnawing at me. What was it that Stewart wanted me to do? I followed him into the kitchen, pulling a shirt over my vest as I went. 

Mother was sitting at the kitchen table, her face only partly lit by the single, guttering candle that stood in its centre. Her expression was like stone, unreadable and firmly set. The only other light in the kitchen was the feeble glow of the dying embers of the fire. 

I sat down opposite her, while Stewart crouched down by the fire and started to stir it in the hopes of kindling it to a brighter flame. Mother pushed a plate of oat bannocks across the table, so I buttered them and ate them in silence. As the silence grew, so did my feeling of apprehension, but then finally, Mother broke it. 

"Your father wants you to help Master Stewart in his stead. Never have I argued with your father, and never shall I, but I must ask you to take great care, James. There is a great deal of danger in this task," 

I nodded dutifully at her, after what had happened five days ago in Carsphairn I understood her fears. Then I turned to look at Stewart as he stood in the gloom by the fire. 

"What is it that you want me to do?" 

"We need transport for several men to Kirkcudbright, and we need a watchful pair of eyes," Stewart began, looking directly at me, "Your father offered us the use of his cart. Will you drive it for us, lad?" 

Robert Stewart was a fugitive from the law, but providing did not seem so dangerous. There must be more to it, I thought. 

"Why do you want to go to Kircudbright?" 

"We mean to go to the Tolbooth, to free the prisoners there. We need the cart to hide our weapons and intentions," 

My mind raced. This was a blatant act of insurrection. No wonder mother had warned me so. And yet, as I had grown I had taken my fathers cause as my own. I had known many folk who had been imprisoned, and killed, over the short years of my life, and that made my mind up for me. 

"I will do it," I said quietly. 

"There is a market today. If we leave within the hour we can use that as cover. We can find a place to wait and attack the Tolbooth tonight," Stewart explained, obviously pleased by my willingness. 

And so it was that I came to be standing in the shadows on the opposite side of the street from the Tolbooth, watching intently as a patrol disapeared off into the night. I let out a shrill whistle as soon as they were out of sight and from dark doorways and alleyways the men emerged. I followed them to stand in the gloom beside the Tolbooths doors. 

"Follow me lad," Grierson called to me as Stewart began to pound on the heavy doors with his fists. 

"I am to keep watch," I answered, bewildered. 

"No time for that now. You must steal the keys from the guard room and let loose the prisoners," he replied, leaning close tom me and speaking in a harsh whisper. Before I had time to consider this the doors swung open and Stewart threw himself at the unsuspecting guard who had opened them. The men poured in behind them, with Grierson grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me after him. 

The corridor beyond was jammed with fighting men, their yelling and the ring of their blades almost deafening in th confined space. Grierson pointed me towards a side door and joined the melee, leaving me no choice but to obey. I had to duck and twist and weave my way around the men, aware of the clamour coming from the cells beyond as the prisoners shouted encouragements and pleas. 

Almost at the door, I had to throw myself to the ground to avoid the swipe of a guardsman's blade. He advanced on me where I lay until Stewart appeared behind him and cut him down with a lethal thrust. I had to scrabble to avoid him toppling on me. 

Finally I found myself in the guardroom, spying the keys hanging on a hook. I dashed for them, afraid of being followed, and ducked out of the room, the heavy keys jangling noisily in my fist. 

My heart was thumping so and the din of the battle was such that I barely noticed the words of gratitude uttered to me as I unlocked the cell doors. I was not immune, however, to a wave of anger and revulsion that hit me as I looked on at the pitiful state of the prisoners. Many of them were not men like my father, or Stewart and Grierson, but old bent men, women and boys even younger than myself. So thin and weak were some of them that it seemed to take all of their strength just to reach the cell door. 

An ancient lady staggered and practically fell on me, so I supported her, turning back to try and lead her through the fighting men to the exit beyond. Grierson and Stewart were pressing hard and forcing the guards back into the guardroom with their men, leaving a much clearer path back for me. Even so, I could not help but wonder what we were going to do with these poor, feeble folk who had done no greater wrong than to worship God in the way they had always done. 

Grierson answered my fears with a shout. 

"Get them to the cart lad, we will make our own way out of here!" 

Having no clearer clue what to do, I lead the prisoners out onto the dark streets of the town, taking them straight down an alley and away from any likely patrols. As we scurried along, I could hear them muttering prayers. Somewhere in the distance I heard the Dragoons, their horses hooves clattering noisily along the cobbled streets towards the Tolbooth. In fear, I practically lifted the woman I was helping off her feet and carried her to where we had hidden the cart. Shots rang out in the air, and the clash of steel became more pronounced. Desperately I urged everyone on faster, finding a reserve of strength in me that I never knew that I had. Finally, we reached the cart, and without a sinlge glance back to see what might have become of Grierson and Stewart and the other men, I urged my horses to a canter and fled Kirkcudbright.

