They Bitterly Weep By Parda July 1998 All the birds of the forest, they bitterly weep,     Saying "Where will we shelter or where will we sleep?" For the oak and the ash, they are all cutten down,     And the walls of Bonny Portmore are all down to the ground.                                    - Bonny Portmore, an Irish folk song

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  The second day of October, 1622
  Glenfinnan, Scotland
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     "Damn it, Duncan!"
     The wooden dishes on the table rattled as his father Ian slammed his fist down.  His mother Mary looked up briefly from her spinning wheel, then returned calmly to her work.  She had heard this discussion many times before in these last two years.
     "Why will you not marry the girl?" Ian demanded.
     Duncan merely looked at him, his face set and his arms folded across his chest.  He had shaved this morning, but had not yet braided his hair, and the dark strands hung about his face.
     Ian sighed gustily and tried reason.  "Sarah MacClure is a fine lass, comely, soft-spoken.  Her uncle is chief of their clan; she'll bring many kine and sheep with her."  He looked at Mary for help, but she would not look at her husband.  "Your mother likes her, and she could use the help," Ian offered, hoping Duncan's love for his mother would move him.
     Duncan glanced at his mother, but she would not meet his eyes either.
     His father was losing patience again.  "You have to marry someone, Duncan!  You're thirty years old.  You would not marry the girl I picked out for you five years ago because you hoped to marry Debra, and I gave you leave then."  Four years ago Ian had gone to Debra's father and asked him to release Debra from her betrothal to Robert.  But her father had said no, and Duncan and Debra had no chance to be together.  Then, or now.  Ian spoke more gently.  "Debra's been dead four years, Duncan."
     At the mention of Debra's name, Mary did look at her son.  Duncan's face did not change, but an immense stillness came over him, and she saw the pain in his eyes.  She sighed softly to herself.  That summer had been hard for Duncan, hard for everyone in the village.  Robert, Debra's betrothed and Duncan's own cousin, had been jealous and angry of the love between Duncan and Debra.  He had challenged Duncan, calling him coward.  Duncan had won the duel, but had lost so much more.  His cousin and friend Robert had died in his arms.  Robert's parents Aileen and Malcolm still would not speak to Duncan; they barely spoke to Ian and Mary.  Mary grieved for her friendship with Aileen, and she knew Ian missed his brother Malcolm's friendship, too.
     It had been worse for Duncan.  He had lost not just part of his family, but the love of his life as well.  Debra had died in a fall from a cliff only days after Robert was laid in his grave.
     As soon as the harvest had been gathered, Duncan had left Glenfinnan to go visit Mary's family, to be away from the whispering voices and the sidelong looks.  He had stayed away all winter, and when he had come back he had seemed more at peace with himself.  He had even seemed happy at times that summer.  But it did not last.  She knew Duncan still went often to Debra's grave on the hillside.  She had seen the flowers.  Duncan did not let go of those he loved.
     His father saw the pain in Duncan as well, and he said softly, "I'm sorry for it, Duncan, but you must move on.  You must marry."  He leaned forward and spoke earnestly and forcefully.  "You're to be the chieftain of this clan after me, Duncan, and the clan will not follow a chieftain who's not wed.  And you must have sons to follow you.  A chieftain needs sons."  He slapped his hand on the table for emphasis.  "Many strong sons.  Aye, and daughters, too."
     There was a quick rustle of cloth as Mary stood and left the hut.  Too late, Ian realized what he'd said.  He and Mary had but one living child.  Her other children, both daughters, had died soon after birth.  Ian stood up and glared at Duncan, taking his anger out on him.  "Damn it, Duncan!  You will marry that girl!"  Ian turned in a swirl of green and blue plaid and left the cot to go comfort his wife.
     Duncan remained where he was, sitting at the table near the circular hearth in the center of the room.  Sarah was comely and soft-spoken, as his father had said, but there was no spark between them, no gladness of the heart, no lift of the spirit.  Duncan knew he did not wish to marry her.  Ellen had made him see that.
     He had met Ellen soon after Debra had died, and they had spent the winter together.  They had cared for each other, but it had not been enough.  She had told him so, when he had said he was willing to marry her.  "You should not marry, Duncan, 'til you find a woman who makes you more than just 'willing.'  You need to want it, want her, with your whole heart, and I understand you cannot give me that."
     He could not give his heart to Sarah, either.  Duncan sighed and ran his hand through his hair.  There were no other girls in the village who attracted him, and he had not taken the time to meet many from the neighboring villages, save at the occasional fair or clan gathering.  He could not marry from the Campbell Clan; Debra's father, Brian Campbell, still held a grudge against him.  Duncan could go visit with his mother's family for a time; he might meet someone there.  If he did not, then he supposed he would have to marry Sarah.  His father was right; he had to marry someone.
     A fierce shout interrupted his musings, the battle cry of the clan MacLeod.  "Hold fast!  Hold fast!"  Another hoarse cry came, from farther away.  "A MacLeod!"
     Duncan snatched up his claymore from its place by the door on his way out of the cot.  Thoughts of marriage would have to wait.  There was fighting to be done.

