by Tommie Lyn
He sat for a long while with his feet dangling, drinking in the beautiful scenery. He wished he could find a way to survive here in these mountains, wished he could put the past with its pain behind him. He wondered what it would be like to live here among these tree-covered peaks, so different from the grass-covered mountains of home, but so welcoming and soul-fulfilling.
But first, he had to do the honorable thing. He had to face Latharn, had to avenge Mùirne’s death.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Tenahwosi and Itahcah found the tracks of a barefoot man on this little-used trail. When they were hunting, they usually went another way, but on this trip, they were patrolling the hunting grounds, looking for incursions from enemy tribes onto Tsalagi land. They had begun the last arc of the long circle back to the village when they found the tracks.
“Two days,” said Itahcah.
Tenahwosi grunted in agreement.
The tracks were a puzzlement to the two men. Ani-Tsalagi wore moccasins, and white men wore hard-soled boots. No one went barefoot like this man. They were sure it was a man. The imprints of the feet were large, and the stride was long. This was a man. A big man.
They moved, swift and silent, their sharp eyes noting variations in the man’s tracks which showed when he had tired, when he had stopped to rest. They reached the place where he had slept, and within an hour, they were within sight of the man. They crept along behind him, watching. He was a white man, a stranger. And he carried no pack of goods to trade.
They followed him until evening and watched when he left the trail to bed down for the night.
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When Ailean awoke the next morning, he saw two men squatting nearby, watching. Each of them held a musket.
Ailean sat up and reached for his lance which he’d laid on the ground within reach when he lay down for the night, but both the lance and the hoe were gone. He looked about desperately for something, anything he could use as a weapon for self-defense but found nothing.
The men made no threatening moves and didn’t point their muskets at him. They merely watched him. He regarded them warily, intrigued by their strange clothing. It looked like nothing he’d ever seen.
“Hello,” he said to them in English.
“Hel-lo. Osiyo,” one of them answered.
The two men stood. One of them picked up Ailean’s hoe.
The other said, “Ehena,” beckoning for Ailean to come with him.
Ailean got to his feet and followed, with the second man close behind. They set a rapid pace, their eyes moving constantly, alert and watching.
The sun was high overhead, and Ailean was beginning to tire when they stopped at a small stream to drink. The water was crystal clear, cold and refreshing. Ailean drank and bathed his face. He looked at his captors and wondered where they were taking him.
Late in the afternoon, they reached a place where the trail descended a hillside and emerged from the trees into a long valley through which meandered a small river. Steep hills bordered three sides of the valley. At the open end, he could see the successive ridges of mountains reaching into the distance, and there was a field at that end where women were working.
Bordering the river above the field was a scattering of thatch-roofed buildings of different sizes. Each of them had smooth, flat walls which looked as if they were constructed of mud. Ailean assumed they were dwellings. Every dwelling had an adjacent mound to one side and a smaller building, raised above the ground on poles, behind it. Around the dwellings were fruit trees and small gardens.
Past the houses, alongside the river, at the end of a large, flat piece of ground, rose a huge rounded mound of earth. Ailean saw some men emerging from an opening at the base of it, and a thin wisp of smoke ascended from an aperture at its apex.
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“I told you. His trail’s cold. We’ll have to find somebody who saw him. Then we’ll know which direction he’s headed, and we can move faster,” Jim Satterfield told Latharn.
“But what if no one saw him?”
“He ain’t got no food. He ain’t got no gun to kill game. He’ll have to beg or steal food. Somebody’ll know he’s been there.”
“But this is taking too long.”
“You want to track him down by yourself?” Satterfield asked and spat a stream of tobacco juice into the fire.
“No. I need your help.”
“Then we do it my way,” Satterfield said, poured tea into his tin cup and leaned back against the tree trunk.
Latharn stood and began to pace, edging into the darkness.
“Wouldn’t do that if I was you.”
“Why not?” Latharn asked. He was growing increasingly irritated by this woodsman with his patronizing attitude and barely concealed mockery.
“Snakes. Can’t see them in the dark.”
Latharn retreated from the darkness and sat near the small campfire. He didn’t like this place, and he didn’t like Jim Satterfield. He added his discomfort to the huge debt he felt Ailean MacLachlainn owed him, a debt he hoped to collect soon. The thought of settling the account was the only thing that kept him going, kept him moving through this wild and treacherous land.
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Tenahwosi and Itahcah led Ailean to a house on the edge of the village. Tenahwosi went inside while Itahcah waited outside guarding Ailean. Tenahwosi came out of the house, and a white man emerged from it behind him. The white man looked Ailean over before he spoke.
“My name is Gòrdan MacAntoisch,” the man said to Ailean in English. “Who are you?”
“Ailean MacLachlainn.”
“You are Scottish?” MacAntoisch asked in Gaelic.
“Aye. And you are from Scotland, too?”
“Aye. What are you doing here in Tsalagi territory, MacLachlainn? Have you come to trade with them?”
“No. I didn’t mean to come here. I just…I—” Ailean began.
