The Things We Said Today

by Lise McClendon

  “It’s so wild,” she said. “And beautiful.”

  “I have something to show you. Over here.” He led the way to the very top of the trail then across an open area full of grass and boulders. He stopped near a stone wall, part of an old structure now covered with moss and lichen, its broken pieces in heaps on the ground.

  “What is it?”

  “A bothy. A sheepherder’s hut from long ago.” He moved closer, touching the stones. “I would come up here and play soldiers. This was the bunker. Over there— ” He turned to a slight rise with low-growing shrubs. “Hugh set up his siege with some of his friends. We bombarded each other with mud clods.”

  “What fun.”

  “Yes, it was. I’d almost forgot about the bothy. I’ve forgotten so much about Scotland, about those days.” Callum walked around the other side of the ruin, pausing to shade his eyes. “Is that a horse?”

  Annie joined him. “Where? Oh, yes. It’s white. A little pony.”

  Callum took a few steps toward the horse then stopped. “Mister Craigg has a white pony,” he said quietly. He looked around. “He might be nearby.”

  They called for the old man then, as they slowly approached the little horse, trying to keep from frightening it. When they got close they saw it still had a halter over its head, and a lead rope trailing the ground. It whinnied at them, afraid, prancing a bit and backing away.

  “We’ll get Gunni to come up and catch her,” Callum said. “She doesn’t know us.” They backed away, out of the berry bushes they’d entered, to the open grass by the bothy. Annie turned back to the ruin.

  “Can we look inside? Maybe he left her some feed or something.”

  The roofless structure was nearly overgrown. In another century it would blend into the rocky mountain top completely, its worn stones tumbling with frost and snow. Annie stepped through an opening in the rocks. The space was shadowy, one wall still tall and fairly intact. She looked at the lumps of grass and stone then stopped abruptly.

  “Callum.” She looked behind her and called louder: “Callum!”

  They found the body neatly placed between two large stones, wrapped in a blanket. Only the feet were visible, Mr. Craigg’s old broken boots.

  They kneeled beside him, pulling down the blanket flap to expose his face, whiskered and sunken, copper pennies on his eyes. His skin was bluish, transparent, and didn’t smell fresh. Annie covered his face again, tucking in the blanket that had been ceremoniously wrapped around the man. Someone had carefully arranged things for him, up here in the hills he loved.

  They stood, heads bowed, thinking about the old man, dying here in a place where he’d spent his best days. It seemed fitting. Whoever had wrapped him in the tartan blanket had taken great care. But maybe hadn’t thought it all through.

  “We can’t leave him here,” Annie said softly. “The animals.”

  “I’ll carry him down,” Callum said.

  “Give me your pack.”

  Callum picked up the body, legs stiff and boots dragging down. “Is he heavy?” Annie asked.

  “Not much to him.”

  But carrying a body, however emaciated or well-wrapped, is never simple. Callum staggered, maneuvering through the doorway, out into the grass. Annie followed. The pony stood closer now, out of curiosity perhaps. A pretty thing, like a Shetland pony but with a long white coat and a black forelock hanging over her eyes. She whinnied again, stepping closer.

  “Wait,” Annie said to Callum. “Set him down for a moment. For the pony.”

  The wind picked up. The pony blinked her extravagant eyelashes, watching the tall grass bend and dance. Callum set the wrapped figure on the ground. The pony whinnied at them again and stepped closer to Mr. Craigg’s body.

  “Move back,” Annie whispered, pulling Callum’s arm. The pony walked cautiously toward them, ears forward, nickering, kicking in fits and starts, smelling the wind. She was tentative. Then finally she was on ol’ Craiggie, at his wrapped head, nuzzling the blanket as if trying to wake him. She raised a hoof as if to remind him to get up now, quit playing around, or else to kick him in the head. Then she lowered her bent right knee gently against his shoulder. She made another sound, half-sigh, half-cry, and dropped her muzzle against his chest.

  Annie took Callum’s hand, squeezing it. “Do you think he knew?” she whispered. “That he came up here to die in the hills he knew and loved?”