     ~~~~~

     The Campbells had stolen twenty cows and taken the black bull, the pride of the village.  The MacLeods had charged them, yelling ferociously and running across the rough ground.  The Campbells had not wished to fight; they had loosed all the cows and tried to escape with only the bull.  Slipping and swearing on the muddy ground and the cow manure, amidst the bellowing cattle and yelling men, the two clans fought fiercely.  The Campbells retreated for a time, the bull still in their possession.
     But Duncan had been wounded, and his clansmen carried him to the MacCaig's cot.  Young Jamie Beaton was sent to fetch his mother Mary.  Granny MacCaig sat in the corner with her rosary; there was nothing she could do for Duncan but pray.
     His father rushed in and knelt beside him.  "Duncan."  The anger of this morning was gone, replaced by terrified concern for his only son.
     Duncan lay on his pallet, gasping.  He felt very cold.  "Father, I..."
     "No, no, no," Ian said quickly, desperately.  "Save your strength."  But he could see that there was no strength left to save.  He could see all too well that Duncan was dying.  "You fought well."  He gave the highest praise he could.  "You fought like a MacLeod!"
     Duncan's eyes were glazing.  "I wanted to be part of the victory."
     "Aye, you will.  You'll be part of a great victory!"
     Duncan lay back, very tired.  "I always thought -- there would be more," he said in pained confusion.  The witch of Donan Wood had promised him that he would live a long time.  He did not hear his father's next words.
     When he woke, he could hear his clansmen calling his name in a steady chant.  "Duncan MacLeod!  Duncan MacLeod!"  His father was not there, but Granny MacCaig still sat in the corner, telling her beads.  Had he fallen asleep?  There was blood on his side and on his hands, but the pain in his side was gone, and he no longer felt cold.  Duncan sat up, confused, then jerked at Granny MacCaig's sharp scream.  Why would she make such a noise, as if she had been frightened out of her wits?  He reached for the rag in the bucket of water and washed away the blood, then touched his side with trembling fingers.  The wound was gone.
     Granny MacCaig's scream had summoned his father, and Ian appeared at the door, with more clansmen behind him.
     Duncan looked up and spoke to his father.  "It ... it is a miracle!"
     But Ian was shaking his head, and he looked just as frightened as Granny MacCaig.  "No!" he said in horror and revulsion.  The words of the midwife Ould Margaret from many years before came back to him: "'Tis a changeling!  You must not keep it!  Cast it out for the dogs, leave it on the hillside, but get it gone!"
     Ian saw now that she had been right.  All these years he had harbored a changeling, a demon.  Ian shuddered.  "'Tis the work of the demon master of the world below!"
     "Father!" Duncan called.
     Ian stared at the creature he had called his son.  "You're no bairn of mine!  You're not my son!"  The other clansmen backed away silently.  Ian moved away too.  "You're not my son!"  He slammed the door tight behind him.
     Duncan sat there, not feeling the water dripping on his lap from the rag in his hand, not hearing the mumbled prayers of Granny MacCaig.  His father's words echoed in his mind.  "You're not my son, not my son, my son."  Who was he then?
     He stood shakily and arranged his plaid about him.  There was still blood on the cloth.  He walked to the door and laid his hand on it.  It took him a long moment to open the door.
     His clansmen stood about in small groups, muttering.  The battle with the Campbells was forgotten in the need to rid the village of this evil.  More of the clanfolk were gathering -- the women, the children, and the old ones standing by their cots.  They were not chanting his name now.  As Duncan stepped out from the cot, the muttering stopped, replaced by a cold and terrible silence.
     "Father?" Duncan said uncertainly, and held out his hand.  His father made the sign against the evil eye and backed away.  Duncan looked about slowly, and on every face in every direction he saw the same fear and hatred.
     Save one.  Wee Jenny, a red-headed lass of two years was smiling at him.  Duncan had often pretended to be a horse and carried her on his back.  He knelt down and held out his arms to her, trying to smile.  "Jenny?  Would you not come play with me?"
     She started to toddle over to him, a delighted grin on her face, but her mother snatched her up and held her daughter tight, hiding the girl's face against her dress.  "The demon is trying to steal my child!" she cried in terror.  "It'll take her soul for sure!"
     "Demon!" came a harsh voice, followed soon by others.  "Child-thief!"  "Devil!" and "Demon!" again.
     It was his Aunt Aileen, Robert's mother, who threw the first rock.  The sharp edge laid open his cheek.  Duncan staggered at the blow, more from surprise than from pain.  He looked into her eyes and saw there the years of hate.  He wiped away the blood with his hand, an odd tingling sensation following his fingers.
     "There's no cut!" Aileen shouted, quick to notice the smooth skin where the rock had just struck.  "He's in league with the Devil!"
     "A demon!  A demon!" the cry went up again, and more rocks and pieces of dung followed.
     Duncan covered his face with his arms and called out again in hope and in fear, "Father!"
     But Ian turned, head down, and walked away from him.  He could not bear to watch, but he would not interfere.
     It was then that Duncan started running, running away from his people, pursued by dung and rocks and cries of hate and fear.

