Standing Stones

by Beth Camp

  “See what you’ve gained here,” said Perkins. He leaned against his guards, his chest heaving, his thin face bloody. His large nose quivered. “Ye haven’t accomplished anything. Now ‘twill get worse. Hold him.”

  Perkins kicked Mac in the stomach. “You wanted to see Lord Gordon? He’ll see you now.”

  CHAPTER 36: THE MCDONNELL COTTAGE

  “What did you expect?” asked Dougal, his face an angry mass of bruises, one cut over his eyebrow. “We got beat up. We got fined. In my opinion, we got off light, maybe because there were so many of us. Maybe because of Timmy.” Dougal paced in front of the McDonnell cottage and then sat next to Dylan and Moira.

  Mac ran his fingers along his ribs, wincing when he breathed in too deep. “I regret Timmy’s death more than you know. “ He was silent a moment, wishing he could forget the dark moments when they laid coins on Timmy’s eyes. But 'tis worse than a fine. The crofters have nothing. I can’t see what next to do.”

  “We’ll go fishing,” said Dougal. “We’ll do the best we can. It’s what we’ve always done. What canna be helped must be put up with.”

  “What you’ve always done doesn’t work anymore,” said Dylan.

  Mac looked at him with surprise. Dylan looked back with a steady gaze, not backing down from what he’d said.

  “There’s guards here now,” said Dylan. “Those fancy sheep are running in the grasslands where people once farmed. Lord Gordon’s going to turn the screws tighter and tighter. And he doesn’t want to wait for the fishermen to come around. Not after yester eve. I’m done. I’m going to the Mainland to find work.”

  “We guessed you'd be leaving,” said Mac. “Do ye know when?”

  “I'll be going over to Kirkwall after church.”

  Moira rested her head on Dylan’s shoulder. Granny, she thought, you were right. I should have told him, but I can’t now. What canna be helped must be put up with. She closed her eyes and saw again the two graves they’d stood beside that morning. One for Timmy and one for Granny.

  A small silent group had gathered at the church, with Pastor McPherson saying words none of them wanted to hear. The people had stood in the cold spring rain and then drifted away, not speaking to each other after the short service.

  “Dylan’s right. It’s going to get worse for all of us,” said Dougal. “We may all have to leave.”

  They sat in front of the cottage, not looking at each other.

  “Maybe we’re feeling this way because Granny died,” said Moira. She didn’t feel she could say any more, but she could still see Granny’s face, her eyes closed in her final sleep.

  Mac shook his head. “It was Granny’s time. Best she didn’t see any of this. And it’s best to be happy while you're living, for you're a long time dead. So, are ye staying, Moira?”

  “We’ve talked about it.” Moira glanced at Dylan. “I’m up at Westness for now.” Only Granny knew she would rather go with Dylan. Her mouth twisted. One less to feed. Not that Granny ever ate so much. And one more mouth coming.

  “I don’t like you working there,” said Dougal. “Not now.”

  Moira felt Dylan tense beside her.

  “It’s needed,” she said. “I’ll do it as long as I can.”

  Dylan leaned closer to Moira. His hand rested on her skirt. “I'll be sending for her when I find work.”

  CHAPTER 37: MOIRA

  Moira walked around the rough circle of standing stones. The clouds hung close to the ground. The heather, just beginning to bud, was wet with mist, and the sea birds quiet. Ah, Dylan, where are you now?

  She leaned against one of the standing stones and felt the cold damp rock. She imagined going on the boat she’d taken last summer, across the Firth and down the coast, all the way to Inverness and then to Dylan. Moira picked at the loose threads on her blouse and worried them between her fingers. She touched her belly absentmindedly and turned home.

  She entered the dark cottage as quietly as she could, but Mac was already awake and standing by the fire.

  “You’re up early,” he tried to whisper, but those sleeping on the floor on the far side of the hearth, shifted and then turned over, pulling their blankets over their heads. “Breakfast ready?”

  “Such as it is.” Moira put a small amount of porridge into a bowl of porridge for him. “We’ve only a small bit of oats left. Can you get more today?”

