by Jane Yolen
At that, Ishbel turned aside, the smiling look gone. She came over to where I was standing. Glancing at the platters of meat, she began to tut over the waste. “All this food could have lasted a week or more, given a bit of care.” She said it loudly, not worrying about who might hear her.
“Leave off yer thrift for a night, woman,” Da said, though he was grinning. “Drink some ale and we’ll join another reel.” He’d clearly already had far too much ale himself. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then offered Ishbel his own cup, but she was done with the feast and the dance and pushed the cup away.
“When ye wake up in the morning, Murdo, it will still be the same world ye’re living in,” she said. “Nothing has been changed by this wee battle with the laird. Better no to face dawn with a pounding head.”
Startled, I looked over at Ishbel. In the firelight her face was drawn but handsome except for her mouth, which was always turned down, as if she constantly ate something bitter. But it suddenly came to me, like a holy vision: I agreed with her. Ishbel was right. We’d won a battle, but not the war. For folk like us life would always be a struggle, and at every turn defeat might be waiting for us. Defeat, eviction, or burned from our houses. The end of all our hopes.
I turned to tell Lachlan about my insight, but he was already away, off to steal a dance from Agnes Kinnell. I saw him chasing after her as she ran off giggling behind the cottages.
It was then I noticed the Rogue, Dunbar, lurking beyond the firelight. Half a dozen whisky kegs were slung over his shoulder, and he was turning a tidy profit from the men’s thirst. Yet he looked neither shamed by his work nor proud of it. Just a man doing a job, cool enough at his shadow work, as whisky and coins kept changing hands.
It occurred to me that it was not Lachlan I should be telling my vision to, but him. Of all the men in the glen right now, he was the one who would understand what I meant. Still, though my head and heart were ready, my feet seemed unable to move. It was as if I’d been bound fast to the ground. Not witchcraft, but a sudden shyness, a fear of seeming silly or stupid or, at fifteen, way too young.
The music of the fiddle and pipes was loud all around me, but I seemed in the still center of it. And then Dunbar looked up and over, catching sight of me just standing there, staring at him. He nodded. Like a spell breaking, that nod gave me the nerve to go over and speak to him.
By the time I reached him, he was hunched over, lighting his pipe by the side of a gorse bush. The first puff of smoke caught me right in the face, making me cough, which brought a smile to his lean, weathered face.
“Ye’re Murdo Macallan’s boy, aren’t ye?” he asked, rising up to his full height.
I nodded, still too choked to answer.
“I hear ye were the first to speak up after I left. There’s some here that are calling ye ‘the Wee Rogue.’”
“I hadna heard that,” I managed to whisper.
“Seeing ye here, quiet as a rabbit, it’s hard to believe.”
I flushed at that and stammered out, “It’s—it’s good there’s something to celebrate at last. A battle won.” I was about to go on about the war, but he interrupted me, his face darkening.
“Aye, it’s good to celebrate while ye can. But dinna think yon pasty laird will sit still for yer celebrations.”
I nodded, for it was what I had already begun to think.
“Nae, in a battle it’s only the last charge that counts. This is just the first skirmish.”
“Aye, but I’m ready to face the next one.”
His face took on an amused look, a different kind of smile lurking about his thin mouth. “Are ye, now.”
“Ye’ll stand with us, Dunbar, won’t ye?” My voice cracked on the last two words.
“Me?” He shook his head vigorously. “I stand with nae man.”
“But ye’re one of us,” I protested.
“I’ve done my share of fighting, laddie—for King George and the Duke of Wellington. My family is dead. I’m no in the market for another.”
I stared at him, suddenly furious and stunned that I had so misjudged him, having all but given him my hand in friendship. The words tumbled out before I could call them back. “Yer a mean-hearted man, Alan Dunbar,” I said, “to turn yer back on yer own kind.”
He smiled slowly and blew some more smoke my way, but the wind had shifted entirely and the white smoke covered his own face, like a highwayman’s mask.
Just then Ishbel caught sight of me talking to Dunbar, and she marched over with her right hand up, ready to scold. But whether it was me or the Rogue she meant her wagging finger for, I didn’t know.