     ~~~~~

     Mary met him on the path that led to the high pasture.  She had gone to help the wounded in an outlying croft, and was hurrying back to the village.  Young Jamie had told her that Duncan had been gravely wounded.  Yet here he was, covered with blood and dirt, walking swiftly on the path, his head down.  "Duncan?" she called uncertainly, wondering what had happened.
     His head lifted at his name, and Mary gasped as she saw the pain and confusion on his face.  Questions could wait.  She held out her arms to him, and he came running to her, as he had not run to her since he was a little boy.  He was shaking, though he seemed unwounded.  She sank to the ground and held him as best she could on her lap, rocking him back and forth, crooning softly.  When his shaking had subsided, she asked again, "Duncan?"
     He whispered something, and the only words she could hear were "father" and "demon."  "Duncan?" she asked more sharply.  "What has happened?"
     He lifted his head, and she saw the clean tracks of tears through the dirt on his face.  Not just dirt, she realized by the smell.  Had the fighting moved to the sheepfold?  She could hear no sounds of battle.  "What happened?" she repeated.
     "I do not know," he said brokenly.  "I was wounded, here."  He touched his side gingerly.
     Mary swiftly pulled away the blood-stiffened cloth.  The skin was smooth and unbroken.  "There is no wound."
     "Aye, I know.  Not now.  But there was."  He looked at his hands; there were still traces of blood about his fingernails.  "I fell asleep, and when I woke, the wound was gone."  He looked into his mother's eyes.  "'Twas a miracle!" he said, desperate to convince her, dreading to see the same fear and revulsion in her face that he had seen in his father's.  Blessedly, there was no fear, no hate, just confusion.
     "A miracle?" she asked hesitantly.
     "Aye!"  Duncan was sure.  "A miracle."  But this next part he was not so sure of.  "But, when Father came in the hut, and saw, he said 'twas not.  He said ...."  Duncan's throat tightened, and he could not repeat his father's words.
     "What did he say?"  Mary's voice was soft and low.
     "He said ... he said I was not his son."  Duncan raised anguished eyes to his mother's eyes.  "He said I was ... a changeling."  He watched his mother's face carefully, hoping to see there a firm denial, hoping to hear her words of reassurance.  They did not come.
     Mary went very still.  "He said you were not his son?"
     "Aye."  Duncan sat up then and moved away from his mother.  "And then, the others ...."  He lifted his hand to his cheek where the first rock had struck him.  There was no pain, no cut, no bruise, though earlier there had been blood.  He shook his head.  "The others, they ... threw rocks, and called me 'Demon.'"  Though many rocks had struck him, there was no pain anywhere in his body.  "And Father turned away, and said nothing to stop them."  No pain, save in his heart.
     Mary saw the hurt and confusion on his face, and remembered his first whispered words.  She knew with cold and dreadful certainty what that meant.  "He has banished you."
     Duncan blinked and stared at her in shock.  He had not fully realized what had happened.  "Banished?" he whispered.  "No.  It cannot be!"
     "It will not be!" Mary said fiercely and hugged him to her.  "I will not let it happen."  She grasped him by the arms and spoke quickly, reassuringly.  "They are frightened now, Duncan, confused.  They do not understand how this happened."  Neither did she, but she knew her son was no demon.  "I will go to your father, and talk to him.  You know how he does not always understand."  She tried to smile.  "Remember just this morning, when he wished you to agree to marry Sarah."
     Duncan tried to smile back.  "Aye."  This morning seemed a long time ago.  "But, where can I go?"  The clansfolk had chased him halfway up the hill, only stopping when he had outdistanced all but the fastest runners.  Those few did not wish to face him alone and had retreated to the safety of the village.  Duncan had kept going, slowing to a walk only when he could run no more, walking until he had heard his mother call his name.
     Mary thought quickly.  "The hut, on the other side of the hill, where the cattle graze in the spring-time.  Go there, and wait for me.  I will bring you food."  And clean clothes, she thought, looking at the ruin of his plaid.  She gathered him to her in a swift embrace and held him tight.  "You will be able to come home again soon, Duncan."

