‘Whosoever is delighted in solitude, is either a wild beast or a god.’
There is a part of all men that is both bestial and divine. It is to be expected therefore for every man to seek out a place where he might be alone.
The low, overgrown outcrop, its fissured face a mosaic of moss and lichen, was such a place. It had become over the years his special place to be as alone as he could ever be.
He came here each and every day. And each time he did, through a marshy hollow that seemed to have been scooped out of the fell with a pudding spoon, he always took care to keep his mind busy. He busied it with thoughts of his love sleeping peacefully in the cool, silent vault hidden deep within it; he busied it by remembered the great dishonour she had brought upon him and he busied it with thoughts of his sworn oath to the Fates.
He allowed these thoughts to consume his mind utterly, for if he allowed it to wander, if he let down his aegis for just a moment, such was the power of the place that the demons of the past would pour into his mind, horde upon terrible horde. The demons of the past would come upon him and they would drag him back to Hell.
Today, the harsh cry of a raven fills the hollow and interrupts his thoughts. Today, Hell is ruptured and today, great hordes of demons reach out to torment him.
The hollow is the same; the crag is the same; even the call of the raven, jarring the serenity of the moors, is the same. But now across the years, he hears again the soft voice of his mama and feels her warm, safe hand encircle his own.
In his other hand he brandishes his sword – his first real sword. He is a warrior at last.
The raven cries again.
Across the years there are three men ahead of them; standing by the narrow track that is the only way through the marsh they call the Fogy Moss. Even though he has seen but ten years, he can somehow sense that they are feral and vicious. He feels his mama’s hand squeeze his own and knows that she too is afraid.
The men suddenly cease their whispering and watch them, smirking as they approach. He grips the handle of his sword.
“Good morning to you,” his mother says. Her voice sounds noble and commanding, but for the last ten years it has been his world and he can sense her fear.
The men stare and smirk and do not answer her. Her hand grips his, tighter and tighter as they walk.
And then they are past.
There is no danger after all. His mother’s hand relaxes.
A sound of boots. He hears the sound of heavy boots pounding on the path and then he hears a scream.
It is his mama. His own mama is screaming. The turf lurches up to him. It lies cold against his cheek.
His mama screams again. Her screams pierce his very soul. He stirs and struggles up. There are the men and they have his mama. They are carrying her, writhing and threshing, towards the rocks.
“No, Mama!”
She can’t reply. She is held fast with a hand pressed tight over her mouth. Bewildered, he looks around for someone, anyone, to help her, someone to make them stop. But the moors are empty, save for the raven perched on the rocks, watching.
His sword! He sees it. The sun has picked it out lying in a hagg and it glints as if it truly were magical. He is fully ten years old and he is a man, as fierce as his father.
The men are laughing now and jeering. His mama has been pushed to the floor. Her shoulder is bare and she is kicking out hysterically at the men, kicking at her skirts.
He is a man, a man from a long line of warriors and he will save her. It is his duty.
He grasps the wet steel and runs, screaming like a fiend, charging down the path to her rescue, the rescue of his own dear mama.
And then he sees her eyes. They are wide and full of fear. They are his whole world and they turn his rage to ice.
As she writhes and kicks on the moss, she screams words at him:
“No, run, get away! Get away from here!”
He stands, confused. She is his mama. Why does she want him to go? Go where? She loves him. Doesn’t she?
No! He is a Lowther and a Lowther will always do his duty. He shrieks the battle-cry of his fathers and rushes at the men.
But they stand and roar with laughter and he stops. Then a hand is on him, clamped on his wrist like a band of iron. It is hot, rough and calloused, even more than his father’s; it is like no hand he has known. The fine steel is ripped from his grasp as if it were nothing more than a toy and a face, full of hatred and a fury that is beyond the ken of his ten short years is against his own.
The mouth of mossy, broken teeth is moving, bellowing words he somehow cannot hear and then he is spun round and he feels the steel of his own sword like ice against his throat.
