by Beth Camp
Moira turned again in her pallet by the hearth. The cottage was too quiet. The moon had risen to its highest point, its yellow light on the moors a part of her home. After tomorrow, she would be back at Westness. This, save one, was her last night at home. Moira listened to Colin and Jamie sleeping. She wanted more noise, more laughter. She didn't want to think of Mac's lined face, the meetings, the shouting, and underneath all, the worry.
Morning came, bright and sunny, a fickle reminder of fall before winter rains and the cold returned. Moira fastened a few sprigs of purple heather and a white ribbon in her hair as she looked out at the yard. It was near unrecognizable. Mac and Colin had dug a pit to roast meat on the far side of their yard. They had cleared space in the center for dancing and they had set up another long table close to the house, timbers on top of barrels. Anything that could be used as a chair had been pulled around the edges of the open space, even a few burlap bags of bere and oats.
Granny Connor was first to arrive. “May you be blessed this day, child.” She tapped the white ribbon wound in Moira's hair. “Remember to give me this before you marry, lass.”
Dougal was next. “Never fear. He'll be waiting for you. We made sure of that.” He laughed. “He's clean to the bone and ready for the net. Sean will make sure he gets to the manse.”
Then her girlfriends came, Maggie, Catriona, and Lenore. They gathered around her with a clatter of talk, making sure Moira was decked out properly in all her finery, patting and admiring the white muslin dress Dylan had brought over from Kirkwall.
Dougal picked up his fiddle and brushed the strings. “Are you ready, sister?”
Dougal led the procession with a lilting march, his fiddle music calling them together. Moira walked behind him, flanked by Mac. Their friends followed all the way down the hill, along the beach to Selkirk. Sean would lead a similar procession from Mrs. MacLean’s house, with Dylan at the head. They would meet at the manse, where Pastor McPherson waited.
Moira didn’t know what the future would bring, but after this day, she and Dylan would be man and wife. She looked at Colin and Jamie, improvising steps to the fiddle music filling the air. Her heart felt full as she watched them step, counter step, and hop to Dougal's music.
Mac took her hand as they walked. “Most likely, you’ll be gone in a year or two, off and away, far from here. Never forget us.”
Moira clung to Mac’s hand. “But we're staying here on Foulksay.”
“I wish you well with all me heart,” Mac said. “If he’s no good to you, just you come home. We’ll be here.”
“Mac, don’t say it.” She pushed his arm. “It should be your day. You should be marrying Deidre. I don’t worry about Dougal. I worry about you.”
“Maybe I’ll ask her one of these days.”
“She loves you, Mac,” said Moira. “Talk to her. Don’t you worry about me. I’m already happy.” She looked at the people walking along the beach toward the manse. “And I can’t believe it’s happening.” She smoothed her new dress, took a deep breath, and hugged Mac fiercely. “Never forget I love you, Mac.”
Nearly everyone she knew had crowded inside the manse. Even Constable MacTavish with his long, lugubrious face and his four children slid in next to Mac’s crowd from the Pig’s Head. Granny Connor waited by the door for a last kiss as Moira took the white ribbon off her hair and passed it to Granny, who slipped it into her side pocket.
Moira nodded to Lady Alice seated next to Mrs. MacNaught, and then, there was Lenore with her baby and Sean. All passed in a blur, for Dylan waited for her, standing by Pastor McPherson. Moira could hardly breathe. Her heart beat rapidly. This was the moment she would marry the man she loved. Dylan took her hand, and the wedding service began.
Pastor McPherson turned to Dylan. “Do you, Dylan MacInerney, take this woman, Moira McDonnell as your wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"
Dylan's voice rolled out. "I do."
Moira shivered when Pastor McPherson continued.
“Moira McDonnell, do you take this man, Dylan MacInerney, as your husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"
“Yes,” Moira said. “I do.”
Then the Pastor’s words rang out, “If anyone knows of a reason this marriage should not take place, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.” His words hung in the air for a moment.
