Bruar's Rest

and over and over again repeated those tales of family and memories past. Day after day she’d come back, sink into a chair and cry with exasperation. Bruar was unresponsive. Whatever damage had been done, she was now totally convinced that if she wanted her man then she had to start to create a new one; the same person, but a new mind. In other words, his life’s learning had to begin at that moment. So, as if with a newborn infant, she began from scratch. To her it presented yet another challenge, but for her all life was a challenge.
    Progress crept like a tortoise, and for every step forward, ten went back. Each and every waking minute was spent working meticulously on what was inside her husband’s head, but the work stopped at night. This was her time. Cuddling close into his back, she’d close her eyes and pray to whoever controlled dreams. Gently, as sleep swept over them, they’d be transported back to a secluded, peaceful, sun-kissed Highland hillside where the vibrant, healthy and passionate Bruar would take her in his strong arms and claim her inch by inch. Morning, with its reality, would rush into the tiny bedroom along with dancing sunrays. She’d turn him towards her and say, ‘Thank you, my love.’ And as usual the response was the same, a blank look.
    ‘Still,’ she’d say getting him dressed, ‘thanks be for dreams.’

     
    Nothing much changed apart from an odd glance or half-smile. ‘If there was one single thread that I might cling to, my love,’ she whispered, walking him along familiar footpaths he would have played upon as a child. ‘I’d hang on and not let go. But it’s so deep inside, that river of horror that finds no sea, and only you can swim in it.’
    It was a warm day, a brief spell of windless blue sky, when she decided to take him to Balnakiel graveyard and tell him of her visit from the Seer. She’d speak at length, hoping one word might release a spark. Everything was a long shot, but worth trying.
    She sat him down near the simple stone with the words Rory Stewart on it and told him of her experience. He stared at the place of his childhood days with no sign of recognition. She left him sitting there as she wandered onto the white sandy beach.
    For a moment her charge was forgotten as her own memories flooded back. Bruar would be safe sitting in the graveyard; the high cliffs with the views to the northern ocean called her.
    The Indian summer may have been responsible for her giddy mood that morning, or perhaps it was her night of dreams, but she headed off, light-footed, to climb the cliff tops. ‘This is a magic season of the year,’ she told herself, reaching an alder tree growing bent beside a willow. The first frost had arrived the night before, and she saw how the flow of sap had been halted. She ran her hand over the barks of both trees, and already crimson and gold leaves lined the path. She wondered how bad the winters would be so far north, and wished at that moment Bruar was gushing about the weather in his land and the Vikings and boggy ground. She wanted many times to tell him of Bull Buckley and his fate. ‘Mother Earth, will I ever get him back? If only you could show me a sign.’
    The day was easy as she stood overlooking the ocean. Puffins dived and soared skywards; she whispered to them, ‘I have brought him home.’ Throwing back her head she closed her eyes and called out, ‘Big Rory, Balnakiel, I did it!’ She sat down amid the late summer offering of warm air and full-grown grass. A sudden movement in the sparse undergrowth caught her attention; it was a tiny vole rushing back and forth, nibbling bits of foliage. ‘You wee thing,’ she said into herself, ‘I bet that’s a layer of fat you’re busy storing round those tiny flanks to see you through the winter ahead. Well, keep out of the owl’s sight when night comes.’
    Suddenly it dawned on her that Bruar was still down at the graveyard. Running like a mother seeking a lost child, she rushed breathlessly in through the gates, but he’d gone from the grave seat; he’d wandered off. Panic-stricken, she dashed everywhere, but there was no sign of him. The only place he could be, as far as she could determine, was on the far-off cliffs. There was no safe footing there—she remembered Helen telling her that when the boys were small that cliff path was forbidden. ‘Bruar,’ she called, ‘wait for me.’ Finding the path treacherous and breaking away underfoot, she scrambled