“It’s bad enough,” she began, looking at us both, “that you bring shame to most of the men in this village, Alan Dunbar. But if I catch you around my boys again …” She stopped, drew a deep breath, and was about to finish her sentence when the Rogue laughed and put up his hands as if warding off a wild animal.
“Peace, peace,” he said. “He’s a good boy, Mistress Macallan, and not likely to be made rotten by one like me.”
We turned from him and were a half-dozen steps away before I realized that neither she nor I had corrected the Rogue for calling her Mistress Macallan, as if she were married to Da. And that she’d called me one of her own boys. In fact, neither of us mentioned these things again, then or later, even though we walked all the way home together along the darkening lanes.
12 CHURCH
Next morning was Sunday, and all the villagers set out again for the kirk, which stood on a hill at the opposite end of the glen from Kindarry House. The old laird had let our minister have the Lodge, like a member of the family. But when the laird and the minister died within months of each other, there had been a huge change.
Now at the back of the kirk was a tidy little manse the new laird had built for Mr. McGillivray, the new minister, the same way he built a kennel for his pack of dogs. As Da liked to say, McGillivray acted just like one of the laird’s dogs too. Obedient, subservient, wagging his hind end whenever the laird said, “Come by.”
Over and over in kirk, I heard Mr. McGillivray tell us to be meek and obedient, like little lambs, and always to remember where our duty lay. In other words, he was telling us to obey the laird in all things, God and the laird being of one mind, evidently. Until this morning, I hadn’t given that sermon much thought. A boy may have to go to the kirk every Sunday, but it doesn’t mean he has to listen very hard. But now I found myself thinking about the minister and what he would have said had he caught us planning our sheepherding trick in his kirk.
“What do ye think the minister is going to say today?” I whispered to Lachlan as we followed Da and Ishbel. Above us the sky threatened rain.
“Maybe he’s no back yet,” Lachlan whispered back.
It was clear I wasn’t the only one worrying. We all trooped silently into kirk that morning, hoping that one of the elders would take the pulpit instead. But no—there the minister was, sitting by the communion table with his long, drooping face, glowering at all of us as we entered. He straightened the folds of his long black robe and drew himself up like a judge.
I remembered Da once said of Mr. McGillivray that he was better fed, better dressed, and better housed than any of us, though he never looked the happier for it.
Ishbel had answered him, saying, “That man dotes on misery like it was his own wee bairn. He holds it to his breast, then presses it onto all his neighbors.”
Our family slid into a middle pew, trying our best not to draw attention to ourselves. Da went first and after him Ishbel, then Lachlan, then me. When I glanced at Mr. McGillivray, he was scowling as usual, as if heaven held a special place for sour folk.
It seemed to me he always kept his darkest face for my family, and whenever the sermon turned to “sins of the flesh,” his voice would grow sharper as he looked our way, his eyes boring into Ishbel’s till she was forced to look down at her feet. It was the only time I felt sorry for her. Once I even reached over and took her ha
nd in mine, and she shook it off with such ferocity, I never tried that again.
Da had explained to the minister more than once that he and Ishbel did not live as man and wife, and so there was no sin involved. She had just come to take care of her deceased cousin’s sons, as a family duty, and that was the end of it. But Mr. McGillivray obviously thought otherwise, and he never tired of reminding us of it. Which made Lachlan and me wonder somewhat too.
I remembered one Sunday afternoon, after the service, when we were home for our Sunday meal, Ishbel had said to Da, “Would it no be easier if we just got married? I’m sick of those looks Mr. McGillivray gives me in kirk. And he’s no the only one.” Her voice sparked, but her eyes were puffy as if she was ready to weep.
“Other people’s looks are a poor reason for marrying,” Da had answered her. “And even if they weren’t, who’s to say I’d want to marry ye?”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Ishbel, but she didn’t answer back immediately.
Lachlan and I kept our heads down as they talked, but we didn’t stop listening.