No one spoke. Not Mac, nor Dougal, or Colin, or Jamie, and not anyone else gathered in the assembly room at the manse.
“You may kiss the bride,” Pastor McPherson said, and so Dylan did, holding Moira close before everyone rushed close to congratulate the newly-wed couple. Colin and Jamie struggled to be the first to hug Moira and then Dylan.
The procession formed again, this time with Moira and Dylan at its head. Dougal followed just behind them, his fiddle rang out with bright songs in the afternoon sun. The line of family and friends followed the new couple all the way back through Selkirk, down along the beach and up the hill.
As they entered the yard to the McDonnell cottage, Granny Connor broke an oat cake over Moira's head, and the young unmarried girls scrambled to pick up a piece. “We'll hold it for later, to dream on,” said Maggie.
The guests carried fish cakes to put on the side table, already crowded with food. More casks of ale warmed near the hearth. Gibson brought bottles of whisky and rum. Even Peter MacTavish, with a shy smile, had brought a freshly slaughtered pig earlier to roast on a spit all day. The women added more bannocks and oatcakes to the side table. Deidre came with her father; they carried large bowls filled with scones and cheese, the bowls to be left behind as a wedding gift.
Mac and Dougal stood over the ale pot, stirring to avoid the boil and arguing. “Add more whisky,” said Mac. “I'll have him senseless tonight.”
“Along with you and everyone else,” Dougal laughed. “Put in just a bit more sugar. It's a long night ahead. And thank Gibson for the whisky.”
“Speaking of me, are you?” Gibson came over to the fire. “Are you sure you're making that right? Maybe I need to taste it. You know, to make sure.”
Mac laughed. “Take this job over, old man. You've got the mouth.” Gibson called his cronies over, and the old men carried stools to sit close to the fire. They tasted the brew and declared it good enough, but not quite as good as what they remembered when they were young.
Finally the wedding meal was served, for once as much as anyone could want to eat and drink. After they had finished, Mac stood up. “I thank ye all for coming. 'Tis too bad it's only tonight, but we'll make the best of it. Tonight we celebrate this marriage between me sister, Moira, and the man she loves, Dylan.” He waved at Moira and Dylan. The two young people stood up to cheers and then sat together on one of the bags of bere.
“It's time to toast the bride and groom.” Dougal brought out the cog, a ceremonial wooden cup, a little barrel with three handles, already filled with the groom's brew, a mix of hot ale and whisky. He properly handed it to Mac as head of household. Mac drank deep. “Tonight I am the father of you both. May you,” he nodded to Moira and Dylan, “live long and be well.”
“And so for all of us,” added Dougal, drinking next. He passed the cog to Granny Connor on his left. As the cog made its way around the party, each made a toast and drank deep, some coughing as the strong, hot brew filled their mouths.
“I'm minded of a story.” Thomas Gibson stood and surveyed the party. “And I think it's a good story to tell at a wedding. Thank you,” he said as Mac handed him a small glass.
The children gathered close, and the guests leaned forward. “You see,” continued Gibson. “It's about a girl who lived by the sea, much like Moira. One day, she was walking, and she met a handsome lad, and he was much like Dylan here. He was from far away, but he
wasn't a working man. No, he lay on the beach, as handsome as you please. An' she fell in love with him, in the way that lassies do.”
“But this wasn't just any lad on his day off from the docks or the boats, you see. 'Twas a selkie, such as visit the islands from time to time. And he wanted to take her off island, far out to his home under the sea.” Gibson waved his hands. “Down where the kelp grows five feet wide, big enough to hide those giant sea horses behind. An' she was willing, but her mother had tied a golden thread around her waist, and it kept her land bound. The laddie didn't know about the thread. He just couldn't take her out beyond where the mussels latch onto the rocks. It was like she was tied to the land.”
“Where her mother found the thread, I don't know, for this girl came from a good fishing family, like Moira. An' so he stayed, and though his heart longed for his home so far away now and again, the days and then months passed, and they were good. He came home every morning with a creel full of fish, and he made a good life right here. One might say they lived happily ever after. And so may it be for Moira and Dylan, many good years ahead.”