  Callum closed his eyes, feeling the pony’s grief for himself. This journey home was so different from he’d thought it would be, so moving and heartbreaking and yet elemental in its way. It was as if the rocks and the bens had been waiting for him. Scotland would always be in his core, no matter where he went. He knew now he couldn’t deny that. And Mr. Craigg would always have a place in his heart. He had been like a father, helped him become a man. That corner of his heart was also for old times, for days with his father, when they were all young, for the generous spirit of the folk, the laughter and honesty. He silently wished the old man a smooth journey over the last hill, over the horizon, feeling a prick of tears at his passing.

  When Callum opened his eyes he saw Annie was next to the horse, hand on the halter, talking in a soothing voice, petting her neck. She did that for a long five minutes, calming the pony like a horse whisperer. How did she do these things, he wondered, grateful and amazed. Then Annie looked up at him, indicating it was time to pick up the body again.

  Callum had a piece of rope in his pack— he’d come to the hills, to the loch, prepared as any Scout, a habit so ingrained it came without thinking. He tied Mr. Craigg’s body across the pony’s back while Annie kneeled at her head, rubbing the furry forehead, pulling weeds from her black forelock while talking softly of her beauty and grace and the bag of oats waiting in the barn.

  When Callum was done and had tested his work for slippage and balance, tucking in ends of blankets and tightening knots, he nodded to Annie. She picked up the rope on the halter and stood up.

  She swung her backpack over her shoulder. “Now, sweet thing, we all go home.”

  39

  The Highlands

  The sound of the bag-pipes carried for miles on the wind, drifting down like feathers from far above them at the top of the hill. Merle settled on the wooden seat of the hay wagon, smoothing the unfamiliar dress. How had Stasia done it? The dresses were incredible, simple and divine. She checked the pin that held her short-brimmed hat in place, tightened her shawl on her shoulders, and tried to breathe.

  Pascal touched her arm as he passed. “See you up there. À bientôt.” He shouldered the bag of supplies and joined the other men heading up the trail to the mountain top.

  Elise and Francie clambered awkwardly up the steps in their tight dresses and chattered as they sat opposite her. “What a kick,” Francie said. “Look at that matched pair. I just learned that’s what you call matching horses when they pull your carriage.”

  “Some carriage,” Elise said, curling a lip. “What would Jane Austen say? I hope I don’t get splinters.”

  “After all this a couple splinters in your hindquarters is a small price to pay,” Merle said. “Have you seen Annie?”

  “Stasia was getting her last stuff ready, touching up her makeup,” Francie said. “And rounding up rain jackets, just in case.”

  “Please God, don’t let it rain,” Elise whined. “We’ve suffered enough.”

  Merle felt she was beyond prayers at this point. She was sure Annie, a not-so-closet Buddhist, would agree. What would be, would be. If it rained it rained. Still she tried hard to steady her nerves, the swift changes sending all well-laid plans to the back row.

  They’d flown in yesterday and rented a car in Aberdeen, arriving at the Hydro in time to hear the news of the death of Mr. Craigg. Hard on the heels of that tragedy was the announcement of a special ceremony for Callum and Annie. Not a wedding exactly, although its exact nature was shrouded in Highland mist.

  Stasia wasn’t very good about secrets she was excited
about. When she brought out the redesigned bridesmaids dresses it was obvious it wasn’t a farewell picnic. The dresses amazed the sisters. Stasia had gotten rid of yards of taffeta leaving a slim navy skirt, trimmed away the awful sleeves and snipped the gargantuan bow, fashioning an elegant tartan top with scooped neckline, slim sleeves, and a tiny metal buckle on grosgrain ribbon at the waist. All those years at Gamine weren’t for nothing. Merle’s dress fit perfectly, down to the length of sleeve she liked, hitting right at her wrist. Stasia also found them all navy flats and matching pashmina shawls.

  Merle tucked her shawl closer as they waited, the driver of the wagon holding the horses’ halters and stomping his feet. The weather was sunny but brisk. It was just after eleven in the morning and the birds were noisy in the trees by the river. Finally the door opened and Mrs. Logan and Mrs. MacKeegan made their way across the yard. They both looked coifed and ready, in their Sunday best, although the cook carried a pair of rubber boots, just in case.

  The driver helped them up into the wagon where they sat next to Merle. Cordial nods all around, then silence.

  “Fine day, innit?” Mrs. MacKeegan said finally. “Lookin’ bonny, y’are.”