I woke long before dawn, and determined not to disturb Mother or my siblings, I slipped as quietly from the bed room as possible. Since the raid in Kirkcudbright two nights before, I had been jumping at shadows, terrified that Claverhouse would know that I had been involved and bring
his wrath down on my family. I could stand it no longer, so last night I determined that I would take a bag of supplies and disappear off into the hills after my father. One of the men involved in the raid had let it slip that father was hiding out at Auchenloy, by the Black Water of Dee.

So it was that half an hour later I was on the road with a backpack of food, heading in that general direction. The first rays of sunlight were peaking over the hills, but all around there was a thick, icy fog which crept up the river basin on tendril fingers. I could only barely see where I was going or what lay ahead of me. I nearly jumped clean out of my skin when I heard a sudden whisper in my ear.
"You should be careful out here lad, Claverhouse is upon the roads with his men,"
I turned, afraid of what I might find and saw that it was Robert Ferguson who stooped down to speak in my ear.
"I was going to my father," I told him in my defence.
"And ye could have led a dragoon to him unknowing walking is such a dwam along these roads,"
My mouth dropped open and I stuttered, trying in vain to explain myself, but Ferguson simply smiled and shook his head. He took me by the arm and lead me off the road and into the field.
"I'll guide you there boy," he began "By a safer road, although you must stay close to me in this fog,"
How thankful I was that he found me, for less than two minutes later we heard the sound of many horses hooves upon the road and looked to see soldiers on it, their shadowy shapes picked out in the fog by the lamps they carried to see by.
We walked the many miles to the Black Water, the icy fog lifting slowly under the sluggish winter sun. We crossed bogs and burns and followed deer tracks through the forests, always wary that we might be followed or seen by Claverhouse's men as they combed the countryside.
Finally, with the fog still roiling about the feet of the trees though the day was almost half gone, we came to Auchenloy, where my father and his companions had made camp. Though they were hardy men, the bitter cold and privation seemed to be beginning to take their toll. Wariness of being
found prevented them from lighting a fire that might have otherwise improved their lot. They fell gratefully on the bannocks, cheese and cold meat that I had brought and my father praised me highly for my thoughtfulness.
To see him alive when I had feared him dead until 2 days before cheered me greatly, and for a while I forgot my fears and sat and listened to the chatter of the men as I had done many times throughout my childhood.
That it would be the last time I would do this, the last time I would speak with them, the last time I would see my father alive and without care I did not realise at the time. Now the laughter rings hollow in my mind for it was that sound that brought the dragoons down upon us.
They came on foot, silent as foxes, hidden by the fog and caught us all by surprise. A shot rang out and Ferguson fell dead to the ground. I felt my feet rooted to the ground in shock as I stared at the corpse of a man who had been alive bare seconds before.
“Run lad!” my father bellowed, tearing me from my frozen state. He leaped to his feet, pistol and sword drawn already. I needed no second telling and flew headlong for the tree-line, but there I stopped, not wanting to leave my father again. Now, in some ways, I wish I had not.
Graham of Claverhouse and his bloody band of Dragoons stepped out of the fog, muskets trained on my father and his cronies.
“James Mc Michael!” he roared and I saw my father step forward, his head held high.
“That is I” he told the sheriff.
With a wave of his hand, Claverhouse halted his men and strode forward to face my father, giving no heed to the weapons my father had drawn.
“You are under arrest for the murder of Pierson of Carsphairn and treason against his majesty, Charles II. I advise you to come quietly,” he said in a voice as cold as the fog.
“You know I will not,” my father replied.
Claverhouse turned to his men and pointed at where my fathers friends stood behind him.
“Shoot them,” he ordered.
Gunshot tore the air like a thunderstorm broken right overhead. Robert Stewart and John Grierson fell dead. In the forest I stood aghast, unable to tear my eyes away.
“I'll not be your trophy catch, Claverhouse. You'll either have to kill me or be killed trying to take me,” My father told him, without a waver in his voice.
“You think you're a match for me Mc Michael?” Claverhouse asked, his voice coloured with scorn. He drew his sword, “Let's see how much of a fool you are,”
My father tossed his pistol to the ground and grinned. “Single combat, Sheriff,” he said, issuing the challenge.
Claverhouse replied by crossing swords with my father and the ring of steel echoed in the frigid air. Father roared like an angered bull and rained blows on Claverhouse, forcing him backwards. But Claverhouse's skill with the blade was not small and after his initial surprise at Father's fury he fought back. They went to and fro several times and Claverhouse began to be frustrated as my fathers skill was more than he had imagined. Again father fought him back with a furious volley of blows and Claverhouse missed his footing on the wet ground. Father lunged and there was a dull clang as his sword met the metal of Claverhouse's helm. Claverhouse staggered back, his pride as stung as his crown.
“Had your helmet been like mine,” my father snarled, pointing to the soft bonnet on his head,”Your carcass had now found a bed upon the heath!”
There was triumph in fathers voice, but alas, it was to be short lived! For as he they fought I had spied that one of Claverhouse's dragoons had moved away from the rest and he stooped to take a large stone. I was frozen and made dumb with fear, something of which I am not proud to this day, and I could not find my voice when I saw the dragoon slip silently up behind my father as he spoke. I saw him raise the rock up high, and still the cry I longed to utter remained caught within my throat. Then the dragoon dashed it down up on my fathers skull, cleaving it open.
In my horror my knees went from under me, bile rising fast in my gullet. I was aware of more shots ringing through the air and somehow a sense of self-preservation took over and I stumbled back to my feet and fled.
In life, as well as death my father was a man of indomitable spirit and somewhat reckless character, yet not a day goes by that I do not mourn his loss or wish that I had a little more of his strength of will. The Killing Times are long behind us, and graves erected for many of the Martyrs who died in those days. Often I sit by the stone that marks the final rest of Robert Stewart and John Grierson and ponder their cruel fate. But never far from my mind is the martyr who isn't buried there, the Martyr who knows no true rest. My father, James Mc Michael.

