The sun slid farther to the west, dipping fingers of light through the tangled branches as it passed. The Indians didn’t try to move us. Instead, they built a small shelter over us using animal pelts, and brought us water to drink.
A while later, two women arrived at the camp and knelt beside Adelaide and me. Their hair was drawn from their weathered faces, braided into cords of black and silver that hung down the backs of their deerskin tunics. They leaned in, examining our wounds with a gentle but frank approach. One of the women looked into my sister’s swollen eye, lifting the lid as gently as if it were a butterfly’s wing. Adelaide looked back into the woman’s eyes, and tears began to flow down her bruised cheeks.
The women brought out balms and herbs from small leather bags at their waists and tended our wounds with infinite care. The ointment was soothing, as were the reassuring caresses of their fingers. So were their jumbled words, tripping through my head like a child’s rhyme. Between sips of tea, the women spooned a kind of porridge into our mouths that warmed our bodies and filled our stomachs. When they were done, they smiled, touched us gently, then left.
I rolled onto my side so I faced Adelaide’s profile. Her eyes were closed, but I could tell from her breathing she was awake. I needed to speak with her, to talk about what had happened. She and I had shared a bed for so many years I knew she could sense the questions spinning through my mind.
“Sleep, Maggie. We’ll be all right now,” she whispered. The words sighed through her swollen lips, whistling in my ears like a song.
Hours later I awoke and shivered. Darkness was settling over the clearing, bringing with it the first cooling breaths of air. Adelaide slept beside me, her long lashes resting on her cheeks, small tangles of hair lifting with the breeze. The shadows camouflaged most of her bruises and cuts, leaving only the image of an innocent, sleeping child. The picture was a lie. Her innocence was gone.
And our mother was gone.
And somewhere in the forest, in a nameless grave, was the body of our baby sister, destroyed and abandoned.
I had no more tears. I closed my eyes and burned the impression of Ruth’s sweet face into my heart.
“Don’t forget me,” she whispered.
“That would be impossible,” I assured her, smiling weakly at the thought.
That had been Ruth’s gift: the way she could coax a smile from even the bitterest person. I thought of how she had once brought me a broken bird, trusting me to fix the damage. She had wept for its tiny soul when I explained I couldn’t save the creature. I remembered so many things and let the memories trickle like a river through my mind. How she laughed, how she sang, how she danced. Her murderers were dead, but their lives could never be equal payment for hers. They were nothing. Ruth was everything.
I looked up as the leaves near my head crackled under the feet of an Indian woman, about the same age as I was. She smiled and sat beside me, then smoothed the hair back from my forehead as if I were a child. She hummed a strange lullaby, and the forest voices of early evening joined her. I thought I heard Ruth’s sweet voice singing among them, but couldn’t be sure. I closed my eyes and let the music rock me to sleep.
PART 2: ANDREW
The Search
Chapter 6
Childhood Dreams
Sunny days like this were rare in the Highlands, and the beckoning warmth made indoor work almost unbearable for a twelve-year-old boy. The air inside Invergarry Castle’s stable was hot and sticky, something that didn’t often bother him. Usually the weather was so cold it wasn’t a problem. Today, though, he couldn’t help wondering why the builders hadn’t had a tiny thought for the poor stable boys. After all, it was 1738. Over the past hundred years, they’d already rebuilt the place twice after the English had taken it apart.
Andrew’s mouth was dry from working in the dust, and the midges were biting terribly, buzzing over his head in clouds as he cleaned the stalls, lighting on his neck and cheeks. He considered running to the other side of the castle when he was done, just so he could climb down the rocky shelves and jump into the freezing, bottomless waters of Loch Lomond. Then he remembered he had other plans.
He finished mucking out the last stall, then tossed in fresh straw with a pitchfork taller than he was. A chestnut mare lolled against the wall on three legs, waiting for him to finish.
“That’s better then, is it?” Andrew asked her. “Certainly smells better.”