  “You look very nice yourself, Mrs. MacKeegan,” Merle said. And she did, with her hair out of its usual cap, copper shot with silver and curled properly, accenting her rosy cheeks. “Isn’t this fun, out in a wagon?”

  Fiona Logan raised her eyes skeptically but was mum. Did she know what was up? They fidgeted awhile longer then at last Annie and Stasia appeared at the front door, carrying canvas bags over their shoulders. Annie was wearing her raincoat and leather hiking boots that Merle recognized from years past. What dress was she wearing? Merle couldn’t tell. Her hair was loose down her back. Stasia wore what the other three wore: the redesigned bridesmaid’s dress and shawl and flats. And an angry expression. Merle sighed. There was always one sister who was pissed off. Today it was Stasia.

  The driver helped Annie up onto the seat next to him in the front, then Stasia in the back. They stashed their bags between their feet and the driver snapped the reins. With a jerk, and a mutter from Mrs. Logan, they were off.

  Jack and Bernadette Bennett had volunteered to go up on an earlier run of the hay wagon. They would get things arranged for whatever was happening. They had left the Hydro right after breakfast and hadn’t been seen since. Merle wondered if Hugh and Davina were coming. No sign of them either.

  The road, such as it was, was rough. A tractor path at best, it swung past the gate to the pasture, round a pond behind the house, down a hill and back up the other side, veering north at some point toward the hill that had been pointed out as the destination. They had been warned that the wagon couldn’t make it all the way to the top. How far would they would have to hike in tight dresses and fancy shoes? Then Merle imagined Pascal sweeping her up off her feet and carrying her. Well, all right. That would work.

  Elise had been contrite and embarrassed about running off with Bruno, moping around Pascal’s cottage, feeling stupid. That lasted a few hours into the evening until Pascal told her that her ‘boyfriend’ was actually working as an undercover informant for the French authorities. She exclaimed then, “I knew it!” and pranced around like she’d been clairvoyant and they’d all been wrong about the evil munchkin. It was a little hard to take but Merle was so mellow from goat-cuddling and cheese-eating and gothic-romance-writing that she tuned out her little sister. Let her crow. She normally had very little to crow about to her big sisters, sadly.

  Pascal had taken another three-day weekend, something the French honored with reverence. Even after a week’s vacation, time off was sacred. He was dismissive of Annie and Callum’s plans, whatever they were. But he had stopped growling, Weddings! under his breath. Merle knew he adored Annie so she just smiled.

  Merle noticed she was ignoring a lot of stuff that would have bugged her usually. It did help with anxiety and obsessive list-making, just blocking annoying stuff, things you couldn’t really handle or control. Was it the writing? Did losing yourself in a fictional world make the real one a little more bearable? It seemed entirely possible.

  Her three days in France were a dream already. No schedule, no mealtimes, no one telling her to eat something healthy— or eat something. No one criticizing her clothes, her hair, her teeth whiteness. No running for trains, no bumping through crowds, poked by umbrellas, no smiling and lying at people she could barely tolerate.

  Farmers, goats, wine, time. It expanded in her mind as a little silver-lined cloud she rode on, her story unfolding like a magic carpet, her heroine so tormented and brave and homely. Not comely! Homely was the thing. Nobody wanted to be comely anymore, how gauche. Live by your wits, lass.

  She hadn’t told Pascal her plans yet. She hadn’t told anyone, a speck of nervousness bubbling up. She would give him a hint before they went home tomorrow. But her sisters? They could wait. She needed to discuss things with Tristan before she quit her job and went to live in the Dordogne and write her novel.

  There. She’d said it ‘aloud’ to her brain. Write my novel. Quit my job. Live in France.

  Oh, God. It was frightening to even think it. And beyond exhilarating.

  Francie was talking to the two older ladies. Something about Jinty, the caretaker.

  “Is Jinty coming today? Is she— available?” Merle asked.

  “Oh, aye. Up at dawn, she’s been. You’ll see her in a crack,” Mrs. MacKeegan said happily. “Thanks to your sister, we’ve got our Jinty back.”

  Francie beamed happily. She’d never looked prettier, Merle thought, the sunshine playing across her freckles, the little straw hat on the back of her head, letting her auburn hair fly over her neck and cheeks. She clutched her shawl with one hand and reached out for Merle’s with the other.

