The Blood And The Barley

by Angela MacRae Shanks

  He slanted a look at Rory and young Donald. Both wore the same broad adoring expression and blinked in unison, transfixed by their father's heroically unkempt appearance. ‘I'd nae choice but shoot him.’

  ‘We thought the shot might draw them onto us,’ Alec said. ‘And hid in a copse the full day. At nightfall, we loaded the ankers onto the other garrons and crept away. With the others laden so heavy, we could only manage a slow pace but made it to Perth safe enough.’ He sat back and sought out Morven with his eyes, quirking her a regretful little smile. Firth was her favourite.

  ‘We’d no way of knowing if the tinkers were speaking the truth or playing tricks.’ Malcolm scowled into his bowl. ‘There’s nae been redcoats stationed at Corgarff in ower a year.’

  ‘Ye did right,’ said Grace. ‘Ye ken what happened to Duncan.’

  ‘Wheesht, woman! There's nae need to speak o’ that.’ He thrust his empty bowl at her. ‘I missed Beltane, but it couldna be helped. If we'd had the ten ponies –’

  He stopped short and eyed Morven suspiciously. Grace had given her away, her gaze darting to her daughter's face at the mention of Beltane, then sliding guiltily to the floor.

  ‘What's this?’ He glared at Morven's reddening face. ‘I forbade it. Did ye go against me, lass?’ He stood suddenly, eyes blazing.

  There was no point in denying it. ‘I did, aye.’

  ‘God’s blood!’ He turned and slammed his fist into the meal kist beside her.

  She flinched but stood her ground. She'd done it for the sake of Delnabreck and all who lived there and would damn well stand and defend herself. Yet if Alec, or even Rory, had gone against him as she had, the fist her father was now nursing might well have met soft young flesh instead of solid ash. Swallowing, she squared her jaw. ‘Someone had to go Da, and there was only me.’

  ‘Only you?’ He choked on his rage. ‘Ye stubborn wee devil. Ye might've been –’ He glanced down at the youngest of his sons who gazed up adoringly, then cleared his throat. ‘Well, ye ken yerself.’

  ‘She meant well, Da.’ Alec came to her defence as always. ‘She just didna think of the dangers. ’Twas a bold act though, d'ye not think?’

  ‘I do not. ’Twas foolhardy.’

  ‘But she did it to protect the croft.’

  ‘And ye imagine I dinna ken that?’ Malcolm snorted irritably. ‘Only the ritual's nae always a show, oft-times the lass is ravished!’

  ‘What's ravished?’ asked Donald.

  ‘And there's danger from the fire, never heed the ungodliness of the act.’ Grunting in exasperation, he ignored the boy.

  ‘It was a show,’ Morven blurted. ‘At least,’ she added hastily, ‘I'm fairly certain it was.’ She hadn't known about the ravishing and swiftly decided now was not the time to reveal she had been the Beltane virgin.

  ‘Now now, dinna be so hard on her.’ Grace ladled more broth into her husband's bowl and tried to nudge him back down into his seat. She flicked Morven an apologetic look. ‘She came to no harm, didn't she? And did it wi’ the best o’ intentions. Anyhow,’ her eyes clouded. ‘I've something, and someone, to tell ye about.’

  ‘But I forbade it.’ Malcolm poured himself a sizeable dram from a keg near the hearth and, still glaring at Morven, proceeded to drain it in one gulp. ‘Why must she aye disobey me?’

  Morven felt her hackles rise. ‘Oh, aye,’ she blurted. ‘Had Alec done it, ye’d have patted him on the back. But since ’twas yer contrary daughter carried out the deed, then clearly, a mortal sin has been committed!’ Her innards knotted in frustration. ‘Why is it everything I do has to be stopped? Everything I want must be a sin? D’ye hate me that much?’

  There was a moment of stunned silence during which a rash of livid colour surged into her father’s face and worm-like veins popped out on the sides of his neck. Even his ears turned the colour of fresh salmon.

  ‘Why, ye ungrateful wretch! I’ll thrash yer hide.’ He fumbled with the belt on his plaid, then, realising his kilt would drop to the floor if he unfastened it, cast around for something to thrash her with.

