by Donald Smith
‘Yes, I understand. We will fetch food and more blankets. But why are you here?’
Calum looked away.
‘I am married on a McDonell, a woman of Glen Garry. See, my wife, Catriona, and our children.’
A shawled woman came forward and bowed to Flora. She looked exhausted. A little boy, and even smaller girl, clung to her side, staring up at the stranger.
‘Enough, for now, Calum, I will ask all your news, but first I must get food. Is there nowhere else you can go other than this shed?’
‘They told us to wait here till the ship is once more ready.’
Flora hurried back through the town. Taking all the money she had in the house, she hired a cart and going to the nearest provisions merchant she had it loaded up with ham, bread, cheese, fruit and ale. The merchant was used to supplying out of town farmers and also had blankets in stock. She bought three large rolls of them and piled them up on the front of the wagon. Finally she purchased an iron brazier and firewood. The carter loaded them at the rear and secured the backboard. Then he climbed up beside Flora and they set off at a trot for the port.
If Flora had appeared as St Nicholas in person, she could not have been more a welcome visitant to that forlorn shed. Urged on by an excited Calum, the Highlanders were soon unloading, lighting the brazier and gathering round to share out desperately needed food. Yet despite their evident hunger, the old were brought forward first to be fed, then the children, and only last did the fitter adults eat. Some were unable to stand so a portion was taken to each until everyone had been given whatever they could manage to swallow.
Finally the ale was passed round, and a few bottles and flasks silently appeared from the baggage or the folds of plaids. Calum rose to bring Flora a dram, where she had been placed reluctantly at the seat of honour next the fire. He handed her a tin mug and she solemnly raised it to the assembled company. With a heartfelt ‘Sláinte’, an assortment of vessels were raised in concert and the whisky thrown back with a ceremonial flourish starkly at odds with their straitened situation.
As bodies warmed and the tension of hunger eased, people fell asleep. Others came back for more food and drink. For a few it was too much too soon, and the sounds of vomiting could be heard in the passages. Gradually the circle round the brazier thinned till by early evening Calum and Flora were left together as the darkness gathered round.
‘I cannot believe it is yourself. God has spared me for this sight.’
‘I went to France with Clementina, Calum, and eventually to Portugal. We sailed from there to America, my husband Lorenzo and I. He is away inland trading in books.’
‘The old king still lives in Rome. God save the king.’
‘I believe so.’
‘And Miss Clementina has a child by the prince, Duchess Louisa. She will be recognised and give birth to his heirs. So the royal blood will not be dying. The king will come back to his own.’
‘But what of the McIvors, Calum?’
‘The children of Ivor are shielded from the worst because Captain Waverley and the Lady Rose are watching over the Glen to prevent our destruction. But it is not the same without a chief. We are not allowed to wear the kilt or carry weapons or tune the pipes. The hall of Ivor is silent and chill. So I left and went to Glengarry. He was to raise the people again for the prince.’
‘He was a traitor, Calum. Glengarry betrayed the prince. He betrayed Miss Clementina, and especially this daughter of Ivor.’
‘We did not know then what we are knowing now. He is shamed by the betraying of his people. Glengarry has sold his own children as slaves for Sassenach gold. The Braes of Garry are emptied Miss Flora, and we his people must flee like hunted deer. We are seeking a new home in this land of Canada, if we can get there alive.’
Calum looked around at the sleeping huddles, listening for their groans and sighs.
‘I will bring more food tomorrow, Calum.’
‘Blessed be the daughter of Ivor. On the feast day of Bride she shall come from her hillock amidst the heather. I shall not touch her and she will not harm a single heel of the Gael.’
Flora bent her head, letting these gracious words settle amongst the embers.
‘Calum, I would like to ask you about one of the old stories.’ Calum sipped his dram and looked attentive. ‘It’s about Fionn and Ossian.’ He nodded encouragingly. ‘Why did the Grey One have such power over Saba and steal her and her child away from Fionn?’
‘I am not the bard, Miss Flora.’
‘But you are a storyteller.’
‘Indeed, I know the stories. When Fionn Mac Cumhnail was young the northmen are capturing his oldest son. He went to Manaan Mac Lir, God of the seas, for help, but the God he would not give that help until Fionn brought him a cup of healing for his own child who was gravely sick. So Fionn sought the aid of a Druid whose knowledge is being both dark and deep. And in this way he gained the cup of healing, and freed his own son. But when all was done he did not remember to honour the Druid whose magic was so great. And he came in time as a Grey Magician to claim his revenge on Fionn. For surely, the Grey Ones can drain all colour from the world and leave but the shadow of life.’