     ~~~~~

     When she entered the village she was suddenly not so sure.  The village was oddly silent, the clansfolk grim and frightened.  Branches of rowan, protection against witchcraft, hung over every door.  Aileen even spat on the ground as Mary walked past, and others made the sign of the evil eye against her.  She found Ian sitting in their cot, his sword on his lap, his fingers running up and down the blade.  That sword was the clan sword, passed down from chieftain to chieftain, handed from father to son.  Ian had received it from his own father's hand as the old man lay dying.
     Mary still remembered that day over thirty years ago; it was the same day she had realized she was with child.  She had told Ian, and he had informed his father Andrew.  Though the old man had been ill for some time, he had seemed cheerful at the news, and had demanded to be taken outside.  It was a fine spring day, and the village had been busy and crowded with travelers come for the May Fair.  Andrew had called all the people of the clan together, his voice unusually strong.  Then he had proclaimed Ian the new clan chieftain and handed him the sword.  Andrew had died as Ian's fingers closed over his on the hilt.  People still spoke of that moment.
     Mary knew Ian had planned to give Duncan that sword one day.  He looked up briefly when she came in to the cot, but did not speak.  She stood in front of him.  "Ian."
     He did not respond.
     "Ian," she repeated more firmly.  "You cannot banish our son."
     He shook his head.  "He is not our son."
     "He is!"
     "NO!"  His voice was filled with pain and rage.  "That thing is no son of mine."  He looked at Mary.  "And no son of yours, either, and well you know it, wife."
     She had no answer for that.
     He stood and planted the tip of the sword in the hard-packed earth of the floor, his hands gripping the handle.  "I made a mistake thirty years ago; I will correct it now."  He forced himself to banish all his anguish for Duncan, to banish all his own love.  His eyes were cold and his voice was firm; he spoke as the clan chieftain, not as a father.  "He is banished from this clan.  I never wish to hear his name spoken again."
     Ian pulled his sword out of the ground and walked to the door.  He paused and spoke without turning.  "Get rid of his things."  He walked out with a firm step; he had a raid to plan.  Those thieving Campbells could not be allowed to keep the bull.