He spread the new layer of straw across the floor, then leaned his flat wooden shovel against the wall, finished at last. Reaching his arms over his head, Andrew stretched onto his toes until he heard his back pop. He always waited for that sound after a day working in his uncle’s stables. It was like a confirmation that he’d worked hard. Like his da did. Like his brother, Dougal, did.
Andrew took a step toward the horse, and put out an empty palm. She filled it with her velvet muzzle.
“That’s it for today, Macalla,” he said, petting her smooth copper neck. “I’ll be in to see ye in the morn. Sleep well.” He picked up his shovel and left the stall, careful to close the latch behind him.
The other stable boys were already outside, playing in the sunshine. Andrew caught a ball one-handed, then tossed it back, grinning.
One of the boys called out, “Come on, MacDonnell. We’re going fishing.”
Andrew shook his head, leaving his shovel with the other tools by the door. He could imagine the stream by his house, sparkling with sunlight, the trout rising like bubbles to the bait. It would be a fine day to fish. But not for him. He was tired. He’d been up most of the night, his sleep broken by dreams.
He always dreamed, but some nights the dreams were more vivid than others. This time he’d seen the girl again. She was in a meadow, her long brown hair falling in a veil over her face as she reached down and plucked a handful of wildflowers. When she rose, he could see how she was growing, how the oft-mended dress she wore was beginning to pull tighter around her chest and hips, though she was still slender. As if she could feel his gaze, she glanced at him and smiled. It was a gentle smile of contentment, and he wished he could have taken the flowers she held out for him. He’d seen her in his dreams for as long as he could remember, felt as if he knew her, but he’d never seen her as clearly as he had that night.
“I’ve things to do,” he called to the boys, thinking only that he wanted to lie in the heather and catch up on his sleep. “Tomorrow, aye?”
The boys nodded and ran off, cheerfully tossing insults back and forth between them. Andrew turned in the other direction, knowing exactly where he wanted to go. He’d gone there before, when he’d wanted to be alone. Beyond the castle wall, down the windy slope, then past a jagged wall of rocks. Once he’d scrabbled over them, he found himself in a clearing and stepped into waist-high grass, dotted with small patches of heather. It was a beautiful place, alive with butterflies.
In the centre of the meadow Andrew sank into purple blooms, sitting so the flowers were even with the top of his cap. He felt safe, hidden away from prying eyes. With a sigh, he lay back, linking his fingers behind his head for a pillow.
The sky was so blue Andrew didn’t want to close his eyes. A solitary cloud puffed into view, wispy and disintegrating as he watched. He wondered what it might feel like to touch it. Would it be soft to sleep in? Would it be warm? He blinked, then let his heavy eyelids close, still seeing the sun’s red glow. He rolled to his side and curled into a ball. The soft, sweet scent of heather tickled his nose, and he fell asleep.
His rest wasn’t deep. It rose and fell with the motion of his dreams. The girl materialised while he slept, one moment distant, the next an arm’s length away.
“Who are you?” he asked, wondering if she could hear him. The girl said nothing, only curled her lips into a smile. A little girl’s smile, like that of any other little girl he’d ever seen. Except this one was only for Andrew, and he knew it. He grinned back, and his hand felt warm, as if she’d entwined her fingers with his. In
the way that dreams are, they walked through the meadow, though it wasn’t thick with heather anymore. She led him through a place where there were no purple blooms, only sun-baked yellow grass.
The sound of a bird calling from nearby startled him awake and he sat up, rubbing his fists over his eyes. How long had he slept? Maybe an hour? The sun hadn’t moved far. Long enough that he felt refreshed. He always felt more energised after he’d seen her. He pushed to his feet, suddenly hungry, and waded out of the meadow, disappearing into the trees on his way home. The dream had ended, but he held her face in his memory. He carried her smile along the path to his home, kicked pebbles aside and hopped over sprawling oak roots. Who was she? Did it matter? She was his secret, and that was the most important thing.
He stopped in the path and slid off a shoe, shaking out a tiny pebble. A rustling in the bushes had him turning to check, but there was nothing there. He slid the shoe back on, wiggled his foot to make sure it was all cleaned out, then resumed his walk toward home and supper.
