Mathew's Tale Read Free

even though he could not have been observed, and continued to watch as the stranger tied his companion to the post beside the gate, then gave it an apple taken from one of his pockets.
    He glanced behind him, in a slightly furtive way that alarmed the minister, then stepped on to consecrated ground, heading up the pathway.
    ‘Who can he be?’ John Barclay muttered as he made his way down the stone steps. The newcomer bore himself with confidence and authority yet his dress, while odd by village standards, was not that of a person of importance.
    The kirk was always open when the minister was there. Just as he emerged from the steeple tower, so his visitor stepped inside.
    Even though the place was lit only from the outside, Barclay’s gaze fell at once upon the scar. It ran from the centre of his forehead, downward, diagonally across his left eye, which its opacity showed to be sightless beyond doubt, and then his cheek, not quite reaching his ear. He was transfixed and might have looked at nothing else had the other eye not been so vivid and compelling as it fixed on him.
    ‘So you’re still here, Minister,’ the man said, and then he smiled.
    ‘Aye, that I am, by God’s will,’ Barclay agreed. ‘And so are you, by the same divine agency from the look of you. Let’s go over by the window so I can see you better, then you can tell me how I can help you. Not that I’ve got much time, mind; I’ve a bairn to christen at one.’
    He moved into an elongated diamond of multi-coloured light cast by the stained glass.
    ‘Whose bairn would that be?’ the stranger asked.
    ‘The father’s name is Joel,’ he replied, wondering why he should be asked. ‘They’re calling her Jane, after his mother.’
    ‘That’s a recipe for confusion, is it not . . . no’ that big Joel was ever too clear-headed.’
    ‘That’s not likely,’ the clergyman replied. ‘The child is weak, and shilpit, no’ likely to live. She’s one of twins; the other was stillborn, poor wee mite.’
    ‘Ah, what a shame. Big Joel the smith deserves better. He’s a good soul. Still, miracles do happen, and I’m sure you’ll be praying for one as you christen her, Mr Barclay.’
    An eyebrow rose as he peered at the visitor; for all the light, he had his back to it and it was still difficult to discern his features beyond that great blemish.
    ‘You would seem to know Carluke,’ he murmured. ‘How would that be and how would you know my name?’
    ‘As for the latter, I can read. It’s printed on the sign outside, in letters of gold. But apart from that I’ve known you for almost twenty years, Mr Barclay, since you came here to follow that grim old fellow Howitt, who put the fear o’ God into all us weans. Am I that badly marked, sir, that you do not recognise me, after standing beside me as we buried my faither?’
    As he spoke, a cold hand seemed to grab the minister’s innards, and he began to fear a strange irrational fear. ‘Turn around,’ he said sharply, ‘turn to the side, to your left so your face gets all the light and I can see it better, and no’ just that scar.’
    ‘I will,’ the man laughed, ‘but let me make it easy for you. I’m Mathew, Mathew Fleming. Has it taken you only six years to forget me?’
    John Barclay felt his legs go weak; indeed he might have fallen had he not been able to lean on the christening font. ‘Mathew?’ he repeated. ‘Mathew my boy, I’ll never forget you . . . but son, you’re dead.’
    He saw that face, finally familiar, turn sombre in an instant and saw that one compelling eye turn cold. ‘If that’s the case, John,’ Mathew replied, quietly, ‘did I not just tell you that miracles happen?’
    The minister pondered the question for many seconds before he countered. ‘They may indeed,’ he said, solemnly, ‘but the raising of the dead is much more likely to be down to human error than the hand of the Almighty.’
    ‘Whatever,’ the resurrected exclaimed, ‘why did you