  ‘Da, Da, she didna mean it,’ cried Alec. ‘Did ye, Morven? She just feels … stifled atimes.’ He pushed her roughly behind him, shielding her from their father’s wrath.

  ‘No, Da,’ she conceded. ‘I ken ye dinna hate me. Ye just … just seem to thwart everything I do.’ She let her breath out but held his glare, a glint of challenge still lingering in her eyes. ‘I’ll take a thrashing if ’twill make ye feel better.’

  Malcolm’s jaw tightened a fraction, then his shoulders slumped and he sighed, weariness dragging at his features. He sat back down. ‘I wish to keep ye safe,’ he muttered, ‘is that so wrong? But I dinna wish to thrash ye.’ He flicked his hand at her. ‘Away with ye, I need to wash, and doubtless, Alec does as well. Give us peace.’

  Grace lifted the big boiling pot onto the crook. Looking up under her lashes, she shifted her gaze pointedly to the door.

  With a resigned nod, Morven turned and fled.

  She was still bitter as she squeezed water from the blankets and hung them from a rope stretched between the cot-house and the byre. Her da always made her feel that way, worthless somehow, yet foolhardy whenever she tried to prove her worth. He refused to see how much she’d already learned from Rowena and set little store by the skills and insight the widow possessed. Morven sighed. ’Twas easy to love her sweet-natured mother but her father, though he commanded her utmost respect, was a sight more difficult to love. She hung the last blanket and dried her hands on her arisaid. Yet she did love him. And knowing it, she unclenched her teeth and smothered her resentment.

  Turning her back on the cot-house, she clambered onto the infield dyke and sat on the cold stone. There was not a breath of wind to cool her cheeks, the deergrass and bog cotton up on the peat banks barely stirred. It was one of those rare May mornings when the scent of pine and heather rose thick and languid on the air, when time had a hushed unhurried quality as though it had passed clean by the glen without a backward glance. Weak sunlight filtered through a layer of gossamer cloud, bringing a haze of green to the birkwoods straggling up Seely's Hillock and promising some warmth for later in the day. ’Twas a perfect day for gathering herbs.

  With her mind set, she slipped from the dyke and fetched a heather basket and hide gloves from the byre, then set off for the river. It was many months since she’d picked herbs on the far side of the Avon yet something about the sunlight glinting on the young leaves of Druim forest caught her eye and drew her there.

  She climbed down over the grassy lip and onto the Avon's broad stony floodplain, picking her way over the polished boulders and stones. Oyster-catchers had laid eggs on the shingle and the sight of their comic strutting and indignant pik-pik cries at her approach brought a smile to her face. She skirted the vulnerable eggs and stood cautiously at the water’s edge. The Avon was a swift peaty river, its amber waters foaming over its stony bed like good ale. Pools of swirling water formed eddies near the centre where salmon and brown trout lay. Yet its depth was deceptive, its speed perilous, and it was many a sober fisherman told tales of waterhorses and kelpies frolicking in its dark waters. ’Twas wise to be ever watchful and wary.

  The boatman, Robbie Grant, greeted her warmly and guided her into the boat with an appraising eye that lingered over-long on her briefly exposed ankles. His conversation was innocent, but his eyes held a knowing conspiratorial gleam. Morven couldn’t recall seeing him at the Beltane fire but sensed he knew all about it.

  ‘Ye'll be returning later, will ye?’ He hauled on a rope threaded through iron rings on either side of the boat.

  ‘Aye, I've herbs and nettles to collect.’

  ‘Up at Druimbeag?’ He gave her a toothless grin.

  ‘Aye … most likely.’ It hadn’t been her conscious decision to go to Druimbeag, but now that he spoke the name she knew that was indeed where she was heading. Over the last few days, it had been none too easy to shake thoughts of Jamie from her
head. There was something intense about him that intrigued her. And an air of melancholy. She wished to see again the place where he’d been born, and where his equally extraordinary father had played out his last days in Strathavon.

  Over the years, she’d been to Druimbeag many times. Among the plants of great value that grew there, a rare white willow could be found. Rowena had spoken of it, had told her magical plants often take hold in the places where folk once lived and turned the soil. Perhaps the people’s toil enriched the land, yet Morven believed it was something more profound.

