Unlikely in their pairing, husband and wife were inseparable. Eleanor recalled how her Grandmother, Onóir, shared the story of how the couple eloped at the age of sixteen, before fleeing to Balloch—making it their home.
She smiled, romanticising at the idea of the couple’s bold escape. They, however, were not blessed with children—Blair believing it to be their punishment for running away. In acceptance of their fate, the couple simply got on with life, until years later, when nature changed its mind, giving them a son. Eleanor called to mind the night William Grant came into the world. Great celebrations were had at the Ferry Inn that same evening—the men providing Heckie with tankards of Meade and pats on the back, congratulating him for, “fathering a bairn… at last!”
The child—their only one—grew up loved and protected. William looked up to his father, hoping, one day, to be just like him—spending his time constantly trying to prove his worth.
“What’s the hurry, laddie?” Heckie would say.
But the boy had inherited his mother’s stubborn streak, attempting tasks he was not quite ready for. Taking the axe, he regularly carried for his father, when permitted, Will had taken it upon himself to chop some logs, in order to show his parents how strong he was. But in his attempt, the weight of it proved too much; the over-sized tool fell from his small hands onto the wood, showering him in splinters. Several had gone into his hands as he tried to protect his eyes. Wanting to avoid a scolding, he attempted to remove them all… except for one. Satisfied he had prized out each and every splinter, the boy returned the axe to its place, saying nothing of his failure. Six days later, at the raw age of twelve, he was dead! Heckie and Blair were beside themselves with grief, along with the whole village—it, too, mourning the untimely loss.
It eventually came to light what had occurred, by the boy’s own admission, before he died. The stray splinter had made its way into his bloodstream, secretly rotting away. The infection eventually turned poisonous, spreading its death sentence throughout his young body. By the time the physician laid his hands on him, it was too late—Heckie throwing the blame on himself.
“I should never have let the lad near the damn thing!” he had repeated, before destroying the weapon in question.
“Dinnae blame yourself, neach-gaoil,” Blair had told him lovingly. “He was just a wee bairn, trying to be the man his father is—no different than any other lad. ’Twas an accident.”
Two years had passed, since, along with Heckie’s acceptance of his own innocence. And eventually the sparkle returned to his saddened eyes, bringing the couple closer.
Eleanor was fond of the husband and wife, appreciating the close relationship they shared with her own family. While she helped her mother at the market, Blair occasionally popped in, keeping Onóir company.
Her grandmother’s health had deteriorated in the last year, more than she would admit, prohibiting her from accompanying them as often as she would have liked. But the elderly lady was not ready to give in to the cruelty of old age. “Off with you both,” she had insisted that morning. “And enjoy what’s left of this late summer; it may be taken from us, tomorrow.”
The boy, she realised, relishing in the warmth of the sun, would be seventeen in less than a week. No longer regarded as a boy, he would soon be a man, with more expected of him. Mournful of the thought, she vowed to make the best of his diminishing youth… before things changed.
Her thoughts were then disrupted by the distant sound of that same boy and his dog, triumphantly calling out to her.
She grinned. We shall eat well, tonight! she told herself; it was clear by the excitement in his voice, and Rave’s constant barking, they had been successful.
Eleanor cherished their precious time together. It was the one day in the week they could call their own—hers to relax, while he went hunting with Rave—the pathetic creature he had found dying in the street—almost two years ago—at Balloch’s annual Horse Fair. She could still hear his boyish pleas.
“Please, can I keep her, maw?” he had begged, cradling the weak pup in his arms.
The Fair had, as usual, been a hive of noisy activity. The constant sound of horse-drawn carts and raised voices had blanketed the animal’s dying whimpers from distracted ears—except for Gill’s. Being his elder, Eleanor had always kept a close eye on her sibling. Out of habit, she had turned to check on him, only to find him on his knees by an abandoned three-wheeled cart. Her curiosity had drawn her to his side, having seen him retrieve something from behind one of the wheels.
“We can’t leave her to die, Nori!” he had told her, wrapping the pup in his good shirt.
“Her time looks short.” The defined tone from their mother’s voice had, at the time, struck her hard. She had noticed, as Gill grew older, her mother’s leniency towards her son had grown less.
“Let me keep her, maw. I’ll make her well, again.”
“I doubt she will—" Her mother was stopped by the lad’s tears, and quivering lip.
“Let him at least try, Rosalyn,” their grandmother had intervened, taking his side. “Have a little faith in the boy.”
Won over by her own mother’s persuasive words, Rosalyn finally gave in. “She will be your responsibility, Gillis Shaw,” she had told him. “But, be mindful… she may not survive.”
Despite their mother’s objection, they were thankful for the hound’s timely arrival. The dog became a welcome distraction after their father’s disappearance, while helping him to come to terms with the death of his closest friend, William Grant.
For more than a week, he nursed the hound back to health, rarely leaving her side. From then on, that had been the way of it—the constant companions, secretly grateful for saving each other.
Balloch Horse Fair was the highlight of the year—a national institution. Eleanor loved the excitement of it all, and looked forward to the upcoming one—in a couple of days.