  “I’ll try. I’ll stop off at the Mercantile on the way home.” Mac realized he’d have to ask for credit, and most likely, Mr. Scott would say no. At least he’d have a chance to see Deidre. “Mayhap some of them can help a bit,” he said, nodding at the sleepers. “Ask before you go. And you might as well ask up at Westness too,” he said gruffly, pulling on his coat.

  Moira nodded. After Mac left, she brought a small basin of water to Freya and helped her wash. The others began to stir. She dished up a bowl of porridge for Freya, the smell curling up into her face and making her nauseous. I can’t be sick, she thought. “Here, Freya, take this.”

  Moira ran outside and threw up just outside the door. When she finished, she felt as if she could never eat again. She wiped her mouth on her skirt and laughed wryly. What a waste with so little in the house.

  Freya looked at her questioningly.

  “’Tis nothing. I’ll be going up to Westness,” said Moira. “If anyone comes to the house, do what Catriona says. Don’t argue with them.”

  “Aye, and thank you.” Freya’s face was still too pale. “I’ll be getting up today with the rest of them,” she whispered. “Do you have to go?”

  “I’ll be back before the sun falls into the sea.” She patted Freya and folded a shawl around her thin body.

  Moira felt another wave of nausea as she opened the back door at Westness. Shouting echoed down the hallway from upstairs.

  “Quick, get in here.” Mrs. MacNaught pushed Moira into a large closet at the foot of the stairs. “Just fold the linens. Don’t let Perkins see you this morning.”

  “It’s never like this, not even on Cook’s worst days,” said Moira. “What’s happening?”

  A bit of morning light from a tiny window close to the ceiling showed new lines on Mrs. MacNaught’s face. “Some fool stole eight of his Lordship’s sheep last night. The guards have been in and out all morning.” She wrung her hands. “And now, they’ve drug in Bruce Miller for questioning.”

  “But why should I hide? I don’t know anything,” said Moira. “They’ll need me in the kitchen.”

  “You’re a McDonnell. That’s enough this morning, trust me,” said Mrs. MacNaught. “Stay in here until I tell you otherwise.” She slipped from the closet, closing the door behind her.

  Moira stood in the dim light for a moment and then refolded the linens, listening for any sound on the stairs. She wished she were anywhere but at Westness.

  Hargraves stood at the door to Lord Gordon's study, his face solemn. “Constable MacTavish has a person of interest in the matter of the sheep, sir.”

  “Send them right up.”

  Hargraves turned and left the study.

  Two guards dragged Bruce Miller into the study, Constable MacTavish following. A third stood at the doorway. Miller looked small next to the guards, his head down and his light brown hair showing a bald spot.

  “We found the sheep, sir. We caught him with them.” MacTavish stood at attention, as if he were a soldier.

  “By damn, you didn’t take my sheep, did you?” said Lord Gordon, his limp more pronounced as he walked close to the man the guards held so tightly.

  “No, sir. No, sir,” said Miller, keeping his eyes down. “A man sold them to me, sir, down by Selkirk. Said they just came over on the ferry, he did.”

  “A likely story. And where did you get the money to buy sheep when you can’t pay my rents?”

  “My sons came home from the cannery over on the mainland. We were coming to pay the rent. We had the money. We thought we’d buy the sheep and pay the rents as well.”

  “A likel
y story. Did he have any money on him?” Lord Gordon asked, turning to MacTavish.

  “Not a pence.”

  “But I did,” cried Bruce. “They took it.” He began to struggle in the arms of the guards.

  Lord Gordon turned to MacTavish. “And his sons?”

  “He was alone, sir.”

  “The sheep were recovered. All of them?”

  “All eight, sir.”

  Lord Gordon leaned close to Bruce Miller. “Did anyone help you in this scheme?”

  Bruce stood silent.

  “Ah, you wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

  “But there’s nae to eat.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to take my sheep. You stole my sheep.” Lord Gordon turned away. “I don’t need to hear more. As Magistrate, I could sentence you to death for stealing. I won’t have poaching on my estate.”