  Robbie slid the boat onto the shingle bank. ‘Here ye are, Miss MacRae.’ He lifted his bonnet to her with a sly grin.

  Climbing out, she instinctively held the folds of her gown as close to her body as possible. Did every tongue in the glen wag to the same tune? Likely so. Then ’twas only a matter of time before her father learned the full details of her ordeal on Carn Liath. It hardly took the gift o’ far-sight to foresee his reaction. He’d not always tended toward a foul temper, but this last year he'd shown little else. She’d even thought of asking Rowena for a tincture to ease his dark moods, though in some odd way Rowena seemed to be at the root of them.

  Leaving the river behind, she climbed the low ridge, the druim that gave the place its name, up to the dilapidated building that was the crofthouse. It was a beautiful place. A thicket of young pine saplings now grew where once proud rigs of barley and oats had held sway, and the scent of pine resin filled the air. Beneath her feet, tender bracken fronds unfurled from a litter of autumn leaves left untouched but for the foraging of deer. Following the sound of water, she discovered a dark burn carving its way through the rock, bearded with trailing fronds of weed, and it seemed as though for centuries its peaceful burbling had gone unheard. Beyond the crofthouse stood a much older forest dark with pine and larch. Unchecked, it had nurtured rich groves of hazel and gean, elder and the spindly-silver trunks of birch.

  The cot-house itself was a sorry sight. The heather thatch had mainly gone, and the timber uprights and cross-pieces were visible through the missing roof. An old crow's nest now sat there. The door had swollen and splintered and what remained of it hung askew while the gaping windows stared out blankly. Yet at the near corner of the building grew a protective rowan, the tree Rowena was named for, placed there for protection, for the deep magic found only in rowan-wood. ’Twas a telling sign. It spoke to her of the beliefs held dear by the folk of Druimbeag.

  She hesitated before entering the cot-house. It seemed disrespectful, and Morven shied away, attracted by the sight of sweet woodruff growing by the crumbling byre. Gathering some, she discovered feverwort, comfrey, and meadowsweet. With a gasp of delight, she identified a tiny patch of red clover beginning to uncurl and knelt to pinch off a few sprigs. ’Twas an important herb for her mother’s complaint, though a rarity in all but the most sheltered spots. Rowena’s store of dried herbs laid down the previous year had begun to dwindle, and it was important to replace them.

  She worked with quiet concentration, plucking and picking and digging up roots with her small dirk. The burbling of the burn and the cooing of wood pigeons soothed her senses while the sun warmed the chill in her fingers and the last trace of tension from the encounter with her father seeped gently away.

  She didn’t recognise the sound at first. The low murmur seemed to belong to the forest, but when it came again, she froze, prickles of alarm firing at her temples. ’Twas a human sound. She twisted her head to listen, and the hair rose on the back of her neck. It came again. She was certain it came from within the ruined cot-house.

  Faeryfolk were said to take over old human homes, ’twas common knowledge. Intrigued by the human race, they were known to carry off new-born babes and replace them with changelings. Every fibre of her body told her to flee, yet something held her back. Rowena called them the Daoine Sìth, men of peace. Slowly, she crept closer to the house.

  The murmuring came again, louder and more distinct. It was a male voice, low yet not rough. She edged closer to an empty window, then caught her breath – ’twas praying! She craned forward to peek through the missing window but her dirk, which she still held in her hand, scraped along the stonework with a loud rasp.

  There was a sudden scuff of earth, then a voice called out. ‘Who's there? Show yerself!’

  Gasping, she darted back from the window. The voice was oddly familiar. There was no time to hide. The rickety door was forced roughly open, and she found herself staring up into the stern face of Jamie Innes, her heart crammed in her throat.

  His eyes were darker than she remembered, black almost, and close-set with thick dark brows that arched down over his eyes. He didn’t smile but blinked in bewilderment at her, something clutched in his hand.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she stammered. ‘I … I didna ken ye were here. Ye scared me.’

  He let his breath out, and the strain visible on his face relaxed a fraction. ‘Nor I you. I didna know anyone came here.’ He frowned. ‘What is it ye're doing?’

  ‘Gathering herbs.’ She swallowed and lifted the basket of greenery for him to see, feeling not unlike a mischievous child caught poaching on the laird's land.

