Flora sat quietly in the corner, watching Janet work. The little girl’s face was dirty, her eyes wide as an owl’s.
“I’ll go find a cloth for yer face, shall I, Flora?” Janet asked, turning toward the back room.
The room was crowded with two tick mattresses, made up with rough white sheets. A ewer and urn sat in one corner, a chamber pot in another, and at the foot of one of the beds stood a large oak chest. Janet pulled open the lid of the chest and found a homespun gown, towels, blankets, and a forest green length of plaid.
She hesitated. She felt awkward, helping herself to the clothing, but the owners were dead, and no one else had been in the cottage for a while.
They would want to help, she thought.
She removed everything from the chest and laid it all on the bed. She took off her gown, which was badly in need of a wash, and slipped the homespun over her head. The rough material hung loose on her small frame, but she belted it at the waist and approved of its practicality.
Janet took another peek inside the chest and spied a tiny rag doll lying in one corner. Its sagging head was sewn from an old stocking and stuffed with straw. Strands of blue wool hung down its back in place of hair. A layer of green tartan wrapped around its body, the same material as the larger plaid Janet had laid on the bed. She looked into the doll’s face and its carefully stitched blue eyes. The doll stared back.
“I ken a wee lassie who would love to have you,” Janet murmured to the doll, and tucked it into her apron pocket. Then she loaded herself up with towels and went back to the main room.
“Come here,” Janet said, crooking a finger at Flora, who came to sit beside her. She dipped the corner of one towel into a pot of water on the floor, then dabbed at the little girl’s face. “That’s better. Let’s take a look at your hair, too, shall we? Lean back. There. That’s it.”
Flora hung her head back so her long red hair dangled over the pot. Janet poured water over Flora’s head, then scrubbed lye soap through the little girl’s scalp and hair. When Janet was done rinsing out the suds, she pulled a comb from her pack and ran it through the little girl’s tangles. Flora squeezed her eyes shut and squeaked at the tugging, but sat without squirming until Janet was finished.
Iain brought Peter to the tub, and Janet did the same for him. When they were done, the clean children stood side by side, smiling, looking quite different from how they had looked a half hour before.
Andrew sat close to the fire, trimming the scruff of his beard with shears so it fell into a pile of tangled curls on the floor. Janet moved her stool so it stood across from Andrew, then reached for his dirk.
“I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ve a better view from here.”
He smiled and placed the worn leather hilt in her palm. She lathered her hands with soap and spread the suds over his cheeks and chin. Then she squinted and bit the corner of her mouth.
“I used to do this for my brothers. When they were being lazy.” She scraped the blade with a steady pressure across Andrew’s beard, cutting away the coarse hairs. “They had to behave when I held the knife.”
Her lips shifted in concentration, and she sucked her cheeks tight as if she were shaving her own face. When she had finished, Andrew scrubbed the soap over his face, neck, and hair, then rinsed off the suds so he dripped onto the floor.
“Thank ye,” he said. She handed him a towel, which he scrubbed hard over his face and hair. He grinned. “It feels fine to have that beard off.”
“Wait,” she said. She looked him over carefully. “Your hair.”
He dug his fingers into the thick, wet waves. “What of it?”
“Ye look a fright. I’ll fix that. Sit still a mite, aye?” She picked up the shears and trimmed his hair, adding to the pile on the floor. When she was finished, she sat back and eyed him critically. His dark locks fell to just above his shoulders, flicking into lazy curls at the ends. She was pleased they no longer covered his eyes. She nodded, satisfied.
“Done,” she said.
“Your turn, lass.” He smiled at her wide eyed expression. “Ye’ll feel better once it’s washed.”
“If ye insist,” she said.
She leaned back against the pot and looked up at the ceiling. Andrew gathered the thick length of her hair, knotted from weeks of walking, and let it tumble and darken in the suds. She closed her eyes as he poured the water over her, feeling the water trickle over her forehead and down her hair. Andrew was gentle but firm as he rubbed the soap through her hair, then rinsed it clean.
