Under the Same Sky

by Genevieve Graham

  I hated that I had hurt him. That he’d felt the need to strike out the way he did. I liked Soquili very much. But he had to understand I was never going to be his wife.

  Birds began to sing after he disappeared into the trees, friendly chirps that sounded out of place after the harshness of Soquili’s voice. I listened until their songs faded into the background and the quiet claimed me. My mind opened and the images of my dreams slipped through, filling me with peace.

  Wolf’s voice wove through my mind, caressing it with ancient syllables both rough and melodic. My heart reached out for more, needing to hear the words he whispered in his soft, curling accent.

  As quickly as one might blow out a candle, everything went black. I was jerked from the warmth of my musings and plunged into an icy cold void. My fingers cramped around something hard and impenetrable—metal bars. The stench of death flooded my senses like water, and I thought it might be my own. Panic rose through me, and I knew I had to get out, I had to—

  Soquili woke me, his hands tight on my arms as he shook the sleep from me. His eyes were concerned, his brow creased. I heard him call to me, but couldn’t make out the thick syllables. As my mind cleared, so did his words.

  “Ma-kee! Wake up! I am here, Ma-kee, I am here, gugegui,” he cried in halting English, using the Cherokee endearment for “love.”

  I awoke slowly, my eyes still blurred. I blinked up at him from where I lay against the boulder, not understanding.

  “You screamed, Ma-kee. But you are safe with me.”

  He stroked my hair and freed it from the clinging sweat on my neck. I felt breathless, as if I’d been running for hours, as if I would never breathe deeply again. I raised myself to my elbows and looked into his eyes. I knew that fear dominated my expression. There was no way to disguise it.

  “Soquili, something very wrong is coming. It is something I know, like when Grandmother Waw-Li knows something. It is coming and it is very bad, very uyoi.”

  He shook his head, brow creased, and tried to talk me off the precarious cliff where I teetered in my mind.

  “There is nothing wrong, Ma-kee. There is only dohiyi,” he said, trying to calm me. Peace. There is only peace.

  But I knew otherwise. There was no peace in that silent black hole. I sat all the way up, and he put his arm around my shoulders for support. I was trembling. He must have felt it.

  “Soquili, you know about my dreams.”

  He nodded and sighed. “Of course,” he said, looking resigned. “Everyone knows. I do not wish to talk about them.”

  “I know that. But I need to. I can’t look away from them like you can. They are real,” I whispered. “What I see will happen.”

  He examined the broad palms of his hands. He knew he should believe. Everything in his culture taught him to accept what I was saying. After a moment he raised his eyes to meet mine.

  “What did you see, Ma-kee?”

  I paused. What had I seen? Nothing. It was what I had heard, what I had felt. The words rushed out.

  “I saw black and felt death and it was cold. I was alone and—”

  “You felt death? Whose?”

  “I don’t know. I think mine,” I said, frowning and shaking my head. “But I couldn’t really tell. I only knew it was something I couldn’t prevent. Something very wrong. Something I…” I trailed off, no longer looking at him, trying to sort through the images.

  He must have sensed my frustration because he grasped my shoulders and pulled me to him. He folded me into his arms and rested his chin on my head. His lips brushed over my hair and I closed my eyes, feeling the steady pulse that beat slowly in his throat. I wanted to cry from confusion; I wanted to be held. We sat silently like that, listening to the leaves and the water, waiting for my heart to slow.

  “I will keep you safe,” he told me. “We will not talk of the future today. But you do not need to feel fear. As long as you are beside me, no harm will come to you.”

  PART 4: ANDREW

  Toward the Sea

  Chapter 19

  A Restless Peace

  Sorcha and Janet MacLeod heard the jingling of harnesses and the slick whisper of ponies slipping down the muddy hill outside the cottage. They peeked through the door, wary of strangers, then flung it open when they caught sight of Hector, blood-soaked and white-faced. Behind him trailed the other men, their muddied ponies snorting at sight of the barn. And with them, two fragile children, pale as eggshells.

