Twice I have assailed these walls. On the third besiegement
I pay cold cash for entrance. The stacked stones slighted
and somewhat restored, damp and green-stained in cold
streaks, are home, I find, to nestling gulls (stench
and squawk) and starvling beauty. There's more of that
in this stark stone splendor—castle and walls above
the brightest grass atop the huge gray promontory,
where only a thin path leads to the one locked door.
(Where I pay my fine, enter, and explore.) I read that it suffers
the usual bombardments of history: owners changing
in the shuffle of politics, prisoners and revolt, crown jewels
hidden and saved. Mary, Mary quite contrary (Queen of Scots)
walked above this sea, confined; Ninian (saint) built and dwelled;
William Wallace (hero) fought and won. Cromwell's men
starved the castle eight months. One hot summer hundreds
of Scottish Covenenters were packed and tortured into the cellars.
This is more than enough to explain how as I stroll the peaceful,
empty, touristed grounds and find a palm-sized grey stone begging
to be slipped into my pocket, I do. Its weight dogs me, bumps
my thigh as I (a humble, guilty thief) walk back out the gates
and drive away. I have the stone. It reminds me with each step
I take away south as I make my escape. At dinner I pat my pocket,
hope to calm it. That night in my soft borrowed bed I (don't
put it under my pillow, don't rub it until I dream) leave it
pocketed but not forgotten. All night it speaks to me from across
the room, complains and mourns, itching my sleep till I'm fever-
scratched, hallucinating devastations, treachery, bloody wars, stones
blocking the breathless in. Next morning, first thing, I dress and cross
the lane. At the edge of the field I toss it in. But things like this
are far more easily grabbed than let go. My fever dreams continue
for a day, nights I do not sleep or sleep so heavily I never quite wake.
This is how what you take and hold will haunt you, even when
you're days past letting go and have tossed all that disturbance
with your strongest arm into the most peaceful (tilled and muddied)
field. How years later I can still remember its dark weight,
its one sharp point surprising the smooth peace of my palm,
how the memory of this castle (no matter how picturesque and how clear
the light above its walls) brings visions of stinking hunger, mouths
open (beyond wide: squawling, thirsting) in the feverish dark.