     ~~~~~

     Mary called out as she approached the hut on the far side of the hill.  She was relieved to see Duncan come around from behind the hut.  A light rain was falling, and he had taken advantage of it to wash as best he could.  His plaid lay draped over a bush, and he was clad only in his sark, the tunic that came to his thighs.
     Mary ran to him and set down the bundle she was carrying.  They held each other tightly.
     He pulled back from her embrace and said eagerly, "My father, what does he say?  Can I come home tonight?"
     Mary shook her head.  "Not tonight, Duncan."  She flinched as she saw the disappointment and hurt on his face.  "He would not listen; he was still upset ...."
     Duncan turned away from her.
     Mary stepped in front of him and took his hands between her own.  She said resolutely, "I will speak to him tomorrow.  'Twill be better then."  She hoped it would be better.  She said as cheerfully as she could, "I've brought you some things.  Let's go in the hut."  She picked up the bundle and went in.
     It was a rude hut, even as huts go.  A simple square, perhaps two paces on a side, built of rocks and thatched with heather.  It smelt of dried dung and old wool.  Mary watched as Duncan ducked to get in the door.  He would have to lie with his head in one corner and his feet in the other if he wished to stretch out.  He was so tall, this son of hers.  And he was her son.  She blinked back tears and unwrapped the bundle.
     She had used his other plaid for the wrapping, and she unfolded it now, revealing the contents.  Oatcakes, his favorite, and dried meat, and three apples.  She handed them to him straightaway, and he ate hungrily, squatting down in the corner.  Two clean sarks, his boots and his dagger, a finely carved wooden comb wrapped in a scrap of blue wool.  He had had the comb for nearly three years.  She was not sure where it came from, but she knew he treasured it.  His furs and his sporran, his hunting bow and the arrows he and his father had made.  His sword.
     Duncan watched in growing dismay as she unpacked.  This was everything he owned in the world.  He had thought she would bring food and a clean plaid.  He reached out a trembling hand to lift the quiver of arrows.  He and his father had sat together just three days before and fletched the arrows.  "Mother?"
     Mary met his eyes quickly and then glanced away.  "I do not know, Duncan."  She looked at him again, and her tears started to fall.  "I do not know."

     ~~~~~

     Duncan stayed in the hut for three more days, waiting.  Every morning Mary would come with food and the same message: his father had not changed his mind.  Duncan decided to talk to his father himself.
     It was a rare warm and sunny day for this late in the year.  He watched the road leading from village and waited.  Finally, near mid-day, three riders approached: his father, his uncle Malcolm, and Angus MacCaig.  Duncan was surprised to see his uncle and his father riding close together; he knew they had not spoken much these last four years.  Ian had always defended Duncan's killing of Robert, and Robert's father Malcolm had never accepted it.  Duncan's surprise changed to bitter realization; Ian was not defending Duncan anymore.
     But perhaps he would again.  Duncan stepped out boldly from the bushes by the side of the road and called, "Father!"
     "It's the devil!" muttered Malcolm.  He needed no more persuasion to be off.  Angus went with him.
     "Father."  Duncan stepped closer, seeing the fear in Angus and Malcolm as they rode off, trying not to see the fear in his father's eyes.  At least his father hadn't ridden away from him.  "'Tis me.  Duncan," he said reassuringly.
     He held out his hand to Lughas, his father's stallion, the horse he had ridden many times.  Lughas whickered and sniffed at his hand.  "You know me, do you not?" Duncan said softly, stroking the velvet nose. 
     Duncan looked up at his father and said challengingly, "He recognizes me, but my own flesh and blood does not."  There was still the look of fear in his father's face, and Duncan turned back to the horse, his voice soft once again.  "They let me wander away from all that."  Wander, aye, and wonder too, wonder what had happened that they should drive him away so.
     Ian shook his head, refusing to listen.  "You'll not beguile me thus, be you from Heaven or Hell!"
     Duncan turned to him, outraged.  "I am your son!"
     "NO!"  Ian's response was equally furious.  "And you never were!"
     Duncan's hands dropped from the horse, and he stared at his father in shock.
     Ian continued, "On the night my lady wife gave birth to our only son stillborn, there was brought into her chamber by a peasant woman, a boy child to replace that which was lost."
     "I do not believe you!"  This could not be true!
     But Ian's voice was firm.  "It's the truth!"  He nodded and called upon God as witness.  "Or may God strike me dead."
     Duncan took in shallow painful breaths as he listened in growing horror.
     Ian spoke softly now, but his words carried weight.  "And when the midwife looked into your eyes, she cringed back in fear.  She said you were a changeling child, left by the forest demons, and that we should cast you out for the dogs."
     "But you did not," Duncan said quietly, taking hope from that.
     "No," Ian admitted.  "I saw the look on my lady's face, and we took you in, and banished the midwife."  Ian swallowed hard, remembering that night, remembering the curse the midwife had laid on him: "If ye banish me thus, Ian MacLeod, I tell ye now that the day will come when ye will banish that changeling.  It will break your heart to do it, just as ye are breaking my heart now."  And it was breaking his heart, to look into the face before him, the face of the son he had raised as his own, the son he had taught to fight and hunt and ride, the son he had taken such pride in.
     Ian remembered the clear grief and anguish he had felt during those moments before the demon had risen from the dead, and he wished to God he could feel that way again.  Now his grief was twisted and muddied with cold revulsion and sickening fear, fear of this demon thing that he had harbored in his home for all these years.  In his home and in his heart.
     He did not know what had happened to Ould Margaret, but he prayed she had found a home somewhere, that her last days had been happy ones.  "May God forgive me," he whispered.
     Ian turned back to the demon, the demon with the face that he had known and loved.  "We buried my wee son and put you in his place.  And no man ever knew you were not of my blood."  No man had known, but Mary and Ould Margaret had known, as well as the nameless peasant woman who had brought the child.  Ian could not even remember her face.
     "No," Duncan whispered soundlessly.  It could not be.  But his father had sworn it.  The man he had thought was his father had sworn it.  Duncan knew that Ian MacLeod did not lie.  "Where do I come from?" he demanded.
     Ian turned his horse to go.
     "Where do I come from?" Duncan repeated, his voice rising in panic.  To be banished, to be sent from the clan -- to be cast out from friends, family, land, law, and love --  that was hell enough, but to know that he had no birth right to the clan, that he had no kin, no family, that he was truly alone...
     "Where?"  He ran after his father, the man who had been his father, stumbling on the sharp stones of the road.  "Where do I come from?"  Ian did not turn, did not stop.
     "WHERE?"  Duncan pleaded with him, begged him.  There was no answer.
     "WHERE DO I COME FROM?"  But Duncan was talking to no one.  Ian had disappeared over the crest of the hill.
     He drew his sword and shouted to the world, "I am Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod!"
There was no one to deny or confirm his claim.  He was alone.