  Sorcha was efficient. She assessed and treated her husband’s injuries as well as she could, then coaxed him into a deep sleep on their bed. When she had finished taking care of him, she turned to inspect the other men. She checked Geoffrey’s rough bandages, and sent Janet running for clean cloths and water.

  “Who’s this then?” Sorcha asked, bending over to inspect the children. They stared at her, blinking like owls.

  Iain put a supportive hand on each child’s shoulder. “We found these two orphaned in the woods. Have ye somethin’ they might eat? I think another moment an’ their stomachs will growl louder than my own voice.”

  “Of course. Come with me, children,” she said. Clucking like a mother hen, she bustled them toward the table and brought steaming bowls of broth with currant cakes set on the side. The little faces stared in awe at the feast. Iain seated them on his vast lap and motioned for them to eat, then reached toward the bowl of broth Sorcha brought for him.

  The huge fireplace took up the entire length of the west wall, burning fragrant peat. Janet sat on a bench by the fire, keeping to herself. She watched the guests and listened to their story, but kept her eyes averted from Andrew. Memories of their last meeting filled her with an unsavoury mixture of anger and shame.

  When the broth and biscuits were finished, Janet set a chestnut pie on the table. When she placed Andrew’s plate in front of him, he touched her sleeve and looked into her green eyes. He spoke softly so only she could hear.

  “I thank ye for the welcome and for the meal. I’ll no’ trouble ye long. I’ll be off in a couple o’ days.”

  She frowned slightly and kept her voice just as low. She needn’t have worried. Iain was engaged in hearty conversation with her brothers. Any private conversation wasn’t likely to be overheard.

  “Ye’re always welcome here. Ye ken that well enough,” she assured him. Her words were genuine, but spoken with a shadow of the warmth they used to hold.

  “Aye, well, it’s time I go,” he said. His gaze flicked over the orphans. “I’ve had enough o’ this cursed country. I’ve no’ the stomach for it anymore.”

  Janet looked as if she didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to appear the least bit interested. But she asked nonetheless. “Where will ye go?”

  “I dinna ken for sure yet. I’ll head to the coast and go from there.”

  She nodded and a faint flush rose in her cheeks. She turned toward her mother. “I’ll go see if Da needs anything,” she said.

  It was getting late. Geoffrey could no longer hide his yawns and retired for the night in one of the back rooms. The two little ones, already asleep on Iain’s lap, were laid into a box bed, tucked against the wall. Even asleep, the children turned toward each other, coming together in a knot of tangled arms and legs. Sorcha pulled the curtain across, giving the children a safe cocoon in which to dream.

  Iain and Andrew shared another room. Andrew could hardly wait to sink into one of the two small beds. He splashed his face with cool water from a basin and swished it around his teeth.

  “Did I hear ye say to the lass as ye were thinkin’ o’ leavin’?” Iain asked.

  Andrew turned toward the deep voice, seeing the profile of its owner against the flickering light of a candle. A clean cloth lay folded beside the basin, and Andrew used it to wipe the water from his face before it dripped onto his chest. He leaned against the wall and rubbed the cloth between his palms.

  “Aye,” he admitted. “I’m ready to move on. My family’s gone, my home’s gone. I’m tired o’ f
ightin’. I’ll leave when Hector’s well.”

  Iain nodded, then muttered, “I’ve half a mind to join ye.”

  “Do it then, man.”

  Iain stood in silence while Andrew crawled into bed. When Iain spoke again, Andrew was almost asleep.

  “I think I will,” Iain said. “I’ll join ye—wi’ the weans.”

  Andrew smiled in the dark. “Aye. I’d no’ expect ye to leave ’em behind.”

  In the morning, Iain and Andrew were up early. They headed into the woods and returned a couple of hours later, two rabbit carcasses dangling from each of their waists. Janet stood outside the door of the house when they approached, wiping her hands on her apron. Her brothers, still yawning, walked around her, headed toward the privacy of the woods.

  “Good mornin’, Miss Janet,” said Iain. “Ciamar a tha sibh?”

  “Tha gu math, tapadh leibh, Mr. MacKenzie. I’m quite well. And you—did ye sleep well?” she asked.