“I never thought I’d feel clean again,” she said with a sigh. “Thank you.”
He passed her his towel and she rubbed her hair, squeezing it between her fingers. She sat by the fire while she combed it out.
Using water from the same bucket, Iain sponged the filth off his face. Janet offered her assistance with the shears, but he waved her away. He clipped halfheartedly at his beard and scrubbed his hair, but didn’t bother with a trim. Instead, he pulled it back into a tail and tied it with a leather thong from his sporran.
Now that the travelers were clean, warm, and dry, the mood was almost festive. Janet gave Andrew the plaid she had discovered in the chest. He gathered the material into pleats around his waist, then flung the end over his left shoulder and anchored it with a silver brooch on his chest.
The smell of dinner permeated the cottage. Janet took an experimental taste of the soup, then turned toward Iain, who waited for a sip. She raised the spoon to his lips, and he closed his eyes when he swallowed. A look of satisfaction settled over his face.
“Mmmm,” he purred. “Thank ye, lass.”
“I’m pleased ye approve, Iain,” she replied. “Only a few minutes more. Then there’ll be biscuits to go alongside.”
They left the meal to simmer and went to sit with the children. Flora sidled up and leaned her soft weight against Janet’s arm.
“I’ve a wee gift for ye, Flora,” Janet said.
Flora looked up, her eyes even wider than usual. “For me? But it’s no’ my birthday,” she said.
Janet smoothed Flora’s damp hair. “Never mind that,” she said. She tapped the little girl’s nose with one finger. “A gift can come at other times as well. This one was waitin’ here for ye.”
Janet reached into the apron of her gown and pulled out the rag doll, then laid it in Flora’s arms. The little girl’s lips curled into a perfect circle, and a soft sound of pleasure escaped them as she stared at the gift. She caressed the woolen strands of hair as if they were silk.
“I’ll call her Janet,” Flora said, smiling into the doll’s face.
“Come on,” said her brother. “Bring her here. She can ride the pony.”
He held up the carving Iain had made, and the children went off to the corner of the room with their toys.
Janet smiled. “Ye can play wi’ yer toys after supper, aye? Come now and we’ll eat,” she said.
Supper was served and devoured. Afterwards, Janet poured oatmeal into the big cauldron, added stream water that Andrew fetched for her, then stirred it with the wooden spirtle as it boiled. When it thickened enough, she would let it cool. Then she would cut the hardened oatmeal into slices, and they would each carry some as their journey continued.
When their bellies were filled, the soothing rhythm of rain on the roof lulled the group into a peaceful quiet. Iain and Andrew dozed by the fire, comfortable among the folds of their plaids. Janet took the children into the bedroom, where Flora and Peter curled up on one of the mattresses and Janet took the other. Andrew could hear Janet singing to them, a lullaby he remembered in his own mother’s voice. The little rag doll, mounted on the noble wooden pony, stood sentry beside the beds.
Chapter 24
Lochs and Glens and Leaves of Gold
November held fewer daylight hours and very little in the way of sunshine or warmth. The voyage took the group across a hopscotch of lakes and valleys, crossed by vast expanses of nothingness where ragged trees were the on
ly sign of life.
They passed between sheer rock walls alongside Loch Hourn, the “Lake of Hell,” where stubborn pine trees somehow kept a precarious footing. Loch Quoich lay silent to their west, harbouring small islands that rose through the surface in a line, like the knobbed back of an ancient beast.
The path turned to the southeast, but when Andrew and his group reached the Campbell lands and the outskirts of Fort William, they turned off, keeping a wary distance. By midday they had ventured into the eastern end of Rannoch Moor, where the desolation transformed itself into a thing of beauty. Rounded slopes rose from the shining loch, swaying with grass, peppered by heather. Across the moor the mountains faded into the distance: gray, black, and gray again, the taller peaks cloaked by snow. The water’s flat surface gleamed on the moor, broken only by an occasional splash, hinting at the rich store of trout beneath.
Their midday meal was light, consisting of oatcakes and honey from the cottage.