With that, Gibson turned around and emptied his glass, his cheeks red from whisky or the applause that followed. Then the fiddles came out. Dougal turned his fiddle in his hands as if he’d never seen it before, examining it from one end to the other. The other musicians began tuning their instruments. A few taps of the small drum, the bodhrán, could be heard.
The dancing began, first a sedate Strathspey of four couples, then a wild reel. The couples swirled around with even more intricate steps, until with a roar, six young men led by Mac took the floor, outdoing each other with elaborate leaps, all in time to the music which spun them faster and faster around the space that had been cleared for dancing. A few slipped off home, the elders nodded by the peat fire, Granny Connor among them, and the rest danced as if the night would never end.
Finally, Mac brought out the bride's cog, the wooden vessel full of hot ale and whisky with cinnamon and sugar. “May the years ahead be sweet,” he said as he handed the cog to Moira, for as the bride, she drank first and she drank deep. Once again the cog was passed to the left, each drinking a toast to the bride and groom. Dougal put his violin down and was the last to drink from the bride's cog.
For this night Moira and Dylan would sleep in the box bed in the kitchen, and in the morning they would leave for their new life at Westness as man and wife.
A melee ensued as the friends of the bride and groom undressed the bridal pair. Those standing for the groom attempted to steal Moira's stockings, but Moira hopped into the box bed, safe.
Finally, the door to the box bed was closed. All was dark and quiet. Moira turned to Dylan, who folded her in his arms. She wished the morning, now so close, would never come. “We’re truly married. It seems a miracle.”
“And a miracle it is. I will love you always.” Dylan smelled of smoke and whisky.
Moira touched the smooth skin over his heart. “Hush, love. 'Twas not so hard to fall in love with you. I'd do it all over again.”
He stroked her cheek. “If the time comes that I cannot stay on Foulksay, will you come with me?”
“Yes, husband.”
“And e’en if all your brothers say no?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
BOOK 3: THE CLEARANCES
Winter 1841
CHAPTER 28: ALICE
Alice wondered if Gordon had decided to stay at Laurel House now that winter had come. Of course, he could be on his way home now. She sighed. Outside a blustery west wind rattled the windows.
If he were coming home to Westness, he’d have to contend with the roads, muddy and nearly impassable. Crossing the Pentland Firth was always difficult. Perhaps he would come up from Aberdeen or Leith on the new steamer. Still, she worried. And when he came home, would he ask her right away if she were pregnant? She pressed the small of her back. She wasn't.
She would have to write him about Martinmas. She was sure that Perkins would have his own version. Her mouth tightened.
She had gone to Assembly Hall to observe the paying of the rents on quarter day. These were her people as well now. As each fisherman or crofter came in, bits of money in their dirt-worn hands, some were angry, but most were afraid, for they hadn't enough. Perkins had written notes in his book, his officious little head bobbing. He made sure everyone knew that Lord Gordon would not be pleased.
Alice put the letter from Gordon aside and reread Diana's. Mother was ill again. Outside, the steady west wind pushed again against the windows. The first snow masked the tops of the rolling hills behind Westness. Alice checked the watch pinned at her waist and rang the bell for Mrs. MacNaught.
“I’ll have soup up here later.” Alice instructed. “No need for fussing about when it’s just me.”
“Pastor McPherson’s here, mum. Do you wish to see him?”
“Yes, I’ll come right down.” Alice quickly surveyed her rooms. Where had she put her purse? She slipped several sovereigns into her pocket and hurried down the winding stairs.
Pastor McPherson stood as she entered the parlor.
“I didn’t expect to see you until Sunday,” said Alice.
“I’ve come to ask for help, Lady Alice. You heard the harvest was small?” At Alice’s nod, he continued. “With this wind, no one’s been able to fish, not out past the bay, and there's little enough to find along the rocks. The people are going hungry.”
“But they have cows and chickens. They’ve dried fish.”
“No house has enough this winter. There have been a few deaths already.”
