By Susan Fletcher
A breathtaking novel of ardour and betrayal in seventeenth-century Scotland, and the portrait of an unforgettable heroine accused of witchcraft.
February thirteen, 1692. Thirty-eight individuals of the MacDonald extended family are killed through infantrymen who had formerly loved the clan's hospitality. Many extra die from publicity. 40 miles south, the desirable Corrag is imprisoned for her involvement within the bloodbath. Accused of witchcraft and homicide, she awaits her dying. Lonesome, she tells her tale to Charles Leslie, an Irish propagandist who seeks info to sentence the Protestant King William, rumored to be fascinated about the bloodbath. Hers is a narrative of ardour, braveness, love, and the magic of the flora and fauna. by way of telling it, she transforms either their lives.
As in her award-winning debut novel, Eve Green, Susan Fletcher indicates that she is "a novelist with the soul of a poet" (Booklist). This deeply philosophical and dramatic publication is ready an epic ancient occasion and the adaptation a unmarried center can make―how deep and lasting relationships can come from the main not going places.
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Additional info for Corrag
She has promised to speak of the massacre and what she knows, but only if I listen to the years of her life, beforehand. A tiresome task. Who knows what horrors or filth she has seen? But she said no one knows my story. She said William is blood-red, not orange—so I agreed to her request. A curious arrangement, indeed. It is not one I could have imagined when I wrote to you, in Edinburgh. But God works as He chooses—we have our tests, and He has His revelations. This is an unearthly winter. I will be glad when spring comes.
No skin on my bones. YES I will wait a moment. A quill, ink, your holy book. Is it a goose’s feather? Very long and white. I have seen geese flying at twilight, and I have heard them call, and those are good moments. They happened in England, in the autumn days. Where were the geese flying to? I never really knew. But sometimes their feathers would undo themselves, and float down into the cornfields, and Cora and I would find them, take them home. She couldn’t write, but she liked them. So long and white… she’d whisper, fingering it.
Wise Cora. She was. For she reasoned that if a village had one eye on the Scotch raiders, they would not say witch so much. Folk need a foe, she told me, and they have their foe already. See? I saw. Some people fight Campbells, or papists, or the English, or women who live on their own. But Thorneyburnbank? They fought these night-time marauders, these varlots. These Mossmen. A week before an unknown lady with a blood-red skirt came into the village, a farmstead was reived. A dozen geese were thrown in a sack, and stolen.
Corrag by Susan Fletcher
Categories: Genre Fiction