‘That makes sense. One story explains another.’
‘There is always the story, Miss Flora, before the story.’
‘And a cause. From disregard and denial comes the betrayal. Evil is not causeless for the one who destroys, without feeling or knowing what they do.’
‘You are minding Glengarry. He is of that kind.’
‘Yes, I think you are right. He felt neglected, in the shadow of his father and grandfather, his brother, even his brave cousin Lochgarry. But I fear him no longer. He has done his worst. In the end love is stronger than the indifference of death. Do you believe that, Calum?’
‘My love for the McIvor has never died. He was the light of my eye.’
He took Flora’s hand and touched her fingers gently with his mouth. She left her hand in his.
‘Fergus is something we will always share, Calum. You have brought him back to me tonight, for which I give you my thanks and blessing.’ It was Calum’s turn to bow his head. ‘Now it is late. I must go home and you will sleep. In the morning I shall bring more food, and we will see when this ship is to depart.’
At home Flora lay awake thinking over the day’s turbulent events. That the McDonells should have been driven into New York by the autumn gales was extraordinary enough. But the chance of her finding them in this crowded place was beyond coincidence. Glengarry finally exposed – surely not unexpected, yet a relief. And to know that Clementina had won the unequal struggle for her daughter. That news made Flora’s spirits sing.
Then there was Ossian whose art she knew proved stronger than the Grey Magician, even though Saba did not escape his enchantment. How to present such a figure? Suddenly she heard Glengarry’s voice, its French softly accented with the softness of Gaelic. Fergus had spoken in the same way but with more emphasis; Alister Ruadh was lower pitched, more insidious. What was he saying? Nothing, only the sound of grey emptiness. Yet he had recalled Fergus to her. The image rose in her mind of a dark king of the dead masked in gold and silver. Where had she seen that picture? She could hear the music rising in an underworld of her mind. Dreaming.
Flora slept late but felt unrested. She went to the exchange and drew a bill of credit on her stock. Then she hired two carts and went back to another larger store for provisions. This would give the clan enough for the voyage and the inland journey to Ontario.
Back at the docks she arrived to a different scene from the day before. The shed was bustling with activity. The fire was blazing and from somewhere a large cauldron had been found to boil water and make soup. The seriously ill were laid out in a row on one side, where they could be fed and tended. On another side women had commandeered the carters’ horse troughs for wash tubs. They were beating sea salt out of plaids and blankets, and throwing basins of water into the passage to make a stream for rinsing.
The older children had been sent to scavenge round the wharves, while the younger ones had found their land legs and were careering round the neighbouring sheds.
The men were looking out for Flora, and came forward immediately to unload her supplies and stack them carefully in the most sheltered end. As the afternoon’s work went on and food was prepared she sat in a circle round the fire listening to the stories and memories. Though there had been some deaths, and sickness was still about, the mood had shifted from despair to hope. Their ship was to sail the next morning. Flora felt sure that the McDonells would settle well in Canada, where land was plentiful and the country by all accounts much like home.
When everyone had eaten, women joined the circle and a first song was put up. Most of this was in Gaelic beyond Flora’s recall, but Calum sat close by and kept up a running translation. Then suddenly there was a song that she remembered from her own childhood. It was a song in praise of a great chief of Glen Garry written by a woman bard. Death had felled the highest oak tree in the glen. Flora followed the lines under her breath. He had been the salmon in the river, the soaring eagle in the skies, the stag with antlers wide spread. He was the well of healing, the loch that could not be emptied, the Ben Nevis of every summit, the topmost stone of the castle, the gemstone on a golden ring. He was the yew, the holly and the blackthorn, the apple bough, the blossom and the fruit. He was the last chief of McIvor.
Flora began to feel light headed and made her excuses, promising to return in the morning to wave them off. There were many hugs and bows and hand shakings and blessings, but eventually she got away. By the time she had walked home she felt drained and barely able to move. She dragged herself into bed still in her underskirt. Despite the cold she was thirsty but lacked the energy to get up again for a mug of fresh water.
When Bessie came looking for her early the next morning Flora was running a fever.
‘Lorenzo, is that you?’
The old woman dipped a rag in water and mopped her brow.