“You’re not a trader?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand. White men who venture this far are either traders or fur trappers. It’s obvious you aren’t a trapper, and you have no good for trade.” Gòrdan waited for a reply.
“I was…on a plantation. I left and just walked and ended up in the mountains. Then these two men brought me here.”
Gòrdan noticed the scars on Ailean’s wrists. “You’ve been in irons. You were a prisoner.”
“Aye.”
Gòrdan looked at the ground before raising his eyes to look intently into Ailean’s eyes. “Why were you a prisoner? What did you do?”
“I did battle for Prionnsa—” Ailean’s voice quavered and broke. He cleared his throat. “Prionnsa Teàrlach.”
“You were in The Rising?”
Ailean swallowed hard. “Aye.”
Gòrdan had a lengthy conversation with Itahcah and Tenahwosi, and the two men walked away.
“They were thinking of keeping you as their slave. But I made a deal with them.” Gòrdan smiled. “It didn’t take much to convince them that they didn’t really want to have someone as big and strong as you on their hands. I think they were already having doubts, which is why they brought you to me. Come with me,” he said, and went back inside his house.
Ailean followed him into the dark interior, pausing for a moment just inside the door while his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. There were no windows, and the only light came from a small fire in the middle of the room and the sunlight which was admitted through the doorway and the smoke hole in the roof. The floor was of packed earth. It reminded him a little of his cottage at home, although this dwelling was larger and there was no byre for keeping animals.
Gòrdan sat cross-legged on a woven cane mat spread on the dirt floor by the fire.
“Sit,” Gòrdan said, gesturing to a mat adjacent to his own.
Ailean sat on the mat, awkwardly folding his long legs in an approximation of Gòrdan’s posture.
“Tell me about it. I haven’t had much news from Scotland.�
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Ailean stared into the fire for a few minutes, then looked up at Gòrdan. “Have you heard what happened? About what happened to Prionnsa Teàrlach’s army?”
“A little.”
“I was in his army. I was on Drummossie Moor, near Culloden House. I fought there beside my clansmen and the Mac’Ill’Eathainns. And beside MacAntoisches. And there my father and brothers died—” Ailean’s voice broke and he couldn’t continue.
Gòrdan said nothing for several minutes. “You look hungry. Here.” He handed Ailean some dried venison. “Eat this. My wife will cook for us when she comes in from the field, but this will do for now.”
“Your wife?”
“Aye. I married a native woman. Of the Bird Clan of Ani-Tsalagi. Good woman,” Gòrdan said.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Here in the mountains? About four years. But I came to the Georgia colony with my parents about ten years ago.”
“They live here, too?”
“No. They live near the coast, in New Inverness.”
A shiver passed through Ailean’s body when he heard the word “Inverness,” and he began to breathe rapidly. He sat in silence for a few minutes until he recovered his composure.
“And you like it here? In the mountains?”
“Yes, I do. Ani-Tsalagi are good people, a little different from us in some ways, but the same as us in many other ways. I feel at home here,” Gòrdan answered.
“The mountains are beautiful. Not like the ones at home, but beautiful in their own way. I felt at home when I reached the mountains,” Ailean said. “So, what do you do? Do you rent a croft?”
“No, I’m a trader.”
“Oh,” Ailean said. He thought for a moment and asked, “What do Ani-Tsalagi men do?”
“Hunt. Fish. Fight wars. And play anetsa.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Ailean slept in Gòrdan’s house that night. The next morning, Gòrdan and his Tsalagi assistant busied themselves preparing for their next trip to Charles Town, counting the hides and other articles received in trade to determine if it was worthwhile to make the trip now or if they should wait a while longer and gather more goods. Gòrdan left Ailean to his own devices.
He wandered through the village of these strange people, the Ani-Tsalagi, absorbing the sights and sounds and smells of the settlement. The scent of aromatic wood smoke rising from smoke holes of houses was pleasant, and the houses themselves appeared to be in harmony with the land surrounding them. A feeling of peace settled on him like a comfortable garment as he watched children at play and listened to their laughter.
He stopped by the shallow river bordering the village and sat on the bank, listening to the gurgle and murmur of the water where it rippled over the rocks of a low shoal and splashed into a shallow pool. Watching the rushing water lulled and satisfied him, and he contemplated the beauty of the stream.
He became aware of a discomfiting sense of being watched and turned around to look behind him. Two young women giggled and hurried away. Ailean watched them go, watched as their soft skirts brushed their legs, revealing shapely bare calves and feet clad in soft, clinging leather. Their glossy hair, arranged in elaborate braids and coils, shone blue-black in the sunlight. A beautiful sight.
He was about to turn his attention to the river again when another young woman caught his attention. She was tall and slender. Her sleek, black hair cascaded down her back like a silken shawl. She appeared to be focused on her destination, unaware of his presence, her steps quick and purposeful. He watched until she entered a house, and returned to his relaxing study of the river, allowing the murmur of the water to calm and comfort him.
When he tired of the inactivity, Ailean arose from the river bank to continue his wandering. He walked to the field where women were at work, planting seeds. A few of them had babies in slings tied on their backs.
