Finlay was silent a long while, then inched his way to his feet.
“Time t’ be bringin’ the flock in,” he said, and then began whistling and calling the sheep together.
Jamie jumped to her feet, and in the solace of the activity of getting the stubborn animals down the hill, her thoughts did not wander down melancholy paths again. Instead, her eyes once more reflected the laughter and sparkle which had been old Finlay’s sustenance these past several years.
Soon the sheep were snug in their pen and the two shepherds walked toward home. It was a small cottage—one room was all Finlay had ever needed—built of rough granite, as rugged as its surroundings, it gave the impression that it had almost grown up where it stood as part of the mountain itself. One look showed it to be sturdy enough to withstand the most violent of highland storms. But the rugged exterior was balanced inside with a warmth which was able to hold out even the icy blasts coming down from the peak of Donachie. To the windward side there were no windows, and the stone wall was thickly packed with a solid layer of turf as further insulation against the elements. In the center of the single large room was dug a pit where the fire burned, sending warmth to every corner of the room. A table and two chairs and a few shelves for cooking utensils stood against one wall, and a straw-covered cot for Finlay was against the adjacent one. The opposite corner had been partially partitioned off for Jamie’s own straw bed. It was an eminently comfortable home, completed by a medium-sized byre and a shed for storing their peat fuel. Their tastes being simple, the two never wanted for anything.
Periodically Finlay made his trek down to the estate of Aviemere to make an accounting of his small croft to the laird who owned Donachie and most of the valley besides, and to pick up supplies. In recent years the factor had made it a practice to come up to Donachie himself three times yearly to check on the old sheepherder. Finlay did not like to bow to the concession because of his age, yet he was nevertheless thankful for the factor’s consideration. In recent times it had grown more and more difficult to keep Jamie at home when he went down the mountain. A gnawing uneasiness made him fear her setting foot on the lowland paths, even if it was with him. But as they had little reason to leave Donachie, they had been content there to remain. And as Jamie grew older, he more often let the factor come to him.
Jamie stirred the fire and prepared their evening meal. When they had finished the steaming bowl of potatoes, oatcakes, and hearty brown bread, Finlay picked up his worn leather Bible and thumbed through it for a moment. At length the pages ceased their fluttering and the open book lay on the table. Jamie knew he had found his place and was ready to read. For a moment all became very quiet, then the old voice began, taking on a dignified resonance:
“Them that beirs the yoke o’ slaverie maun haud their maisters worthy o’ all respeck, that the name o’ God an oor doctrine binna ill spoken. Slaves o’ believin’ maisters maunna lichtlie them because they are brethren in Christ: raither, they maun sair them the better. . . .”1
Jamie loved this time of day best of all. She never tired of hearing the words from her grandfather’s book in his thick brogue. Since she had never heard the sayings from God’s Word in any other way, she had no reason to believe that God himself, as well as Moses and all the prophets, did not speak with a thoroughly highland tongue. And he read each word with such deep belief and assurance that she could not help but believe everything also. The very sound of his voice, and the soothing, melodic lilt of his voice, which would occasionally break out into phrases from the ancient Gaelic that she could not understand seemed to cover her with a sense of peaceful and holy security. The whole setting each night imbued her with a sense of God’s presence among them. As she watched her grandfather sitting across the rough table reading from his treasured book, she detected in his eyes the glinting of a deeper thrill than even the mountain could stir within him. Yet he so often said that the mountain was but one more reflection of the character of God as revealed in His Word.
Suddenly Jamie started, for she realized she had missed some of the reading. What pulled back her attention she could not tell. Had the timbre of her grandfather’s voice altered, rising slightly? She now began to listen more intently than ever.