  ‘Ye gather herbs here?’

  ‘Aye, ’tis a good place. Rowena says the best herbs aye grow in soil that folk have tilled in the past. This is such a place.’

  He nodded, assessing, then leaned back against the rotting doorframe, head cocked appraisingly. ‘I'd not thought to seeing ye again so soon,’ he said softly.

  ‘No. I've nae been here since last summer. I … I dinna ken what ’twas brought me here today.’

  Whatever it had been, she silently wished it had taken her elsewhere, anywhere else, that she might be delivered from the uncomfortable scrutiny he was now putting her to. Her cheeks began to flame, and she glared at the ground. ‘I've disturbed ye.’ She turned to go. ‘I'll be letting ye back to yer business.’

  ‘I was praying.’ He opened his hand to show her the crucifix and rosary beads he held. ‘Fer the souls of my kinfolk. I've no graves to pray at, nae here, they were buried in the chapelyard at Inverness. I thought …’ He swallowed, focusing on something beyond her shoulder, and she saw again the lines of pain drawn sharply on his face. ‘I thought I’d feel closer to them here, where once they were blithe.’

  A shiver ran up her spine, and she said softly, ‘I heard ye praying. Only I thought ’twas …’ she shook her head, feeling foolish. ‘I thought ’twas na daoine sìth, the men o' peace, up to some manner o’ devilry inside the house.’

  ‘And ye were ready to confront them?’ The corner of his mouth gave a slight twitch, although there was a note of something like respect in his voice. ‘That was real bold of ye.’

  ‘I'm nae altogether certain what I planned to do.’

  He slipped the sacred things away into his sporran and peered into her basket. ‘Can I be helping ye with that? The herbs and such-like, they look much the same to me. Rowena has them hung all over the crofthouse, but if you point out the ones ye want I could dig them up fer ye.’

  ‘Thank you, but I have what I need from here. Nettles are sprouting by the infield dyke though. We could cut the tips fer soup.’

  ‘You eat nettles?’

  ‘Aye. We all do. Rowena says ye must eat something green every day. Nettles are good fer the blood.’

  ‘Do they not sting yer mouth?’

  ‘No,’ she laughed. ‘Nae once ye've boiled them. Do they nae eat nettles in Inverness, then?’

  ‘I dinna think so. We had kail.’

  Morven snorted. ‘Da says kail’s fer soft Lowlanders.’

  He flinched. ‘I was born here. In this cottage.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ She cursed her thoughtless tongue. ‘I didna mean anything by that. Ye can help me if ye like.’

  The drystone dykes of stone enclosures were still evident around the croft and had been skilfully made. Along the length of each embankment, they found swathes of nettles sheltering, thei
r bright green shoots furred with stinging hairs. Morven put on the gloves and sliced off the tips with her dirk. The gloves were too small for Jamie, who perched on the dyke with the basket watching her with interest.

  Conscious of his continued study of her, she felt compelled to fill the awkward silence between them. ‘My da and brother got home this forenoon,’ she told him. ‘Only Da's nae best pleased with me fer going to the Beltane fire.’

  ‘You told him what happened?’

  ‘No. Mam let slip I went in his stead, and he was that riled I judged it best to say no more.’ She sighed, dropping the nettle shoots into the basket. ‘He'll hear what happened soon enough I'm thinking, whether it's me tells him or not.’

  ‘And will be angered?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I'll wager he'll thrash me till I've not an inch of flesh to sit down on that's nae black-and-blue and then tell me it hurt him to do it.’ She laughed mirthlessly at the prospect.

  Jamie looked aghast. ‘Ye mean he'll strike you?’

  ‘Aye, most like.’ She looked curiously at him. ‘Have ye never been thrashed, then?’

  ‘Well, aye. But my father would never strike a woman.’

  ‘Mine might,’ she said bitterly. Though the change in her father, his new black moods, had much to do with Rowena's decision to pass on her knowledge to his daughter, though why that should be when he’d welcomed her teachings at first, she couldn't fathom.

  ‘I could speak with him, if ye like. Tell him what happened.’

  She cocked a scornful eyebrow at him. ‘You being a man, ye mean? You do a better job?’