He regarded the steep hills to either side of the valley. And he looked down the length of it where, in the distance, rising row upon row, the blue mountain ridges were arrayed in all their beauty, beckoning to him, calling to his soul.
In that moment, Ailean realized he wanted to live.
During the weeks of the voyage to George Town, he constantly beseeched God for release from this life, begged for an escape from his sorrow and suffering. But his prayers were not answered. He continued to live while others around him found deliverance from their ordeal, found mercy and relief.
He became embittered as he lived on and merely endured his continued existence. But now, he no longer wanted to die. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have run from Latharn to prepare for a fight, he would have embraced death at Latharn’s hand.
Ailean stopped walking and stood motionless as this new realization struck him with a force that was almost physical. He did not expect, did not want, any happiness from living, but he no longer wanted to die.
No. He didn’t want any enjoyment. Mùirne and Coinneach-òg. Niall. Ma. Da. Coinneach. They would never experience joy or gladness again. How could he try to take pleasure in living when they couldn’t? No, he didn’t want contentment or happiness. But he did want to live.
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Each day when Ailean strolled through the village and sat by the river, he garnered the attention of young women. Tsalagi men were tall and handsome, but Ailean was taller. Tsalagi men were strong, but Ailean looked stronger.
He had been tall since his teens, but his farming work on the croft and his work herding cattle had not built the broad, muscular physique that was now his. The years of heavy labor on the plantation, coupled with ample food, had added hard muscles to his tall frame, and Ailean was now a powerful man.
The exuberance, impatience and optimism of his youth had been crushed and beaten from him by the ordeal he lived through, exposing a quiet dignity and strength of spirit at his core. And like a rock on the shore from which the weaker particles have been eroded by the ceaseless pounding of the waves, but which has not been destroyed, he stood firm and unbowed. He carried himself with an air of unsullied dignity and solemnity. Which made him attractive to some of the unmarried Tsalagi women.
On his fifth day in the village, Ailean sat at his accustomed place on the river bank. Two young men he’d not seen before approached him and made it clear they didn’t want him to sit there. He couldn’t understand their words, but their angry gestures were unmistakable.
He merely stared at them, which brought an even more irritable response. Their protest became louder and more vehement, and Ailean lost patience with them. He stood, crossed his arms and planted his feet. He towered over both of them.
“I’ll stay here as long as I want,” he said. “Now leave me be.”
The two left off their loud protest and backed away. Ailean sat down again, returned to his pastime of watching the swirling, rippling water and ignored them until they left.
His walks through the village had other observers as well, men who monitored his movements, and who, he felt sure, would not allow him to leave the village. Ailean looked longingly at the nearer peaks, wishing he could sit on those heights, enjoying the view, to think about the life that stretched ahead of him now that he had decided he wanted to live. But he suspected if he tried to climb one of them, he would be stopped by the unobtrusive watchers who made their presence known each time he reached the fringe of the settlement.
Ailean sat by the fire each night and talked with Gòrdan. Sometimes they talked about their homeland, sometimes Gòrdan told him about Ani-Tsalagi and their way of life. He felt comfortable with Gòrdan and a friendship began to grow between the two men.
“You have to understand that Ani-Tsalagi are a proud people,” Gòrdan said. “The way you say you stared at those two young men at the river, I’m surprised you didn’t have a fight on your hands. They don’t like to be stared at. Makes them nervous, makes them feel you have no respect for them. And they don’t like to look you in the eye when they talk to you. As though it somehow makes them sub
servient to you. Keep that in mind, or you might get into trouble.”
“I will. But they have to keep in mind that I won’t tolerate their ill will and threats when my intentions are peaceable.”
“You’d better rethink your attitude. You don’t know what you’d be up against if you made enemies among the people,” Gòrdan said. “And I won’t tolerate you making trouble. My livelihood depends on the good will of Ani-Tsalagi.”
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“What is that mound of earth beside your house?” Ailean asked one night.
“That’s our asi, our hot house,” Gòrdan said. “It’s where we live during the winter. To keep warm. We’d never be able to burn enough wood to stay warm here in the house.”
“Oh. So, is that big mound a hot house for the whole village?”
Gòrdan laughed. “No. That’s the town house, where everyone gathers when there’s something important to discuss, when there’s a council meeting. Or when there’s some kind of ceremony.”
Ailean nodded, and the two men sat in silence for a while.
Gòrdan looked into Ailean’s eyes and asked, “What happened there on the moor? I see something in you, I can tell you’re troubled, and, well, I just think that sometimes it does your soul good if you can unburden yourself.”
“It’s hard to talk about it. But I’ll try.” Ailean swallowed, cleared his throat and began. He told Gòrdan about the battle and its aftermath, pausing many times to allow the throes of grief to pass when it became too difficult to talk.
He spoke of witnessing the murders of the wounded Highlanders by redcoat soldiers on the battlefield. And he described the journey through Lochaber and the horrors he saw there. But when he mentioned Mùirne’s name, he couldn’t continue, couldn’t talk about Mùirne, about Coinneach-òg, about Ma.