The world goes silent, holding its breath. His mama stops kicking, stops writhing and lies still. She is sobbing now, her slim, white legs stark and naked against the rich green of the moss.
And he stands, shivering, and he feels his own warm piss seeping down his breeches, watching as each man takes his turn.
“You must never, ever say anything about this to a single, living soul, and especially never to your father. Do you hear me? Promise me it. Promise me it, now!”
She grabs him by his shoulders and shakes him and shakes him until, sobbing, he does. The men have gone now, his breeches are cold and the moors breathe once more.
“I’m fine. I’m really quite fine. These things can happen to a woman. It was unfortunate, that’s all – it was a simple misfortune. I wish you hadn’t seen it. It was just the will of the Fates.”
But she is his whole world and he knows that she is not fine. He knows that she is somehow broken.
She pats his head and stands, awkwardly and unsteady. Her eyes search the line of the high cliffs of Sewingshields for anyone else who might have witnessed her misfortune. But there are none – none save for the Fates themselves, the raven and the restless spirits of the place.
It is many days before he ventures once more beyond the Edge of the World, to where the cliffs of Sewingshields fall sheer to the moorlands beyond. Like his mother, and like the Emperor Hadrian before her, he knows now that those moors are fit only for the raven, the barbarian and the cruel, heathen gods.
His mother no longer takes him to sail his coracle around the loughs, or to catch frogs and newts in the boglands of the Fogy Moss, or even to play in the ruins of Sewingshields Castle rising from its island there. She no longer goes anywhere or does anything except to stay in her room and weep and weep and weep.
And in his own private moments, when his father and the servants and the portraits of his ancestors cannot see him, he weeps too. He weeps for his lost blade of fine steel that has been cast away by his tormentors. He weeps for his mother’s misfortune that has somehow taken away her soul and left her a shivering slough. And he weeps because even though he is from an ancient line of warriors, he is a pitiful coward who pissed himself when he should have been a man.
But then one day his mama does go out and it is again to the high moors of the Great Whin Sill. She calls him and takes him by the shoulders and weeping, she shakes him as she tells him how she can’t be a prisoner for the rest of her life.
She can’t. She can’t. She can’t.
She smooths the tears from her red, bloated face, stands up tall and tells him that they need to search for his little, lost sword. She tells him that she needs to face her demons.
So once more, he feels her hot, trembling hand encircle his own and they march together up the lanes and the paths towards the high crags. They march and they march and she chatters and she chatters, faster and faster, until at last, she stops.
To the west, the silver-grey kidney bowl of the Broomlee Lough lies pressed into the fell. Ahead, framed between the jagged edges of a breech made long ago in the long grey line of Hadrian’s Wall stands the low, ruined tower of Sewingshields Castle.
His mama stands still, staring at the ruins and staring at the Fogy Moss that surrounds it; staring and staring as her eyes grow red and her grip grows tighter.
“Mama,” he says and tries to tug his fingers from hers. “Mama, please, you’re hurting me.”
She looks at him and although he is only ten years old, she is his world and he senses her soul writhing in agony.
She whispers, “I’m so very sorry,” and wraps her arms around him, shuddering as she sobs.
“Why are you sorry, Mama?” He is suddenly terrified but he doesn’t know why.
She stands, tall and proud once more. She walks forward, forward to the Edge of the World, forward to the brink of the cliffs, and steps off.
“Mama, my Mama!” he screams and rushes after her.
And she is there, just out of reach, caught by the branches of a scrubby rowan tree clinging to the crag. She stares up at him, her face a deep, grey pit of pain and despair, and slowly, so very slowly, she slips away.
It is a full day later when they find him, still clinging to the body of his cold, dead mama. She was still alive when he had found her, lying limp across the rocks at the foot of the crag, but even though he had begged her, even though he had begged God himself for her not to die, he had watched as the yellow-grey mark of death had appeared on her cheek. He had watched it gradually spread over every part of her lovely face and he had listened as her gasping, tortured breaths finally ceased.