Sometimes he wished he could talk with his mother about the girl. But he thought she might laugh, or one of his brothers might overhear. So he kept his dreams private.
Just as Andrew stepped from the trees onto the field where his family’s cows grazed, he heard a terrifying roar. He spun toward the sound, but a solid weight bowled him over before he could defend himself. His back hit the ground with a thump that knocked all the wind out of his lungs, and he shoved his hands up, reaching for his attacker’s throat. The man was strong, anchoring Andrew’s shoulders with big hands. Andrew knew those hands, knew the chuckle that came with them. He glared up at the victorious expression on his big brother’s face and combed through his memories, looking for possible escape techniques that had worked before.
“Daydreamin’, were ye?” his brother Dougal asked. He was on his hands and knees over Andrew, bright blue eyes sparkling.
Andrew managed to hook an ankle behind Dougal’s leg. He yanked to the side, forcing Dougal flat onto the ground with him. The cows didn’t pause in their chewing, but stepped to a safer distance and stared at the boys. Andrew socked Dougal in the head, making Dougal howl, then hoot with laughter. The brothers rolled on top of each other, over and under, yelping like oversized puppies. Tired at last, they collapsed beside each other, laughing and breathing hard.
“I got ye fair an’ square,” Dougal said, swiping the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead. Andrew noticed a hint of a beard starting on Dougal’s chin and felt a pang of jealousy. Well, Dougal was fourteen, he told himself. Time enough for Andrew’s own beard to come in.
Andrew frowned at the sky and gave Dougal a low grunt of assent. “Willna happen again,” he muttered.
Dougal laughed. “Oh aye, it will. Race ye home?”
Dougal was on his feet running before Andrew had risen to his. He chased gamely after his brother, shouting insults and threats. Dougal’s laughter rolled back over his shoulders, along with the long black tail of his hair.
Their mother was sweeping outside the front door when her two eldest arrived, covered head to toe in mud and cow patties. She eyed them with disapproval.
“ ’Tis a good thing tomorrow’s wash day. For it’ll be the two of ye that’ll wash these filthy rags, ye wee rascals,” she said, sweeping a large beetle out of her way.
“O’ course, Mother,” Dougal said, still grinning. He leaned in and kissed the little woman, whose smile fought to emerge. Both of her older sons were already taller than she was. She tended to stand closer to their ten-year-old brother, Ciaran, because, she told the family, Ciaran still made her feel tall. Dougal gave her a hug. “Andrew would be pleased to do the wash tomorrow, Mother, all on his own.”
“Hey!” Andrew objected, then shook his head when Dougal winked at him.
“You lot stink!” said a young voice, coming around the side of the cottage.
Ciaran and the boys’ father, Duncan, emerged, looking well pleased with themselves. They had been hunting, and their father’s hand rested on his youngest son’s shoulder. A brightly plumed pheasant hung from Ciaran’s grasp, almost as tall as the boy.
“See what yon Ciaran’s brought for supper while you two were busy doin’ naught?” their father said.
“A fine catch,” Dougal said, nodding.
Ciaran’s grin was huge. “The wee bugger never heard me coming.”
“Pheasant will be lovely for this eve, son,” their mother said, reaching over and ruffling Ciaran’s hair. His blue eyes twinkled with pride.
The family ate when it was still light out so they wouldn’t have to waste too many candles. Afterwards their mother brought out books. Duncan taught the boys the way of the woods: hunting, trapping, and how to survive should the need ever arise. He taught them swordplay and how to handle the dirk that was always in their belts. Their mother taught them reading and writing, as well as basic arithmetic and history, using whatever books she could find. Not all the boys at the castle could read, and Andrew was proud that he could. He liked when the other lads came to him asking for help, asking him to read this or that.
Ciaran was the best pupil. Andrew’s parents had plans for all of them, but Ciaran offered the most promise. His understanding of numbers amazed Andrew, though he would never admit that. Dougal, on the other hand, had little interest in his mother’s lessons. He learned the basics. At the slightest hint that studies might be over for the day, Dougal ran outside to be with his father.