Despite having few nice things, she contemplated what to wear—something special—a sure way to catch a lad’s eye. She knew her mother would alter and add, to something she had worn before, without the other young lasses in the village noticing. Indeed, Rosalyn Shaw was quite the clever one with a sewing needle, rarely failing to disappoint.
The Fair attracted throngs of people from all over. They came by horse and by boat to trade, in exchange for large sums of money. Stall-holders travelled overnight, staying for more than a day—enticed by studded tents, selling an abundance of beer and whisky. Vendors, with their stall furniture on carts, along with candy men, cobblers, saddlers, and bakers, selling jam-stuffed Roly Polies, were a spectacle to the eye. And children, who saved what little money they had for the big day, would make it stretch as far as it would go, their eager eyes and rumbling stomachs, dying to indulge in all the delights on sale.
Every year the Fair grew, attracting larger numbers from further afield—the small village almost bursting at the seams from its increasing visitors. Mr. Walker, the local Ferryman, always had a time of it, trying to cope with the large boats, crammed full of horses and people— the extra workload forcing him to enlist extra hands, to help with the passage, from sunrise to sunset. But at times the journey proved too hazardous, resulting in the occasional incident—one in particular, leading to a tragedy that was talked about for years after.
One boat did, in fact, capsize, resulting in the deaths of several passengers. Eleanor recalled the panic it caused at the time. But she and her brother had been whisked away by their father, sparing them the visual trauma of the incident. It seemed the body of a Highland drover had been the only one not recovered from the loch. And it was said, courtesy of Heckie Grant, that the drover’s dog had managed to reach land. For two days after, the poor animal ran along the shoreline howling, in search of its master… or so it was said. Therefore, every year, since the incident—and before trading commenced—the victims were always remembered in a moving ceremony.
Most of her memories of the Fair had been wonderful. However,
they did not attend the year their father allegedly disappeared—the same year William had died. And it was almost decided not to attend, the following year. But as time passed it was thought, by her grandmother, that the Shaws and the Grants should resume going.
“Do not deny them the joy of the Fair,” she had heard her say in conversation with her mother. “The children need something to look forward to.”
And so, it was agreed. But Heckie, still consumed by guilt, refused—as part of his self-punishment. He had, however, insisted his wife attend and, despite her reluctance to go without him, the stubborn woman was eventually won over by her husbands’ persuasion.
It was that same year, when Rave entered their lives, that Farrow departed Oran’s. Somehow her father’s horse had found its way home, after six months. It was clear the poor steed had been through the wars, by its dishevelled state. She recalled her mother’s reaction when Farrow emerged through the trees, towards their house, without his Master in tow. Her mother had found herself in a state of utter confusion and dread, on seeing the Albrecht sword still attached to the saddle. She had seen her snatch the weapon, then conceal it from them. For her father to be without his prized piece, it played on her worst nightmares. She had wanted to admit seeing the weapon, but changed her mind, when her mother had spoken to them, later that night.
“It is unlikely your father will be returning to us.”
Her mother’s words had been cold and defined. Gill, not understanding her meaning, had forced Eleanor to ask the questions—for both their sakes.
“Are you telling us… paw is… dead?”
Dead! Dead! Eleanor felt a chill in the heat of the sun, recalling the moment she’d spoken that word in front of her mother and Gill. The coldness of its true meaning was absolute, and had stayed with her ever since.
“Perhaps,” had been her mother’s blunt response, after a long pause.
“Then nothing is final,” she had bravely replied, expecting a scolding.
But, instead, gripped by anger and sadness, her mother had stormed off, refusing to discuss it again. She recalled the look of heartbreak and utter confusion on her young brother’s face. In all his innocence, he had tried to understand his mother’s reaction. She, on the other hand, thought it cruel of her, to detach herself from the subject, leaving her children in the dark.
But there was always someone she knew they could talk to—the most ardent listener of all: their grandmother.
Farrow’s strength and vitality were renewed in no time, and his return had provided them with some comfort. Still in the prime of his life, the steed, however, had caught the eye of many. Her mother had wanted to keep him, perhaps in the hope her husband would come home. But with each passing day, week, and month, hope had faded and their belts grew tighter.
“You can’t sell him!” she had protested to her mother.
“What alternative do we have, Eleanor?”
Gill had pleaded, over and over, to his grandmother to intervene. But Onóir’s silence told them she was in agreement with her daughter’s decision.
“You know how things have been, since I was forced to let your father’s business go. Gill has neither the skill, or knowledge to manage it. When he comes of age, he will have to go to Eddin, to look for work. The earnings from a market stall can barely sustain four adults.”
Knowing she had to ignore the pleas of her children that day, she knew it had secretly broken her mother’s heart; the idea of having to part with her husband’s—their father’s—beloved steed.
“Needs must!” had been her final say on the matter.
The memory of that day was still vivid in her mind. Onóir, feeling unwell, had chosen not to attend, and remained at home with Rave, while they attended the Fair, to say goodbye to Farrow, secretly hoping there would be no takers. But a steed as fine as Oran Shaw’s, had not gone unnoticed.
The sight of her mother, reluctantly leading the horse into the pit of hungry traders, that day, would never leave her.