     ~~~~~

     Mary found Duncan sitting in the hut, staring at the floor, his sword and his dagger on the ground before him.
     He did not look up as she entered, did not move when she knelt beside him, did not respond to her touch on his arm.
     "Duncan," she said softly.
     "Is it true?"  His voice was quiet, dead.  When she did not answer, he turned his head to look at his mother, the woman he had thought was his mother.  "Is what my father said true?  I am not your son?"
     "It is not true."  Her answer was quick and definite.  "You are my son.  I nursed you at my breast, carried you against my heart, held your hand when you started to walk, watched you as you grew.  You are my son."
     Duncan had heard what she had not said.  He drew in a painful breath.  "You did not give me birth."
     That was true, but not the real truth.  Mary took his cold hands in her own.  "I gave you life, Duncan.  And love."  She smoothed his hair away from his face, as she had often done.  "And I am your mother, and you will always be my son."
     Duncan shook his head.  It was not enough for him now.  "Where do I come from?"
     She could not answer that.
     "It is true then, what my father said."  Duncan went back to staring at the floor.  "All of it was true.  I am not his son.  I am a changeling.  And a demon."
     Mary did not believe that, no matter what Ian said now, no matter what the midwife had said all those years ago.  He was her son.  "You are no demon!"
     "No?"  Duncan's voice was cold, and he stared at her with angry eyes.  "Could a human do this?"  He lifted his dagger and sliced it across his left forearm, cutting deep.  Blood spurted from the wound.
     Mary gasped and reached out for the dagger, wanting to wrest it from his hand, but he held up his bleeding arm in front of her.  She looked at in horror, then confusion, as she saw small blue flames dance along his skin.  There was blood on the floor and the dagger and on his arm, but his arm was not bleeding now, not any more.
     He picked up an already bloody rag and wiped his arm clean, then held his arm out for her to look at again.  There was no wound.  He wiped the dagger clean, then tossed the bloody rag on the floor.  She winced as she realized there was a pile of such rags, all soaked with blood.
     "I am a demon."  He challenged her to deny it, his brown eyes hard and cold.
     Mary swallowed painfully as Ould Margaret's words came back to her: "'Tis no human babe.  'Tis a changeling, left by the forest demons!"
     No.  She did not believe that.  Not Duncan, not her son.  She had wiped his backside clean when he was a babe, and held him as he sicked up his food.  She had washed his skinned knees and hands, and seen him gap-toothed and smiling as he rode on his first pony.  She had watched him when he first started to shave, and seen him fall in love.  He had been a child the same as any other child, and he was a man now, the same as any other man.  "You are no demon," she said definitely.  "You are different, I cannot deny that, but there is no evil in you, Duncan.  You are no demon."
     Duncan's hand trembled suddenly, and he dropped the dagger.  He had not realized how much he needed to hear her say that.  "Mother ..."
     She said no more, but held him close again, rocking her little boy in her arms.
     After a long while, he pulled back.  "I must go, Mother."
     She nodded, fiercely blinking back tears.  She was relieved to see no more of that awful black despair in his eyes, but saddened to see the sorrow and pain, and the beginnings of a deep loneliness.  She looked about the hut and tried to say lightly, "Aye, you must.  'Tis not much of a place."
     "No.  It is not."  He could not make a joke of it.
     Mary said calmly, "You will come back, Duncan."  He shook his head and started to speak, but she said again, "You will come back home, Duncan.  At least one more time.  I will see you again."  She brushed his hair away from his face.  "You will come home again."