“ . . . gudeliness wi’ oot seekin’ nae mair nor a man needs is gret gain. We brocht naething intil the warld, an’ we canna tak onything out o’ it. Sae, gin we hae wir bit an’ sup, an wantna for cleadin’ an a bield, we s’ een haud us wi’ that. Them at seeks walth falls intil the girns o’ temptation laid by the de’il; owre they whummle intil a flowe o’ the fuilitch an’ scaithfu desires in whilk men sinks doun tae ruin an’ perdition. Fainness for siller is the ruit o’ all ills, an’ there is them that has gaen agley wi’ ettlin tae mak rich, an’ brocht on themsel’s a vast o’ sorrow. But ye, man o’ God, maun haud awa frae a that an ettle at richteousness, gudeliness, faith, luve, patience, douceness o’ hairt. Kemp awa i the noble kemp o’ faith; cleik hauds o’ iverlestin’ life, tae whilk ye war caa’d.”2
Finlay closed the book and bowed his head in silent prayer for a long moment. Then he broke out in the Lord’s Prayer and Jamie joined in with him:
“Oor Faither in heiven,”they prayed, “hallowt be thy name; thy Kingdom come; thy will be dune on the yird, as in heiven. Gie us oor breid for this incomin’ day; forgie us the wrangs we hae wrocht, as we hae forgien the wrangs we had dree’d; as sey-us-na sairlie, but sauf us frae the Ill Ane.”
When they had finished he looked up at Jamie.
“Do ye unnerstan’ the words I read frae the book, lass?”
“I—I think sae, Gran’daddy.”
“They be important words fer ye.”
“Why?”
“Ye dinna want t’ be fallin’ intil a snare, do ye, lass?”
“No, Gran’daddy. But how cud I do that wi’ ye here t’ protect me?”
“Oh, lass . . . dear lass!” said Finlay, rubbing his hands across his face.
The two were silent a moment.
“I’m afraid ye’ll ne’er unnerstan’,” Finlay continued. “An’ how cud ye?”
He sat for some time gazing into the fire without another word. At length, lost in his own thoughts, his lips began to move again. “But she is her father’s daughter,” he murmured, “ . . . she must unnerstan’.” He no longer seemed to be aware that Jamie was even in the room.
Jamie did not know what he was thinking, and somehow she knew she could not ask. Perhaps someday he would tell her. Perhaps someday she would understand. But for now, maybe that’s what the book meant by being content. She would just have to wait—though she was not sure what she was waiting for.
She stretched and yawned, rose, kissed her grandfather goodnight, and went to her bed.
1. 1 Timothy 6:1, 2.
2. 1 Timothy 6:6–12.
8
The Old Trunk
Three days later it dawned dark and cloudy.
When Jamie awoke she thought it must still be nighttime, for there was no sign of the sun anywhere in the eastern sky.
Looking about she saw that Finlay’s bed was empty, and she heard nothing of him anywhere. He had awakened early and left without a word. Perhaps even in his sleep he had sensed the approaching storm and wanted to be sure the sheep had a chance to graze before it broke.
Jamie rose, tended to the fire, then pulled on her coat and walked out into the chill, dank morning. The air was stuffy, full of the moisture which the sky would soon loose. She walked to the byre, found the pail, and began milking their one old cow. It was a job she had done, as far as she could remember, every day of her life. She had lost none of her affection for animals, but though she remembered them fondly, she had forgotten the names of the two cows she had tended as a child on her father’s land. And still she talked casually to the cow as she milked, on this particular day chiding her grandfather to the animal for not letting her take the sheep out on such a day.
During the wet and stormy days of autumn, and the raw, chilly
days of spring, Jamie took charge of the sheep most of the time. But as soon as summer broke out upon the highlands in earnest, Finlay insisted upon carrying the bulk of the shepherding once more himself. Even then Jamie was constantly at his side. In the last two or three years, his age had begun to tell more definitely upon him. His abiding love for the mountain, and his familiarity with its ways, had kept him going long past the age when most men turn their tasks over to those younger than themselves. But then, old Finlay MacLeod had nowhere else to go. The mountain was not only his love, it was his home—the only home he had ever known.
When Jamie finished milking, the pail was less than half full. “Ah, Missy,” she said, “ye’ll be gettin’ auld yersel’, aren’t ye noo? Weel, we willna be needin’ sae much milk onyway.” She took up the pail and carried it back into the cottage.
The black clouds were rolling thickly across the sky. The rain could not hold back much longer. It seemed impossible her grandfather would be back before the storm broke. The sheep could have remained where they were for one day, she thought.