She had held on to her brother’s hand tightly, as the crowd circled with added interest. No time was wasted in bidding. She could still hear their raised voices, desperately haggling to out-bid their competition, their volume increasing in a threatening manner—such was the interest—each generous bid growing higher and higher. It had been overwhelming yet terrifying. She remembered the crowd’s angry frustration, as her mother’s grip refused to let go of the nervous horse, fearing she would change her mind, or the steed would bolt.
Her mother had looked hard into the eyes of those who had challenged her, seeing nothing but intent and malice. It was evident they would not treat the steed with the respect it deserved. Feeling threatened, her mother had turned, with the aim of leaving, when a familiar voice spoke—their saving grace.
“I would gladly take him, matching any price they offer.”
“Sold!” her mother had blurted, handing over the reins to Kai Aitken—the new landlord of The Ferry Inn. Later, when queried about her choice, her mother had simply replied, “I saw humility in his eyes, Eleanor. He will care for Farrow, as we did.”
Angry protests of dissatisfaction and displeasure, had ensued from the other bidders, who had felt hard done by, remarking: “How typical! A local, selling to one of their own.”
“It is decided!” she had yelled, finding her voice again. “Now, good day gentlemen.”
The crowd, finally accepting their loss, eventually made their way towards the Ferry Inn, unaware of the irony in it.
Kai Aitken stood almost six feet in height, and lean with it. She gave him thirty years, maybe more. Regarded as, not being particularly handsome, his features, however, were striking. His dark hair—always worn neatly tied back—emphasised his well-groomed beard. His warm, brown eyes distracted from his pale skin, and when he smiled, his face came to life. She had detected a faint accent, surmising he was from the south. The clothes he wore were of the finest quality, and made from fabric she did not recognise. She imagined they were from somewhere foreign—somewhere exotic, perhaps.
Kai had fallen upon his occupation by mere chance. As a traveller, passing through, he had taken it upon himself to stop at the Ferry Inn for food, and a drink of local whisky. Ned McGregor, the previous proprietor of the establishment, had grown long in years. No longer able to control any ensuing brawls, his courage began to shrink. Because of it, word had spread beyond the village, attracting unwanted visitors. She knew, if her father had been around, he would have tackled the trouble-makers. She smiled to herself, visualising him doing so, with Heckie Grant by his side. But even he had lost interest, since his son’s death, refusing to take another sup. And, because of their absence, it had only been a matter of time before the locals were driven from the Inn by the scandalmongers.
Kai had been sitting, minding his own business, when four bothersome strangers happened upon the Inn. Choosing to pay no heed, he ignored them, until they had turned their sights on young, Sarah Butler—the maid. The four, however, after consuming large quantities of whisky, had been no match for Kai, who produced a Claymore and Dirk, threatening the instigators. A fight broke out, leading to the dispatch of one, gravely injuring another, and a final warning to the remaining two—never to return.
Forever grateful to the stranger, Ned had then invited Kai to stay that night… and the next… and another, eventually leading to his purchase of The Ferry Inn.
Kai permitted Ned to stay on, rent free, allowing the old man to retire comfortably. It had been the most welcomed gossip, spread among the villagers, luring them back within a matter of days.
Above the Inn’s door, Kai had placed an unusually oversized axe, as a warning to anyone passing over his threshold, to be mindful of their behaviour, should they choose to enter.
Little was known then, or since, about the unlikely, new proprietor… nor did anyone ask. Eleanor recollected their first proper introduction, sometime after. She and Gill, had been in awe of the unsuspecting hero as he chatted with
their mother, in relation to his unexpected purchase of their father’s horse. They had been sharing a joke about, something or other, when she had noticed the fine, red scar lining his throat.
She recalled her embarrassment when he found her out. Yet, despite her mortification, she had been determined to enquire.
“Who did that to you?” she had asked, to her mother’s horror.
“Prejudiced fools!” he had muttered, without thought, it had seemed.
The comment had confused her, at first. But he was quick to apologise.
“There are some in this world who know nothing but ignorance and prejudice, Eleanor,” he had said. “They feel it their duty to rid it of those of us who are… different… who don’t share their beliefs.”
“Eleanor Shaw!” her mother had snapped. “Do not pry into the affairs of others.”
She smiled inwardly, recalling the added shock on her mother’s face, when her brother’s curiosity then got the better of him.
“What happened?” Gill had asked, his expression wild with expectations of another blood curdling tale, while relishing the thought of sharing it with Heckie.
“Gillis Shaw!” her mother had started, preparing to drag them home, while begging forgiveness for the rudeness of her two children.
“Shall I tell you, Gill?” he had said, turning and winking at their mother. “I would hate to disappoint the lad.”
Her mother had held her tongue, keeping them in suspense, before finally giving her approval.
“Well… it was some years ago,” he had begun, smiling at their eager faces. “Two of those… bigoted souls, crossed paths with this condemned one, deciding the world would be a better place without him. I was unarmed at the time—more fool I. Hence the reason I am never without this.”
She recalled their expressions when he patted the hilt of the large sword peeping over his shoulder at them.
Beyond the Darkness Page 17