     ~~~~~

     Duncan rode away from Glenfinnan the next morning; his mother had tethered his horse at the low end of the spring pasture.  There was food and money in the saddlebags.  It was raining slightly, and the air was chill.  Fair weather for an early autumn day.  Duncan clicked to his horse and rode off to Donan Wood.
     Cassandra lived there, the witch of Donan Wood.  When he and Robert were lads, they had ventured into Donan Wood in search of a sheep-killing wolf.  Their trap had not worked as they had hoped; the wolf had found them.  But Cassandra had come, and Duncan had spent the night at her cottage, playing chess and listening to stories.  Most of the stories were new to him, save one.
     She had asked him, "Do they not, tell a tale in your village, of a man in your grandfather's time, who died and yet came back to life?"
     Duncan had nodded.  All the children knew the tale of Connor MacLeod.  "But that's just a clan legend.  It's just a story."
     Cassandra had smiled.  "Some stories are true."
     He had not understood then, and he did not understand now, but maybe she would.  After all, if he was a demon, what better place to go than to a witch?

     ~~~~~

     It took him four days to find her house, hidden deep within the wood.  He had searched for it many times after that night long ago, and he had never found it.  Now he was there, and there was no one home.
     There were no chickens in the yard, no smoke from the chimney.  The windows were shuttered, and the garden forlorn.  He stayed, hoping she would return.  He slept in the small shed with his horse, not wanting to go in her house.  He swam in the warm waters of the pool and hunted for food.
     On the tenth day he left.  He did not want to spend the winter there alone, and he did not know how long it would take him to find a place to stay.  The air was already cold.
     He traveled south through the forests, letting his horse choose the way.  Five days later he was surprised and yet not surprised to see a familiar glen.  Ellen lived here.  He had not been here for almost three years.