  “Och, aye,” Iain answered gravely. “That’s a very soft bed your mother laid out.”

  As if she heard her name, Sorcha came out to join them, taking a break from the morning meal’s preparations.

  “Good mornin’, Mistress Sorcha,” Iain said.

  Sorcha gave him a weary smile and reached for the rabbits. Her long black hair, so like her daughter’s, was tucked under her cap. A few restless wisps escaped and fluttered in the morning breeze. She brushed them from her face with the back of one hand.

  “An’ to you as well, Mr. MacKenzie,” she said. “This will make a lovely stew. I thank ye both.”

  “Did Hector no’ sleep well last night, then? Ye look like ye were up most the night,” he said gently.

  “Oh, he’ll do. ’Twas a long night, to be sure, but he’ll do. I thank ye for askin’. And you? Did ye sleep well?”

  They spoke of their plans for the day, and eventually came back inside for breakfast. Hector didn’t join them, but Sorcha assured them he was sleeping comfortably.

  After the two little redheads had finished their parritch and toast, they clambered off their chairs and wandered the room, ingesting every detail. They had been bathed and dressed in shirts that had once belonged to Simon and Geoffrey, and had begun to speak, a bit at a time. The little boy introduced himself as Peter. He was five. His little sister, Flora, had just turned four. Their mother was a seamstress. Their father had been a blacksmith until he’d left with the army.

  The conversation inevitably led to the tragedy in the cottage. Peter stood by the fireplace and crossed his arms, refusing to take refuge in Iain’s offer of a lap. He took a deep breath to steel his young heart.

  “Mam was wi’ child again,” he said, “an’ Da left wi’ the rest o’ the men, so he said as it was me what was the man o’ the house.”

  “Ma and I wept when Da left,” Flora added. “Peter said ’twas all right, that we’d do fine. But then the bairn started to come.”

  Peter nodded. “I carried water from the river, while Flora ran to fetch the midwife, but there was no one at home.”

  “There was no one anywhere!” Flora exclaimed.

  “We was almos’ home, an’ we could hear Mam screamin’ somethin’ terrible. We was dead cold, so we run to the door, callin’ to her,” Peter said, “but all at once she quit her greetin’ and there were nae sound t’all. I was scairt to go in, but we didna ken what else to do.”

  Peter looked at Flora, who stared at him with huge eyes. Peter cleared his throat.

  “Mam was dead. We tried to give her a drink, we tried shakin’ her, but she was dead, an’ the bairn ne’er even born. Ever’thin’ smelled so bad I thought I mi’ get sick,” Peter admitted. Flora nodded, her big eyes filling with tears. “So we went outside again to wait.”

  No one moved for a moment.

  “What were ye waiting for, laddie?” Iain asked softly.

  “Well,” Peter said, looking at Iain with eyes round with trust. “I thought maybe someone would have to come sometime, aye? And I was right, was I no’, Flora?”

  He grinned at her and she gave him a smile that lit the room.

  “Aye.” She turned to Andrew, who was sitting beside her. “Peter’s mos’ always right,” she said, as if that required confirmation. “We went in the cottage to eat, but we couldna reach the top shelf. We tried sleepin’ in the kitchen, but the smell were too bad, an’ then the flies started to come, so we took all the biscuits and jam outside. We ate all the tatties. There was no more food, an’ we were hurtin’ wi’ hunger.” She paused and turned toward Iain, pale blue eyes searching. “Did the faeries bring ye?”

  “Why do ye ask that?” Iain asked.

  “Because at night we asked ’em to find help,” she said.

  Iain nodded gently, cupping both little faces in his huge hands.

  “Aye, the faeries tol’ us where to find ye, m’eudail. An’ they said ’twas up to me to keep ye safe from now on, so that’s what I’ll do.”

  He lifted them as effortlessly as if they were a handful of feathers. Andrew picked up a couple of bannocks Janet had spread with jam. He handed one bannock to each child as Iain swooped through the doorway with the children in his arms. Before long, Andrew could hear the children’s giggles from the yard: silvery sounds falling like tiny snowflakes and melting in the warmth of Iain’s voice.