The End

I call you forth

From the long shadows of myth

Lord of Terror

Lord of Flame

Lord of All, forthwith

I write your names

Construct you from ink and mind

Made from dream

Made from fear

Made from words that bind

I breathe life into you

Give you a voice with which to speak

The voice of your heart

The voice of your rage

The voice of your soul, unique

Dragon, I name you

The first time to wake you

Dragon, I name you

The second time to raise you

Dragon, I name you

The third time to unchain you

I found this while looking for some other writing of mine.  

Escape.

Where am I running to today? What twisted alternate set of problems can I devise to replace my own with for a while?

Sorceress.

Creating an illusion, self defeating.  I conjour magic into existence for a distraction, lace a world with creatures to love, loathe and fight, change form like a chameleon, grow in power, shift in age.

I will not give myself paradise.  There is no risk in paradise, no hope for satisfactory resolution.  There is no need for resolution in paradise.  No narrative can live long constrained in those chains.  Narrative is the butterfly of chaos, it must flap it's wings to stir a world into story.

Self delusion.

When a world leaks back into mine, whien it colours my dreams and I start to try and maintain the connection.  I long for the danger and change, I injest the poisons, tap into the sources and drown in a sea of it.

Obsessive.

My brain folds in on itself, delves too deep for the answers.  Outside existence becomes grey.  I force reality away.  Dissolving, the world outside myself no longer concerns me.

Anger, frustration, the screaming angst of others.  Eventually I resurface into the world I want to escape, only to find that if things have changed, it is because my escape makes it worse.  A fool, a fantastic fool, pissing away time and life with non-existence.  All that just makes me want to go back inside, but then shame forces me to be realistic.  Unhappiness follows, guilt edged, panic lined.

I feel powerless and weak.  Tired and compelled.  Sick and resentful.  Self-loathing makes a mockery of my selfishness.  I square up to responsibility with a stomach full of boiling acid.  I don't want this life, but I've forged it just as much as the inner life.  Forged by neglect.

Taste the pain.

Long to retreat inside again.

Repeat until

I can't take it any more.

Break.

For Jolie!

The Secret Colour of Crows

A wing shapes across a sky
Black as night
Obscuring day
Feathers spanning while light leaks through
Sparkling sunlight
Flying closer
Sunlight sparkles on the black
Rainbows spark
Dancing from it's flight
Hues deeper and richer
Inviting inspection
Inviting enthrallment
It wheels, spinning against blue
So stark
Bright and Dark
Day and Night
Still confusion is invited
When the light strikes
Blackness fractures
Defracts to dance along
The length of a wing tip
And from the black
Comes a myriad
A milieu
A cacophony of brilliance
That steals my eye
Oilslick purple and green
White that burns in the sun
Blue that hides beneath it all
Subtle and blinding
Hidden beneath the sinister
Beauty few perceive
Beauty few acknowledge
The secret colour
Of crows