The brothers’ strengths and interests varied little over the months and years, though Dougal began paying more attention to the lassies than he had before. The lessons intensified as the boys grew, in particular those lessons of their father, since the bodies of boys were swiftly being replaced by those of men.
A couple of years later, Duncan showed his sons the proof of how much their parents believed in them. He took them to the fireplace built into the stone wall of their house, traced his thick fingers around the chipped mortar, and showed them a hidden cache. He reached inside and pulled out a leather sack, then shook the contents into his hand. The boys had never seen coins before. They stared, captivated by the thought of anything that existed outside of these woods.
“My sons, one day ye will make me proud,” Duncan told them. The boys stood tall, shoulders back, staring at him. “Ye will make yer way in the world and tell all ye meet ye are MacDonnells from Invergarry, sons of Duncan, nephews of Iain. Ye will become men of education as well as warriors.” Duncan turned and his wife curled under his arm, smiling broadly. “No one has lads like ours, do they? Lads with brain an’ brawn, more than they need.”
The boys looked at each other, unsure of what to say. As usual, Dougal broke the silence. He nodded. “Aye, Da. I am a man to be reckoned with. But these two? I’m afraid ye might have made a wee mistake—”
Andrew’s open palm smacked his brother’s head and Dougal grinned. Their father, still holding the small sack in his hands, gave his boys a wry smile. He knelt to put the money back in its safe haven, and Andrew watched it disappear.
“Ye will have a future, each of ye,” Duncan said. “Should ye be in need, ye will have this.”
Duncan slid the stone back into its slot and wiped his hand over the surface of the wall as if to erase any evidence of its location.
The future, Andrew thought. If his life could continue as it always had, living in the woods with his family and friends, riding horses, fishing, hunting, he would be content. But he didn’t think it would. He still had dreams he never told anyone about. Sometimes he saw the girl in those dreams, but other times he saw much darker images. He smelled smoke and heard the clashing sounds of battle. When he woke some mornings, he thought he could feel wounds burning in his arms and legs. Just like the girl, they seemed too real to be mere figments of his imagination.
There was a strange old hag in the next village who claimed to dream of the future. Andrew had seen her twice and looked away with something akin to disgust each time. The woman was
filthy, and the one time he came close enough, he could almost see her skin move with lice. Her hands were partially covered by fingerless gloves, her sunken chest layered with strange beaded necklaces, and she smelled like rotten meat. Her ridiculous gray hair billowed out like a sail under her kertch, and her back arched in such a curve her knobbly knuckles nearly touched her ankles.
Andrew didn’t know if she really could see things that were to come. On the other hand, he thought he could. He had never seen much proof, other than he always seemed to know where lost things could be found or where game was waiting to be hunted. But a few times he had warned his mother not to hang the washing because he knew it would rain. He found a lost calf that had wandered through his dreams the night before. Andrew said nothing about any of it. He didn’t want his brothers—or anyone else—to link him in any way with that horrible old woman.
As Andrew grew, so did the detail in his dreams. Over the next four years he began to catch glimpses of events farther in the distance. The visions he had of the girl lasted longer, became more clear.
A great clan Gathering by Invergarry Castle took place the autumn Andrew turned sixteen. He and his brothers had never seen so many people in all of their lives. Over a hundred Highland families came together, a few billeted in the castle, most living in tents that dotted the side of a nearby mountain. Dougal took to the crowds like a duck to water, introducing himself to everyone, flirting shamelessly with every woman he met, singing at campfires of strangers he made into friends. Ciaran, fourteen, also wandered, meeting people with interests similar to his own. Andrew wasn’t as quick to leave his family’s fire. Not because he was timid, but because he preferred watching people, observing their lives from a distance.
And because he found if he sat quietly enough, breathing in the cool night air and letting the muted sounds of humanity wash over him, he could sometimes see the girl. She would stay with him, touching without contact, speaking without words, her little girl’s face and body beginning to mature into those of a beautiful young woman.
Under the Same Sky Page 5