  The room went quiet. Lord Gordon wrinkled his nose at the smell of sweat. He pulled out his large leather book of accounts and wrote an entry, the pen scratching on the thick paper.

  “MacTavish, take him down to the square and have him flogged. Tie him up in the stocks for the day, then send him over to the jail at Inverness. They’ll probably transport him. A minimum of seven years on my recommendation. Let that be a lesson to the rest of them,” he said, shutting his book of accounts with a snap.

  “But, your lordship, my children,” cried Bruce. “What about my wife?”

  “You should have thought of that before,” Lord Gordon replied. “I’m being generous in giving you a chance at a new life. You’ll avoid the gallows and gain free passage to Van Diemen's Land.”

  “They’ll starve without me. They’re starving now.”

  “No more of your insolence. Take him away.” Lord Gordon waved his hand to MacTavish who signaled to his men.

  The guards dragged Miller out of the study. The small man went quietly at first and then struggled. “Mercy, sir. For God’s sake, 'twas for my children.” A scuffle ensued on the stairs and then groans.

  “You can come out now, Moira. I think the worst is over.” Mrs. MacNaught looked both ways in the hallway. “Best to stay in the kitchen as much as you can today. And for heaven’s sake, don’t go anywhere near Perkins or Lord Gordon.”

  “What happened? Was someone caught stealing?” asked Moira as she stepped into the hallway.

  “Aye. He sentenced Bruce Miller to a flogging. And then transported.” MacNaught glanced again both ways down the hallway. “The poor little ones. I fear ‘tis only the beginning. How is it your way?”

  “Our house is full just now. Mac and Dougal are helping those out at Quernshead. Do you think there’s some food to spare? I hate to ask, but it’s needed, as much as I can carry.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Just stay low today. Come to me before you go.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see if cook can stand me today.” Moira grinned. “She’ll yell at me for being late.” For a moment they looked at each other, then Moira hurried down the hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house.

  At the end of the day, Moira folded the extra food Mrs. MacNaught had given her into a bundle as she readied herself for the walk home.

  “What’s that, girl?” asked Perkins as he came into the hallway. “Taking things with you?” His nose quivered as he came close, his face still yellow with bruises. “I know you. You’re Mac McDonnell’s sister." He turned back down the hall. “Mrs. MacNaught. Come here at once.”

  “Give me your bundle,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “It’s a bit of leftover food from the kitchen, sir.” Moira felt a flush start up from her neck. “I wouldn’t take it if it hadn’t been given me.”

  “We’ll see,” said Perkins.

  Mrs. MacNaught came rushing down the hall, her skirts flying.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked, laying out the small bundle on the hallway table, revealing bits of bread and meat.

  “Just some leftovers, sir.” Mrs. MacNaught picked at her apron.

  “I’d rather see this fed to our pigs than given to the McDonnells. Take it away,” he commanded. “And you.” He turned to Moira. “You’re fired. Don’t be coming back here again.”

  “Surely, sir, you can’t hold her accountable for her brother,” said Mrs. MacNaught. “She’s a good worker.”

  “Mrs. MacNaught, are you questioning me? Is this something I should be bringing to his lordship?”

  Suddenly, Moira was angry. “I’m going. And glad I am me brother pounded you. Don’t worry, Mrs. MacNaught. The McDonnells will be fine.” She gave the back door a slam and that felt good.

  Already the sky had darkened to night. Moira picked her way through the yard and came around the front of Westness, candles gleaming through the large glass windows. Despite her anger, tears came.

  BOOK 4: THE LEAVING

  Spring 1842

  CHAPTER 38: A COLD SPRING

  Mrs. MacNaught opened the back door at Westness. Agnes and Maggie waited on the bottom steps, a cluster of children close about their skirts, their bare feet mired in mud.

  “Good morrow, Agnes, Maggie. "'Tis sorry I was to learn of Timmy. How can I help you?” asked Mrs. MacNaught, glancing behind for Mr. Perkins.

  Agnes straightened her shoulders, her thin face unsmiling.