Though he would never complain, Iain was as happy as the others to sit for a while, to soak up the sun without having to pound through its shadows step by heavy step. His fingers itched at the thought of fishing in this loch. He had done so once, as a boy, and had never forgotten the way the huge brown trout had risen so greedily to his bait. Neither had he forgotten the way their delicate flesh melted on his tongue. Later in the day, he told himself, he would take a hook from his sporran and drop a line into the cold, dark water.
For now it sufficed to watch the loch’s feathered inhabitants as they floated across the water, paddling in haphazard circles. A pair of large goosanders drifted by, as calm as the surface that held them afloat. The dark green male’s mate paddled beside him, bobbing her copper head under the water at intervals, trolling for a meal. A larger duck with eerie red eyes swam a bit farther out, preening its glossy black body. Something startled the bird and it exploded from the water, its plum-coloured neck stretched forward, feet streamlined behind him.
Andrew stood beside Iain, hands on his hips, gazing out at the ducks.
Janet ran in the near distance with the children, laughing and squealing as they chased her along the shore. “Ye’ll never catch me!” she called, then turned and yelled, “Now I’m comin’ for ye! Ye’d best run!”
“Right. Time for a swim,” Andrew said. He unwrapped his plaid and dropped it to the ground, so he stood in nothing but his knee-length tunic. Then he took a deep breath, grinned like a madman, and tore off his last remnant of clothing, whooping as he ran into the freezing water. He dove under the water, barely causing a ripple, and bobbed back to the surface only to dive again moments later. He eventually emerged, still grinning, shaking the water from his head as if he were a dog. Then he grabbed his plaid and wrapped it around him like a towel.
“Now that,” he told Iain, while scrubbing the end of the plaid against his hair, “felt good.”
Iain grunted. “Bloody selkie. There’s more ice than water in yer blood.”
Andrew threw his clothes on again, then sat and wrapped his arms around his knees, observing the lines of the beach and the grassy expanses beyond Rannoch Moor. The distant landscape rolled with weather-softened mountains, but the terrain where he and Iain sat was level. Clusters of ancient gray boulders, their edges worn smooth by centuries, lay scattered among bursts of grass and shrubs.
All but one. An oddly shaped rock, as tall as a man’s waist, stood alone, twenty feet from Andrew. It was darker than the others, and its sharp edges protruded from the earth at an angle which seemed to point accusation at the heavens.
Iain noticed Andrew’s curious gaze. “Clach na Boile,” Iain said, though Andrew hadn’t asked. “Stone of Fury. Have ye ne’er seen the wee stones?”
Andrew shook his head.
Iain squinted toward the stone. “There’s magic in them, some say. Stones like that one are all over this land. Legend has it they communicate between themselves.”
“What?” Andrew asked, frowning. “The stones talk?”
“So they say.”
“Oh, aye?” Andrew said, rising to his feet. “And what is it they say to one another?”
Iain shrugged and reached into Janet’s bundle of provisions, pulling out a handful of bannock and cheese. He bit into the bannock and spoke while he chewed.
“ ’Tis said there are some folk who can hear them. No’ me, though.” Iain took a half bottle of whisky from Janet’s pack. “Will ye have a dram?” he asked, raising a fuzzy eyebrow in question.
Andrew shook his head. Instead, he turned and walked toward the mysterious stone.
As Andrew drew closer, he thought he heard a low hum in the air, like vibrations from a beehive. Strange. There should be no bees in November. Nevertheless, the sound continued, growing louder with every one of his steps. He examined the thistles for fuzzy yellow bodies, but there was no sign of anything beyond the occasional hardy butterfly visiting the blooms.
Andrew had seen a lot of strange things in his lifetime. If he hadn’t seen them for himself, he might never have believed them to be real. When he realised the humming was coming from the stone itself, he was more curious than shocked. He walked to the base of the stone and stared at it, looking for the cause of the sound. The breeze lifted his hair and bent the grass, so the long, pale blades appeared to point toward the stone. He hesitated for only a moment, then reached down and touched its cold surface.