A rumble of thunder startled her.
She hurried to the window and looked out. There was no evidence of the approaching flock. Patience had never been easy for her if she thought there was the slightest chance her grandfather might be in danger. Today she sensed a particular urgency.
Without waiting a moment longer, she reached again for her coat. But she had taken it off in the byre and left it there, so she hurried outside and down the path without it.
From signs along the trail she saw that her grandfather had not taken the sheep to the dell nor to any of the lower places. She made her way north, and there she could see evidence that he had gone instead to the high pasture. It was closer at hand, and part of it was protected from the north winds by a huge projecting cliff that shot out and up from Donachie’s mighty west flank. But the climb to the high pasture was steep and taxing, for man as well as beast, and Finlay had not gone there alone in nearly two years. He must have decided to take the shorter path, she thought, thinking he could outrun the storm.
But even as Jamie’s sure feet ran up the steep ascent, pellets of rain began to fall. Halfway up she was soaked to the skin, bringing her to a slippery half walk. Her climb was cut short, however, for she looked up and saw Finlay approaching.
“Gran’daddy!” she cried. “Ye’re a stubborn ane, ye are! leaving wi’ oot me!” A hint of anger was mingled in her tone of concern. “We’ll both be catchin’ oor daiths, we will!”
“The storm’ll be lastin’ two or three days,” he replied. “The lads an’ lassies needed t’ get oot, an’ they’ll be fine up there.” He pointed up the hill from where he had come.
His final words were drowned in a blustery gust of wind that almost blew him off his feet.
Jamie sighed in frustration.
“Weel, come on! Let’s get doon an’ oot o’ this wind an’ rain!”
The descent was tricky over the rain-slick rocks; the muddy path had already become a creekbed. Every now and then a brilliant flash of lightning lit up the dark silhouette of Donachie’s massive north face, followed almost instantly by deafening cracks of thunder. This was no distant storm: this one was their very own!
At length they were back inside the shelter of the cottage. A large segment of the packed earthen floor had puddled into mud before they were able to get themselves into fresh shirts and trousers. But even dry clothes did not seem to bring warmth to Finlay as he stood shivering convulsively before the fire.
“Ye’re chilled, Gran’daddy,” said Jamie as if she were a parent rebuking a child. “Ye’re goin’ t’ yer bed.”
“’Tis but the middle o’ the mornin’!” protested Finlay.
“That makes nae difference,” insisted Jamie, taking him by his arm and leading him to the corner where he slept.
He continued to shake with the cold, and Jamie pulled the heavy wool blankets from her own bed and laid them tenderly on top of him. All the while a horrible, undefined knot had been forming in the pit of her stomach.
Why was she suddenly filled with such fear? Her grandfather had been sick at other times. He had merely caught a chill from being too long out in the rain. He was a hardy old man. He would recover. He always did.
Yet seeing him tremble so, it was as if—
Suddenly she remembered!
Her father had come in out of the rain, too—trembling with cold and pain. There had been blood on him! She had laid him in bed also. She had made him tea and tried to nurse him.
But it had been of no use.
Her father had died despite her efforts!
Was she destined to fail her grandfather in the same way? But she could not stand idly by and do nothing.
“I dinna need all these blankets,” Finlay continued to argue. “What’ll ye be usin’ fer yersel’?” For he could see that she was trembling now too. But he did not know it was something other than the cold which shook Jamie’s body.
“Don’t ye worry aboot me, Gran’daddy,” she replied, trying to put a cheerful note into her voice. “I’m yoong an’ strong. An’ I’m not sae cauld as ye are yersel’. Ye jist get yersel’ t’ sleep!”
“Jist look at ye!” he went on. “Ye’re shiverin’ too.”
“The fire’s warmin’ me. An’ I’ll brew us some tea.”