  Andrew remembered other days like this: sunny days that promised nothing but laughter. He had spent those days playing with his brothers, and the memory pushed a lump into his throat. He swallowed hard.

  Sometimes Andrew swore he could still hear his brother Dougal’s voice on the wind. He could see him clearly when he tried: long black hair and laughing eyes. He remembered Dougal’s fierce expression on that last miserable morning in April, when Andrew had followed his brother into the moor and lost him in the mass of kilts and steel. He hadn’t seen Dougal since that moment. He wished he could have at least embraced him before he died.

  This sunny day, he decided, shrugging off his melancholy, would be spent in solitude. Having made up his mind to leave Scotland, he wanted time to reflect, to make plans. Ireland, maybe? Or perhaps try to find his way in France, where Ciaran had hoped someday to go to school?

  Andrew went out to the barn, to where the ponies hung their heads over the half doors. He unlatched the door to Fognan’s stall and she whickered, seeming happy to go with him. He led her outside, then Andrew swung onto the saddle and nudged the pony onto the same pathway they had taken before.

  The colours of the meadow had changed since his last visit. Late summer had clothed it in a robe of lush green, speckled with purple and white flowers. Now early frost licked the fallen leaves, and their blackened edges crunched beneath Fognan’s hooves.

  Andrew loosened the reins and the pony wandered through the grass until they reached the centre of the meadow, where they’d stopped before. Andrew dropped off and lay on his back, but it wasn’t the comfortable place it had been. September had cooled and stiffened the grass in preparation for winter, turning it a dull brown. It poked at his neck when he laid back his head. But the place was soothing, whether the pillow of grass was green or brown. He closed his eyes, craving the peace he had experienced before, and hoping to see the girl again. He drifted into darkness and blindly followed the dizzying path toward sleep.

  It took a little longer for him to fall asleep this time. His thoughts were filled with the faces of those he knew: brief glimpses of the tiny children; deep lines of concern that creased Hector’s wan face; Janet’s faraway, green-eyed gaze; Iain’s haunting expression of sadness. Into Andrew’s mind flitted a surprisingly clear memory of his older brother, Dougal, giving him a wink and a grin. That one hurt the most, and yet he clung to it.

  It was in that halfway world between consciousness and oblivion that Andrew saw her again. Her face seemed to float above him like a hovering bird. He studied it, burning every freckle and curve into his memory. Unlike the last time, when she’d been torn and defeated, now her cheeks glowed
a healthy pink and her long brown hair was braided loosely on either side of her face. She wore a soft dress dotted with beads that clung to her skin and hinted at her curves. He ached to touch her.

  In that moment she was there, lying beside him on the grass bed, closer than she had ever been. The image was so real he almost pulled away in surprise. Instead, he reached for her hand, and though they couldn’t touch, he held it as if it had always belonged in his. The touch was almost real. Almost skin on skin. His palm buzzed with the contact, his fingers tingled. He wanted to keep her there forever. He wanted to stroke the soft curve of her face with his other hand, but he was afraid if he did, she would disappear.

  “I will find ye,” he whispered.

  And then she spoke. Not a whisper, but a true voice. The most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

  “I know.”

  Then she was gone.

  “I will find ye, lass,” he promised.

  Chapter 20

  Plans

  Long fingers of shadow stretched over the leaf-littered ground, but there was enough light that Iain sat on a log, elbows on his knees, absorbed in whittling a small piece of wood. He whistled to himself and nodded once when Andrew came to sit across from him. Iain’s flaming mass of hair was tied back, affording Andrew a more detailed view of his friend’s face than he was used to seeing. Not a handsome face, Andrew thought, but a kind one.

  “Where be the weans?” Andrew asked, noticing their unusual absence.

  Iain’s eyes softened but he kept them on his work. “Sleepin’,” he answered. “They just about wore me out, but I think I go’ the best o’ them after all.”

  “An’ how’s Hector?”

  “Well enough.”

  “That’s good.” Andrew cleared his throat and his mind. “I’ll go an’ speak with him afore supper. Tell him I’m leavin’ soon.”