  “Thanks for giving me that card,” Francie said. “The lawyer, Glynn Barra. Together, well, we were quite a little team of pit bulls.”

  Merle squeezed her hand. “Good work, Francie. I knew you could figure it all out.” She realized that Francie looked really good, like sparkly good. Was it because of her legal victory or because she cut down on her drinking? Last night at the big family dinner she’d had just one glass of wine and told Merle confidentially she had to watch herself. Merle was so proud of her, on all counts.

  “I believe Glynn will be here today,” Fiona Logan announced, sitting stiffly on the swaying seat. “She’s an old friend of Callum’s. They were quite close. They went to university together.”

  Francie’s eyes widened at Merle. Elise piped up: “So did Davina, right? Are all of Callum’s old girlfriends going to be here?”

  Mrs. Logan blinked at the impertinent girl and Merle stifled a laugh. “I was wondering about Hugh and Davina myself.”

  “They spent the night at the house,” Mrs. Logan said. “And went up the ben earlier.”

  “The ben?” Elise asked.

  “The mountain,” Mrs. MacKeegan explained. “It’s called Ben Cardie.”

  Just as the path got so rocky they had to hold onto the sides of the wagon to keep from being thrown out, the driver pulled the horses to a stop. The sound of bagpipes was louder then abruptly stopped just after they did. The driver hopped down then lifted Annie by the waist, just like in an old novel. She patted her hair, smoothing it down, and waited for her sisters.

  When everyone had dismounted, or whatever you called hopping awkwardly from a hay wagon in a tight skirt, the women gathered in a group and began climbing the final stretch of the path. It led behind some rocks, up and around. The older ladies were slow, clutching onto each other, and Merle worried they should have had some help. The cook was taking tiny steps with breathy pauses.

  Annie stopped, looking back. She turned back in the direction of the mountain top and gave her best dog whistle. All the women blinked, surprised, then she did it again. Suddenly Callum and Hugh appeared around a boulder, both in their kilts.

  Annie shouted to them to come help their mother. T
hey sprinted down the path, sporrans bouncing, racing to see who would get to Mother first. Merle and Francie laughed as Hugh pushed his little brother out of the way and took Fiona’s arm. Callum took Mrs. MacKeegan’s and the party walked the rest of the way to the top.

  When they rounded the last turn and entered a grassy pasture strewn with mossy rocks the sun was shining. The breeze had died down to a low roar, kicking up tablecloths that had been expertly tied to table legs. A single bagpiper, a man with a lengthy beard, bowed legs, and a flapping tartan kilt, stood on a flat boulder on the far reaches of the grassy area. When they arrived he began a cacophonous dirge, slow and melancholy and extremely loud, as only a bagpipe can be.

  Chairs were set up, just twelve or so, enough for the older guests. Fiona Logan and Mrs. MacKeegan were deposited next to three older gentlemen in tweeds. They nodded and smiled, apparently all acquainted. Jack and Bernadette also were sitting. Merle made her way across the spongy turf, so glad they swapped flats for heels.

  “Everything okay?” she asked her parents.

  Bernie patted the folding chair next to her. Merle perched on it and leaned in to hear above the racket of the pipes. “You look nice. Is it a wedding then?” Bernie shouted. “Nobody tells me anything.”

  Merle shrugged. “I thought you knew.”

  “Why the secrecy?” Bernie looked annoyed.

  Merle patted her arm. “All will be revealed.”

  As Mrs. Logan predicted, Glynn Barra lurked in the back, sipping what looked like champagne. She was talking to Jinty Arbuckle and smiling. Francie dashed up to them and hugged them fiercely. They both looked embarrassed by the display. Hugh and Davina seemed busy conferring, heads together over by the bagpiper. Standing that close must be bad for one’s hearing, Merle thought.

  Pascal appeared, carrying a tub of ice with Gunni. They set it down by the table and stretched their backs. Merle excused herself from her parents to join him. As she walked over to the table the wind caught her hat and it broke loose, flying, causing a general commotion of running and laughing. It careened into the bagpiper, bounced off him, and sailed out over the glen. The piper didn’t miss a cacophonous beat.