‘Master coming home soon, Missis, Master coming soon to look after you.’
‘Thank God. He is coming for me at last.’
Coda
WHEN LORENZO CAME home five days later it was to an empty house. His wife was dead. The doctor had attended her sickbed and prescribed infusions and a liquid diet. But he was unable to contain what he called ‘ship’s fever’. Trying to make sense of Bessie’s garbled account of the Scottish ship and ‘famine’ relief, Lorenzo went through the required motions. He interred the body in a new cemetery near their home, and attempted to pick up the remaining threads of his life.
As the months wore on he realised how intertwined he and Flora had become since arriving in New York. They had depended on each other more than ever, and he wondered how he might continue. Yet strangely his affairs seemed to flourish without close attention. The Concert Society was established, the University asked him to lecture in Italian literature, and his line in cultured books was increasingly in demand.
One year on, Lorenzo proposed a concert in his wife’s memory and the committee gave their sympathetic approval. He had studied Flora’s notes on Fionn and Ossian, but was unable to translate them into a musical form. James MacPherson’s Ossian would have to prevail for now. Instead he decided on a concert recital of Monteverdi’s Orfeo. The committee tactfully suggested the he himself should conduct.
On the night, the University lecture hall in which the society held its events was packed. Such a piece had not been heard before in New York. Because of the personal nature of the occasion, musicians and singers had volunteered to support their city’s cultured Italian in his personal tribute.
Lorenzo walked to the lectern and called the performance into being. The underlying mood was brooding, but ornamented with forced happiness as Eurydice appeared. Soon tragic events were unfolding with the venomous sting of a snake the removal of the young queen into the kingdom of death. Orpheus was left bereft as the music moved from disaster to lament. He could not stay in the palace alone, but taking his harp set out in search of his lost love. The scene was transformed by the sounds of lonely woods, where he sat down on a rock and began to sing.
O doleful harp, with many a string,
Turn all thy mirth and music into mourning
And cease from all thy sweet melodies
To weep with me thy lord and king,
For I have lost in earth all my Joy –
Where hast thou gone my Eurydice?
Flutes became birds singing in sad harmony, while the strings trembled like leaves in sympathy.
Orpheus rose from his rock and continued to search, begging the gods to aid his quest. Till suddenly a triple masked monster burst out, courtesy of the percussion –Cerberus, the dread porter, guardian of hell’s gate. But Orpheus took up his harp again and lulled the three heads to sleep.
Something menacing entered the music, as a procession of underworld beings encircled Orpheus in a slow dance. They touched him with black wands and nodding dark plumed helmets while he stood bewildered by this phantasmagoria, until Hades and Persephone appeared on two thrones, etched in ebony and silver.
Orpheus went down on one knee, resting his harp on the other, and began to play. This music pled his sorrow and his desire. Persephone turned towards her lord, but he listened impassively until the music faded to its end, when he lifted his right hand and gestured towards the wings. Unnoticed as the music played, Eurydice had stepped into the shadows. Orpheus moved instinctively in her direction but then froze in shock as Eurydice came into the light. His anguish was audible.
My lovely lady, my delight,
How are you changed, how –
Where are your rosy cheeks,
Your crystal eyes and lashes dark,
Your lips so red, soft to kiss?
Persephone put a hand on Hades’ arm, speaking in a full contralto.
Lord Hades, king of all below,
Recall my coming here to dwell,
My wasting and decline,
My mother’s grief and woe,
Till your heart gave way
Yielding the boon of my return.
It seemed at first as if Hades would not even acknowledge this plea, staring inflexibly ahead through the eye slits of his mask. But then the orchestra took up compassion’s cause.
Lorenzo felt now that the music was drawing Eurydice out of the underworld. He was walking ahead guiding his love towards the light. And she was following with unfaltering steps. But something – what was it? – the tug of earlier loves, a shadow of the past – halted her progress.
Had she ever been wholly his, or he hers? For an instant she seemed to balance on a delicate foot between two worlds. Then she looked back. Her figure faded into the gloom, pale face dissolving.
But Lorenzo held on, allowing a lament to rise, swelling from strings and wind. Somehow this season of loss was not the final word. He reached out his arms towards her absence. The musicians held their notes keeping faith. Eventually almost beyond belief, Lorenzo’s arms fell to his side.
There was an awed silence and then the hall rose as one in ecstatic applause. It was a triumph.