“Can they buy on account from Scott’s?”
“He will not give more credit, Lady Alice. It’s a long way to spring yet.”
“Why can’t he give credit? Hasn’t he done so in the past?”
“Not this year. Lord Gordon has instructed otherwise.”
“I see. I’m not sure what I can do. Lord Gordon’s not returned yet. Could you stay for supper, then?”
“I’d rather not.” Pastor McPherson wouldn’t look at Alice. “I thought you might help.”
“You know I will somehow. Here, use these as best you can.” Alice thrust the sovereigns at him. “Do you have the list you promised? For Lord Gordon?”
“No, not yet.” He hesitated. “Will you come with me to see for yourself? Tomorrow? In the morning?”
“Yes.” Alice reached out to Pastor McPherson’s arm. “Will you finish the list if I come? I must have it before Lord Gordon returns.”
Pastor McPherson shrugged. “I’ll try.”
“Thank you. Come up to Westness at ten. Let’s hope for dry weather.”
Pastor McPherson ducked his head, still not meeting her eyes, and left, his black coat billowing behind him.
What a shame. How could Gordon believe the people would not be affected by his decisions? Alice wondered what had really brought the Pastor to Westness. “Mrs. MacNaught,” she called. “I’ll take supper in here.”
The next morning began clear, though dark clouds lay on the horizon and snow still coated the higher hills. Alice could hardly keep her horse still. Little cold puffs blew from the mare's nostrils and hung on the air. Alice wanted to let the brown mare fly but checked her as Mrs. MacNaught came out.
“Are you sure you have to go, Lady Alice? Surely not out in this? You’ll come back all wet and cold.”
“We’ll be back well before dark, won’t we?”
Pastor McPherson nodded.
“Should you take Hargraves with you, just in case?” Mrs. MacNaught handed up an extra cloak.
“In case of what?” Alice bundled the cloak behind her saddle. “Stop worrying.”
The two horses stamped their feet. Pastor McPherson’s long legs hung over the sides of the spotted pony he’d borrowed. He carried a burlap bag in front of him. “Best be going.”
The two rode down the hill and made their way through Selkirk. A few poked their heads out of their stone houses to see w
ho passed by. They raised their caps to Pastor McPherson and stared at Lady Alice. Pastor McPherson turned inland and followed the winding path up to the grasslands, now barren. Barr Auch gleamed white in the foggy morning light.
Alice coughed from smoke as they entered the first cottage. A crofter leaned over a bare wooden table, his five children gathered close around a small peat fire in the middle of the room. A woman lay in a makeshift bed along the far wall, her teen-aged daughter beside her.
“Pastor.” The man said. He nodded to Alice. He didn’t stand up.
“We’ve come to see how your missus is, MacFarland.” Pastor McPherson placed a small bag of oats on the table.
“Fine. She’s fine. She’ll be up and around in a little.”
“And you have enough to eat here?”
“Sufficient.”
Alice glanced at the children close to the fire. Their faces were thin. No pot warmed on the hearth. The air seemed stagnant, and the smell of so many bodies in such a small space made her dizzy.
“Good. We’ll be going then.”
Pastor McPherson and Alice stepped back out in the cold air. They walked to where they'd tethered the horses, past a ramshackle shed where chickens once scratched and nested. Alice could breathe again. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to think about what she had seen, the children so thin.
They visited eight more houses along the small valley, until the bags of oats Pastor McPherson had brought were gone. In each house, the men sat with idle hands, stunned by the expanse of winter that faced them. They looked at the small bag the Pastor had brought as if it were a chimera soon to disappear.
A cold rain began. Alice pulled the extra cloak over her head. “How will they survive the winter?” Alice finally asked. Water beaded along the top of her cloak. She flicked it off.
Pastor McPherson stopped his pony and turned to face her. “Did you see the potatoes?” At the last cottage they’d visited, they’d looked into the shed to see a mound of small black potatoes crusted with mold, inedible, yet held over for seed. McPherson had picked one up, and it crumbled in his hand.