  Maggie stepped forward, a girl child hanging from each hand. “Do you have any work for us? Or if you have no work, have ye any food?”

  “Where are your men? I thought they were out fishing this last week.”

  “Not last week,” Agnes replied. “They went to the Mainland chasing jobs at the ironworks and anywhere else they could think of. They haven’t come back. We dinna have anything to eat out at Quernshead, nothing at all. We come up here on the chance you might have something.”

  Mrs. MacNaught looked at the little girls standing so close to Maggie, a young girl herself.

  “Let me see what I can find in the kitchen.” Mrs. MacNaught closed the door and hurried down the hall to the kitchen. “Sarah, do we have anything I can give away without making much of a fuss? I have a few hungry ones at the back door. Any bread at all?”

  “Mayhap this.” Mrs. Britton pointed at the leftover bread covered on the table. “And there’s some patties that no one ate from yester e’en.”

  “Is Perkins in the house? He’s always sniffing away at what we do down here.”

  The cook tightened her apron around her belly. “It’s enough we’re feeding ourselves, without those others coming around. Why do they come here to take the food out of our mouths anyway?”

  “This isn’t much,” said Mrs. MacNaught, wrapping the bread and patties into a cloth bundle. “I wish Lady Alice were here. The children are so skinny they don’t look like children anymore.”

  She hurried back up the hall to the back door. “I’m sorry I don’t have more.”

  “Thank you anyway,” Maggie quickly took the bundle. “Everything helps just now. We’ll just go back to town and ask around there again.”

  The women walked away from the house, the cold spring wind blowing their skirts. Before they reached the stables, they stopped. Maggie pulled the bread from the bag, dividing it among the children first. They ate standing there, bent over and huddled together.

  “What a sad sight.” Mrs. MacNaught closed the door, unable to watch any more. She straightened her apron and turned to find Mr. Perkins staring at her, his hands tucked in the waistcoat of his black suit.

  “Mrs. MacNaught?”

  “Just some women from Quernshead,” she said. “No work, they said.” She looked him right in the eye. “And nothing to eat either.”

  “Let them emigrate, then. You should tell them so. What was that you gave them?”

  “Just a little food from the kitchen, sir.”

  “No more of that, Mrs. MacNaught.”

  “If we have some left over, we can share it, so Lady Alice said.”

  “Lady Alice isn’t here now, though, is she?”

&nbs
p; “Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”

  “Not one crumb more. Do you understand, Mrs. MacNaught?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t want to see beggars littering up the yard again.” He opened the door. “You there," he shouted. "Be off with you. Don’t come back.”

  The women turned away from Westness as rain began to fall and the wind picked up.

  Mrs. MacNaught sighed. Wind mixed with rain tapped at the windows as she walked down the hall back to the kitchen.

  Moira hurried along the path to Selkirk, her shawl wrapped against the light rain. She glanced at the greening heather and the gray waves below the headlands. She could barely see Shapinsay in the lowering clouds.

  She stumbled a bit. A woman and daughter lay on the path as if sleeping, their mouths stained with grass, their arms like bones, gaunt, their clothing riffling in the wind.

  Moira looked about the twisting path. No one to help. She wrapped her hands in her skirt to grip their legs and pulled the bodies of the woman and her child from the path. She closed their eyes and covered their faces with her shawl. Their bare feet lay exposed.

  Moira couldn’t feel the tears on her face as she ran to Selkirk. She pushed into St. Ninian’s, not quite sure how she came there. “Pastor McPherson,” she cried. “I found them laying on the ground. They’re dead.”

  “What happened? Who’s dead?”

  “I don’t know. A woman and a child, just laying along the path down from our place.”

  “Hush. I’ll send someone to take care of them.”

  Moira looked around the vestibule as if she didn’t recognize it.

  “Have you eaten this morning?”

  “Some,” Moira said. “I was going to Deidre and then down to the beach to wait for Mac and Dougal.”

  Pastor McPherson left the room, returning quickly, a cup of tea in his hand. “They should have come to me. Even if Lord Gordon has said they can’t stay here, I still have food for those in need.”