Then Ishbel said softly, “And why shouldn’t ye want to marry me?” She turned and stamped about the kitchen, touching things as if making them tidy when in fact they needed nothing of the sort. First the pot hanging over the fire, then clooties slung over a rack to dry. “Am I no bonnie enough?”
“I’ve seen bonnier and less bonnie too.”
Lachlan snorted at that but with his hand before his face, so they couldn’t hear.
Ishbel whipped around, hands on her hips. “Is there anything a good wife should do that I can’t?”
“If I think on it long enough, something will come to mind,” Da said, looking into his bowl.
Ishbel huffed and served up our dinner with a great clattering of plates and cups. After that neither one of them brought up the question of marriage for a good long while.
So there we were in the kirk, with the dour-faced Mr. McGillivray glaring at us and scowling at Ishbel. Abruptly he rose and announced that we would sing one of the psalms: “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” which everybody sang even more slowly than usual, as if to put off the awful moment of the sermon.
As the droning singing finally tailed off, Mr. McGillivray climbed into the pulpit like a hangman mounting the gallows. I shrank back against the pew as he went up. Casting a stern eye over the congregation, as if each and every one of us was marked for death, Mr. McGillivray began.
“There are some here today as are feeling mightily pleased with themselves.”
I glanced at Lachlan, and he was nodding. Of course he was pleased. I was pleased. We all were pleased.
“Well,” snapped Mr. McGillivray, “the pleasures of a wicked man are poison to the soul, and his pride is a trap waiting to swallow him whole.”
I slunk down even farther in my seat, as did Lachlan. Farther down the pew, Da seemed to shrink in size. There couldn’t have been a bigger contrast to the night before, when we had been excited and happy and full of fun. When we had been a large family, a clan.
The minister continued on, speaking with grim relish, telling us that we were no good, an unhappy, doomed lot. He shook his right fist and leaned over the pulpit, hissing at us, “Ye’ll be the last in line when the blessed troop into paradise.”
I felt first cold, then hot. I could hardly sit still.
“In fact,” McGillivray rumbled from his perch, “ye sinners of the glen are much more likely to be headed the opposite way from paradise.” He twisted his head so sharply to the left I was afraid his neck might snap. “The other way,” he repeated. “And in hell there’s no dancing and drinking. Instead your feet will burn on red-hot coals, and blazing pitch will be your liquor.”
We darted guilty glances at one another, all wondering the same thing: Who had told on us? One of our own? Or Willie Rood? Or perhaps Mr. McGillivray, all unseen, had himself found a way to spy on our feast?
“What an ungrateful, wicked flock ye are,” he roared, shaking his fist down at us.
When Mr. McGillivray referred to us as a flock, I knew he really meant it. To him we were sheep to be kept on the straight and narrow path. We were to be guided into a well-guarded pen from which we could never escape till we were fleeced and eaten for mutton. He had told us that over and over in other sermons. I expect he believed we would listen to him. But now? Now we had broken out, run wild over the hills, chewed the clover of our master’s garden. Mr. McGillivray was not pleased. I didn’t know whether to look up and act awed or start to laugh. Or both.
I looked up.
Slowly Mr. McGillivray opened the great Bible on the lectern in front of him. It looked big enough to contain all the sins of the world. Taking a moment to clear his throat, a noise like the distant rumble of an approaching storm, he turned a page. Shook his head. Turned another and stabbed his finger down as if spearing it.
“Got it!” Lachlan said. “That’s one Bible verse that willna get away.” He whispered it, then put his head down in his hands, but I heard every word. The problem was not to laugh out loud.
“A reading from the Letter of St. Paul to the Romans,” Mr. McGillivray announced, pausing briefly to make sure he had our full attention.
Ishbel hissed at Lachlan and dug her elbow into his ribs. “Lift yer head up, ye daft laddie.”
Lachlan sat up and looked straight ahead, as did I.
“Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers,” Mr. McGillivray pronounced in his groan of a voice. “For there is no power but of God: the powers that be are ordained of God. Whosoever therefore resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance of God: and they that resist shall receive to themselves damnation. For rulers are not a terror to good works, but to evil.” He closed the book with a booming clap and a righteous smack of his lips, as if the words had left a sweet taste in his mouth.
