He said, “Nan, is there a kind, experienced body in Craig Douglas who would visit my brother Joe who’s short of an arm and leg? Three of his other limbs are in working order — four if you count the tongue.”
Nan said she would consider this.
“And Nan,” he muttered, looking away from her, “There is no kinder or more experienced body in Craig Douglas than you, but please get someone else to go.”
She stared, laughed then said, “Mibby you would have been happier in the bad old historical days when it was a man’s duty to be jealous, but I doubt it.”
Survivors of great slaughters knew they must help the women of their clan replace lost comrades so duty, not desire brought Wat to Annie’s room. Apart from a homo-erotic affair in the Warrior house all Wat’s lovers until now had been older than him so the childish furnishing in Annie’s room almost made him walk away. Shelves were crowded with cuddly toys, romantic videos about historical lovers and comic ones about talking animals. A typical young girl’s collage covered the walls; it showed Annie in many moods and dresses from babyhood to teens mingled with pictures of her mother, aunts, grannies, pets, girl friends, boyfriends and popular icons. Wat recognized Donald Duck, Botticelli’s Venus, Robert Burns, Alice in Wonderland, Krishna among the Cowgirls, King Kong, Rodin’s Kiss, Dracula, Marilyn Monroe and modern stills of famous soldiers from their most violent battles. Over her bed was a life-size cut-out of himself on the edge of the cliff shouting “No!” when asked if Ettrick would surrender. His heart lurched — was Scottish Wat now a legend like the African Inongo, American Winesburg, Chinese Pingwu? — then he felt sick. After that shout he had stabbed a man who thought the battle over. It was a filthy way to enter the erotic fancies of a sixteen-year-old girl. However, he let her undress him and entered her bed.
Before nightfall he was amazed to find he liked Annie better than her mother. Though less experienced in love and coffee-making she had Nan’s sensuality, humour and intelligence in a more slender and playful body. She made him feel powerful and wise. She also liked to sleep with her ceiling clear as glass. He opened his eyes early next morning and looked straight up at a full moon between banks of hurrying cloud. Not quite awake he felt Annie snuggle warm at his side, her arm across his chest. He thought he was lying with her on the floor of a roofless cottage in a wilderness far to the north. He seemed to remember escaping from a shameful disaster which had befallen but at least Annie and he were safe. Glad of this he fell asleep again.
Later she wakened him by singing, “A hero, a hero, a hero in my bed, the first man to fuck me is a heeeeero.”
Wat said, “You’ve fucked with others.”
“Only with laddies. Lads don’t count. Stop interrupting and listen!
A hero, a hero, a hero in my bed,
the first man to fuck me is a heeeeero.
I stole him from my mammy,
he wanted me instead,
O the first man to fuck me is a heeeeero.”
“Your mammy sent me here.”
“Aye but it’s good to pretend. Try it. You’ve fought three wars, right?”
“Aye.”
“And seven battles, right?”
“Aye. Your bloody uncle Jardine made the last war continue for three.”
“Seven bloody battles and never once wounded!” shouted Annie, “A miracle!” Wat showed her his hands. She shouted, “Seven bloody battles and never once wounded by the sworrrrrd! UNSCATHED HERO JAGGED BY JEALOUS WHINBUSH AFTER GLORIOUS LAST-MINUTE MIRACLEDRAW AGAINST OVERWHELMING ODDS! That’s how the public eye should have announced it. If I was wee Wattie Dryhope,” she said, kissing him sweetly, “I would pretend somebody was saving me for something gloriouser.”
“Which somebody? Jesus MacGod or Accident MacDestiny?”
“MacGod of course. God orders you to conquer the universe for him but you say, ‘No, sorry God, no till I’ve fathered a hundred lads on Annie Craig Douglas.’ But I say, ‘Go! I wilt never embrace thee nae mair until thou hast done God’s will.’ So you go conquering the universe till you’re an old bald done dry withered wee man, and return to find me as sweet and sappy, young and perjink as ever. ‘Nooky time!’ you wheeze, ‘Get them off.’ ‘Avaunt, Snotface!’ I graciously retort, ‘Or Wat or Julius Caesar or whatever you cry yourself. I cannae be thine, I am being shagged continuous by a greater than thou.’
‘Who?’ croaks you. ‘God,’ says me, ‘He sent you conquering to get ye out of my short hairs ha ha ha.’ … Is something bothering you Wattie?”
“Aye — your joke about me being kept for something great. I once used to believe that, Annie, but what great thing could it be? Modern wars arenae great affairs. The only greatness nowadays is in the folk building new satellites and immortals creating new forms of life.”
She kissed his ear and whispered, “I’ll tell you a great thing you can do. This is my best time of the month, you’ve been deep inside me, I’m sure I’ve got my first bairn — what better new thing can there be than that? And if it’s a lad promise you’ll like him Wattie. And if he joins the Ettrick warriors promise to be kind to him. I’ve heard awful tales about how young laddies get treated by older ones in the Warrior house.” “Don’t believe all ye hear,” said Wat, embracing her, “The old soldiers keep an eye on things. I’ll protect him if I’m still about.”
They were silent for a while. This was the third day of their honeymoon. Wat feared Annie would soon be bored and want to go and gossip about him with her mother and sisters and cousins. Wat was not bored. His queer dream had given him an idea though he had been shy of mentioning it till now. He said suddenly, “Do you want your son to become a soldier, Annie, and probably die before he’s thirty? Or do you want him to go to the stars and live till he forgets you existed? Or would you rather he joined the public eye and became a glib commentator on other men’s courage? Or left the clean homes of Ettrick and lived dirty with the gangrels?”
“It isnae a mother’s business to want things for her weans — it’s the weans’ business,” said Annie, puzzled, “Mothers who try to manage their weans’ lives always hurt them. Aunt Mirren tried to stop her sons becoming soldiers after Highlanders killed her first three at Stirling Moss. She tried to make them starmen by cramming them with physics and biology, so they ran to the Warrior house as soon as they could and came home hacked to pieces five days ago. No wonder she’s bitter. What are ye trying to tell me Wat Dryhope?”
“I’m trying to tell ye about a new way of living which hasnae been tried for centuries, Annie. I want us to pretend there’s nobody alive but you and me …” (Annie sat up looking interested) “… I want us to load a couple of ponies with a tent, food, seeds, a cross-bow, an axe and handy tools. I want us to ride far far to the north where the homes are few and the commons so mountainy that even gangrels seldom pass through. We’ll find a broken old stone house, mibby a hunting-lodge built when there were no commons and the whole land was owned by a few plutocrats. We’ll repair enough rooms to make a wee house of it. I’ll get food by hunting and gardening, you’ll cook it and make and mend our clothes.”
“Go camping and play husband and wife?” cried Annie, smiling, “I played that game with my first laddie when I was twelve but only for a night. The alfresco shitting scunnered him in spite of the nooky — he called wiping his bum with dockens alfresco shitting. It’ll be more fun with you.”