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  Martinmas, 1619
  The MacTavish Croft
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     Duncan had not seen Ellen since the summer Lammas fair in the town of Oban, but he was out hunting and found himself near her croft.  He could not stop himself from visiting.  She was carrying water when he rode up, as he had ridden up to her cottage many times before.  Duncan stood by his horse, suddenly uncertain of his welcome.  He knew she was to marry David MacTavish in December; perhaps he was already here. 
     Ellen set the buckets down near the door and walked over to meet him, a brave smile on her face.  "Duncan," she said when she came near, and she held out her hands to him.
     He clasped them tightly, wishing to draw her closer to him, wishing to hold her against him again, knowing he could not.  "Ellen."  He let go of her hands.  "I was hunting, and I thought...," his voice grew softer, "I thought to see you again."
     "I am glad of it."  Her smile faded as she looked into his eyes, seeing the loneliness and the hunger there, knowing they were in her eyes as well.  She blinked and hugged her arms about her.  "I have something for you," she said brightly.  She had been going to try to send it to him through a traveling peddler.  "Wait here."  She knew she should not invite him into her house.  She turned swiftly and walked to the cottage.
     As she walked away from him, Duncan could see she was wearing the hair clasp he had given to her in Oban, on that day when they had said good-bye.  The silver gleamed softly against the rich tones of her auburn hair.  He was pleased that she still wore it.   
     She returned carrying a small parcel, wrapped in a scrap of blue wool.  "I had no gift for you in Oban, Duncan, but I would like you to have this now."  She held it out to him.
     Duncan took it from her, careful not to touch her fingers, and unwrapped the cloth.  It was a comb, finely carved from beech wood.  "'Tis a handsome gift, Ellen," he said sincerely, rubbing his thumb along the polished grain of the wood.  "Did you buy it at a fair?"
     "Nay.  A great storm knocked over one of the beeches up the glen.  I carved it."  Her voice became soft.  "For you."
     Duncan looked at her quickly and started to speak, then carefully re-wrapped the comb and placed it in his sporran.  He cleared his throat.  "My thanks, Ellen."  Her dark-blue eyes looked at him with calm seriousness under long lashes.  His fingers ached to touch her hair.  "For this comb, and for the memories, carried next to my heart."
     "Aye, the memories."  Ellen smiled faintly. Her hand started to go up of its own volition, reaching to touch him, to feel his heartbeat under her palm, as she had often times before.  She stopped it in mid-air.
     Duncan caught her hand in his and held it against his chest.  Then he slowly leaned forward to kiss her.
     It was the briefest of touches, the warmth of their lips together, then Ellen pulled back.  "I cannot."
     "A year and a day, Ellen," he said, his voice rough with desire and loneliness.  "We still have the day."
     She stepped back from him, her arms crossed in front of her.  "I am pledged to you, Duncan, for this last day of the year and the day, but I am promised to him."  She shook her head, her eyes sad.  "I cannot."
     He respected and understood her decision, even as he hated it.  He nodded slowly and agreed, "We cannot."

_________________________________________________________

  St. Crispin's Day, 1622
  MacTavish Homestead, Scotland
_________________________________________________________

     He had left her there, on the land she had wanted, the land she would not leave.  He had thought it for the best, for she needed a home of her own, and he would not leave his clan.  Not willingly anyway, Duncan thought bitterly as he made his way slowly through the woods in the glen.  That had been when he had thought he knew who he was, who his parents were, who he was going to be.  Now he was no one.
     He could smell the smoke from the fire, and as he came to the clearing he could see that there were two cottages now.  Her husband's cousins must have joined them.  There were children, too; he saw three running about.  Two had dark hair, and the youngest, about the same age as wee Jenny, had hair tinted with fire.
     Duncan waited until he saw her.  She came from her cottage, walking with the same graceful stride he remembered, and swept the youngest child into her arms for a hug, then held the toddler's hand as they walked to the stream.  She was smiling.  Duncan's fingers traced the outline of the wooden comb through the leather of his sporran.
     He knew she would give him shelter if he asked, a place to sleep, food and fire.  For a few days, or even throughout the winter.  But he could not stay here forever; he needed to find a place of his own.  She had a husband, a child, a home.  He could not stay and watch her with another man; he could not stay here at all.
     Duncan watched for a long time from the shelter of the trees before he turned and rode away.

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AUTHOR'S NOTES
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Lammas is August 1st.
Martinmas is November 11th.
St. Crispin's Day is October 25th.

To find out what happened to Ould Margaret, read "Hope Forgotten."  It will probably be posted in the early fall of 1998.
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DISCLAIMERS: The Highlander Universe and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Mary MacLeod, and Ian MacLeod are not my creations.  They are the property of Rysher, Gaumont, and Davis/Panzer.  Some of the dialog is directly from the first season episode "Family Tree."  These characters and the dialog are used without permission, but no copyright infringement is intended, and this story was not written for profit.
     The characters of Aileen MacLeod and Ellen MacTavish are mine.  The name of Malcolm MacLeod was first mentioned in Debi Mosely's story "Winter Solstice."  She has graciously allowed me to use it.
     The title "They Bitterly Weep" comes from the song "Bonny Portmore."

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
- to Cynthia Oliver, for suggesting I write a sequel to "All the Birds of the Forest."
- to Beta Readers Genevieve, Cathy Butterfield, Vi Moreau, and Bridget Mintz Testa
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Feedback is very much appreciated and can be sent to darkpanther@erols.com.