“There’s many here should take note of the Lord’s word,” he said, “for they have raised up their heads in sin and pride when they should have been bowed in humility and obedience.” Now he stared down at us, scanning row after row. “Those of ye who stole the laird’s sheep—and ye know who ye are—risk damnation now and forever.”
I could sense Da tensing, and when I glanced sideways at him, I was shocked to see Ishbel putting her hand on his. And shocked further to see a mischievous smile pasted across Lachlan’s face, as if annoying the minister had been the whole point of yesterday’s adventure.
Mr. McGillivray’s voice droned on. “‘Render therefore to all their dues,’ says the Lord. ‘Tribute to whom tribute is due; custom to whom custom; fear to whom fear; honor to whom honor.’” He went on, quoting scripture, relating all of it to our recent sins, and the longer he talked, the harder the pew grew beneath me. Soon I was wriggling about like a fish stranded on the deck of a boat.
“Keep still!” Ishbel leaned over and hissed at me.
“But he’s talking havers. It was nae like that at all. It was—”
“Shhh! Or it’s nae supper for ye tonight.”
“In Ephesians,” Mr. McGillivray continued with his drone, “St. Paul tells us that servants must be obedient to them that are their masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of heart, as unto Christ.”
By this time, some of the congregation were shuffling their feet in protest. It was as much as they dared. But Da could stand no more. He stood up slowly as if he didn’t want anybody to notice. “Come away,” he told us quietly. “We’re off home.”
Lachlan and I rose up with him, and they both got past Ishbel with no trouble. But as I struggled by, she grabbed me by the sleeve and yanked me back down till I was all but sitting in her lap.
“And what’s amiss with ye, Murdo Macallan?” Mr. McGillivray demanded sharply to Da’s back as he walked down the aisle. “Are ye taken ill?”
Da turned around, though he kept his eyes downcast and his voice low. “I canna bear to listen to any more of this gabble,” he answered.
“Aye, bec
ause it rankles whatever conscience ye have left,” shouted the minister.
“Nae, Minister, because it stokes up a rage in my heart that is out of place in a kirk,” Da said, daring to look back at Mr. McGillivray. I could see the rage in his eyes. “We are no lambs to be led to the laird’s slaughter. We are men and should be treated as such.”
“Then ye can add wrath to yer sins,” Mr. McGillivray told him. “And thanklessness. Stiff-neckedness and ingratitude.” His head started shaking again on his scrawny neck. No stiff neck for him. “The count now is high, Macallan. Hell is closer than you know.”
I pulled myself free of Ishbel’s grasp and stood up. My tongue was suddenly like a dog off its leash. “And didna Jesus lose his temper with the moneylenders and drive them out of the temple with a whip, Minister?” I asked loudly. “Where was the sin in that?”
The minister’s eyes blazed with outrage, but before he could speak, a voice behind me said, “Not a sin, young Macallan, but look at what happened to Jesus because of it.”
All heads turned to see Willie Rood framed in the doorway. With all that was going on, no one had heard the door open or seen him come in, and there was an audible gasp that ran around the church. His piggy face leered at us, and he rubbed the back of his hand across his nose.
Mr. McGillivray drew himself up to as great a height as he could muster and puffed out his thin chest. “Laird’s man or no, I’ll not tolerate any blasphemy in this church, Mr. Rood,” he said.
Rood smiled as he doffed his head in apology. “I was just drawing a lesson for your flock.”
“What are you doing here, Willie Rood?” Hamish demanded. “A kirk’s a queer place to find you, even on a Sunday.”
“Usually my business takes me elsewhere,” said Rood, “but happily today it brings me right here into your midst.”
“This is a place of worship, not business,” said the minister, flushing.
“Today they coincide,” said Rood. He pulled a document out of his pocket and held it aloft so everybody could see. “This is a notice of eviction,” he said. “All of you are to be out of Dunraw and off the laird’s land by noon tomorrow to make way for the new tenants.”