Finlay was asleep before the kettle began to steam, much to Jamie’s relief. She set the tea to steep, and since the rain had let up for a moment, went out to the byre to retrieve her coat. She found it on the peg where she had left it that morning and gradually slipped her arms into it. Glancing around for some additional blankets to take inside, she walked to the driest wall of the place, which was attached to the cottage itself. Along the wall was stored, in addition to a stack of blankets used to keep ailing animals warm, a vast assortment of miscellaneous paraphernalia. Here had been collected over the years an assortment of items almost never used but kept around just in case—pails, ropes, cooking gear, rusted wool-shears, and an old mackintosh, at which Jamie shook her head and sighed, “Ye’re doin’ a great good here, ye are!”
Moving the accumulated junk aside to get to the blankets, Jamie worked her way toward the wall. As she picked up the stack from the large black trunk on which they were resting, she suddenly realized it had been in that very spot for years without her so much as noticing. It was the trunk that had come to Donachie with her as a child. She had not given it a thought in years. And now—or was it merely her imagination?—it almost seemed as if the bottommost blanket of the stack had been carefully draped over the trunk so as to hide it from view.
Surely the trunk must have long since been emptied. If her grandfather had not wanted her to discover it, and was so reluctant to talk about the past, he would never have left . . .
Rational arguments notwithstanding, perhaps nothing is more naturally compelling than the curiosity that urges one to open an old trunk. Jamie stepped forward, turned the latch, and lifted the great black lid.
Far from being empty, the trunk contained most of the items that had come with Jamie ten years before. Though she had not thought of them in years, she instantly recognized nearly everything she laid eyes upon. In ten years she had worn no dress, nor had she had any thought to wear one. Gently her hands reached down and pulled out a soft blue dress, badly faded and mended many times. She replaced it and held up another—pale pink with a red ribbon around its middle. Another was white, slightly yellowed, trimmed in delicate lace with pearl buttons. As a child she had never noticed the many places mended with the unskillful touch of a man’s hand, or the hems that had been let down to accommodate her growth through the years.
These were the dresses of a little lady—not of the unpolished shepherd girl named Jamie MacLeod.
Next to the dresses lay a book, brown and hardbound, with gold leaf lettering on the front and spine. As she lifted it up she trembled again, but this time with a kind of awe. She did not know how to read, and her grandfather had
not cared to teach her, so the words were a mystery to her. But that did not matter. She somehow felt—holding the book—very close to her father: it must be his book!
Struggling to light her own memory, she could only recall that there had been no books in their house. Her father had never read as her grandfather did. But . . . but . . . yes, she remembered now! He had always kept this book. Now she could see it as she pictured that little cottage down in the valley!
Could it—just maybe—have been her mother’s?
She opened it slowly. There was a handwritten message on the flyleaf. The writing was too lovely to be any man’s. Absentmindedly she traced her finger over the elegant script. She closed her eyes as she had done countless times before, and tried to imagine what Alice MacLeod was like. The picture in her mind was more vivid than any real picture could have been, for she did not have to draw upon a faulty memory. She had no visual memory at all to blur her mind’s eye.
As she stood there she saw a beautiful lady with dancing eyes and a merry smile, dressed in velvet and ruffled lace. And she was always sitting in a shiny black coach drawn by two sprightly chestnuts.
“Mama, I wish I could ha’ known ye,” Jamie murmured.
She turned the pages of the book and gazed intently at them, as if she might, by staring, unlock the bonds of her illiteracy. The words must have meant something to her mama, she thought. If only she knew what they said!
Was her mama a lady?
Was that why her papa always wanted her to be a lady? For if Jamie forgot everything else, she would never forget her father’s last words to her: “If only I hadna failed, ye would ha’ been a gran’ lady some day . . .”
Tears rose in Jamie’s eyes. “Oh, Papa, an’ I canna e’en read Mama’s book! I’m sorry, Papa!”
She snapped the book shut in despair and laid it back in the trunk. As she did so her eyes fell upon another object. An involuntary shiver ran up her spine but then passed just as quickly. It was the last gift her father had given her; she had forgotten all about it. Such a strange gift it was! She knew it was some kind of jewelry, but what it was remained a mystery to her—it could be neither a brooch nor a ring. It looked valuable, studded with gems. But what could it be used for? As a gift from her father she should have treasured it. But there was something about it she didn’t like, though she could not explain what.
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