Donald tried to ignore the burning in his thighs as he trudged up the mountain. The man ahead of him was using his sword as a walking-stick. Dust and dirt caked the warped blade, but at least there was no mud. It hadn’t rained in weeks.
Donald had strapped his gun to his back; he’d sold his sword for flour months ago. The gun chafed under the itchy, unwashed wool of his plaid. He snatched a loose end of his tartan and mopped his face with it; he was dripping with sweat. Back home, dusk fell quickly. Home… he felt a pang to think of Mary and the bairns. But here, in these unfamiliar, bug-swarmed mountains, dusk took its time. Or maybe he just felt that way because of the intolerable heat and the march through rhododendron hell. He wondered if it was this miserable in the Indies. Some of his clan had ended up in those islands. He doubted he’d ever see them again.
He shook himself. He always got like this after a long day of marching. He always brooded on what they were up against, and the cruel knowledge that he’d narrowly escaped death in one war only to march directly toward it again. You’re only tired, he told himself sternly. Just hungry and tired.
Thankfully, it looked like the column had stalled ahead. Were they finally to make camp atop this ghastly mountain? He reached the rocky precipice and couldn’t help but gasp. The bloodstain of sunset had crept across the sky and was reflecting off the granite of the mountain in a thousand shades of pink and amaranth. It filtered through the thin green leaves of the rhododendrons; they were suddenly laden with fruits of carmine and vermilion light. As he drank in the beauty of the land, the pipers filled their bellows and slowly took up a haunting song. The melody fell on the air and soared up the mountain. Donald closed his eyes against it all, and wept.
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