The instant Andrew’s fingers touched the stone, a bolt flashed through his body, hot and swift as lightning. The strike was sudden, but not painful, and his heart pounded madly. The sensation solidified, binding him to the stone as if it were a rope. He yanked his hand away in reflex, and staggered back, staring hard at the stone. It stood benign, as ordinary as any other feature on the blowing grass. Except it still hummed. Louder than ever.
Andrew looked toward the beach where his companions sat, eating and talking as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Janet and the children had come back and were sitting by Iain, laughing at something Iain had said.
So, he thought. His friends didn’t hear the stone, and the land didn’t seem to feel it. Could this possibly be a magic stone, as Iain had suggested? If it was, would Andrew be able to hear what the stone said? Maybe he could, he thought. His mind worked in strange ways sometimes, telling him things he shouldn’t have known. He sat beside the slab and took a deep breath, then reached out and willed himself to touch the stone again.
The same heat shot through him, but this time he held on, riding the current as it raced through his body. He leaned against the stone while blurred images and thoughts bombarded his mind; none of which, he realised, were his own. His initial reaction was panic, but he forced his hand to stay pressed against the rock. As he grew more accustomed to the whirling sensation, he tried to relax and allow its energy to strike and bounce off him, to make an impact, yet leave no mark. He strained to pull the forces within him together, tried to focus them into a constant stream he could comprehend.
Then suddenly he knew the girl was there. He could feel her. He concentrated as hard as he could, harnessing his mind’s strength until he was able to visualise her. He focused on her eyes, which held his like magnets. In his mind he saw her soft lips and slightly turned-up nose with the sprinkling of freckles across its bridge. He pictured the waves of brown and gold that framed her face.
The vision grew from his thoughts, becoming so clear it seemed she stood in front of him. Her eyes were round with wonder. She looked as surprised as he felt. She reached out her hand, close enough to touch him. Andrew’s heart pounded and power streamed through him, fueled by the chunk of gray stone. He used all his strength to channel it through his arms so finally, impossibly, he reached her hand and gripped it between his own. He could feel the softness of her fingers, the warmth of her skin. He could smell her clean, earthy scent. And then he heard her.
“You can do this!” she exclaimed, her voice ringing like bells in his ears. “You called me! I thought only I…”
&
nbsp; He couldn’t help himself. He heard her voice and had to speak. “Sweet Jesus,” he cried. “Oh, lass! To touch ye like this—I ne’er thought…”
“Your hands!” she cried. “They’re so warm! I can’t believe…”
“Ah, but ye must.” He grinned, and squeezed the small hand he held. “Even if the entire world canna believe, you and I must.”
He let go with one hand so he could trace the delicate curve of her cheek with his fingers.
“I dinna understand it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “but I feel ye all the time. I always have.”
A smile lit her eyes, and two tiny dimples he’d never noticed materialised in her flushed cheeks. Just as he had, she raised her hand and touched his face, brushing the roughness of his sprouting beard. For a moment they stared at each other, neither knowing what to say. She broke the silence.
“My name’s Maggie,” she said finally, her voice sounding almost shy, and then, “Margaret.”
“Maggie,” he whispered.
The sound of her name escaped his lips like a sigh. He stared at her with an intensity anyone else drawing near might have been able to feel.
“I’m Andrew,” he said. He shook his head like a dog, trying to clear his brain, but he immediately regretted the movement. His body was beginning to ache, stretched tight as a bowstring by the magic in the stone. The muscles in his back and neck were beginning to throb. “Andrew Adam MacDonnell.”
“Andrew.” She said his name slowly. Her lips formed a small circle he ached to touch, to kiss. “Where are you?”
“I’m in Scotland, but I’m leavin’ here. I’m comin’ to find ye, Maggie. Where do ye live?”
She grinned. “I’m in America. South Carolina.”
Andrew nodded slowly, then stopped. The muscles in his neck protested, tightening until he could barely move his head. A burning pain ripped up the length of his spine, searing one vertebra at a time until it gripped his neck like a claw. Andrew pushed his mind against the pain. He needed more time.
Under the Same Sky Page 16