by Su Bristow
‘Now your mother’s out of the way, you can tell me straight, Donald,’ said Hugh. ‘Do you really think they only meant to give you a scare, or were you just saying that for her ears?’
‘It’s what they said,’ said Donald, though he could not really remember now. ‘They were paying me back for what happened to Aly.’
Hugh frowned. ‘And that’s another thing I’ve never got to the bottom of. What did happen, exactly?’
‘Do you want to know the truth, Uncle Hugh? I don’t know. One minute he was pestering her, and the next he was coughing his guts up and babbling about drowning. Then he pointed the finger at her, and that was about it. It looked to me like he’d taken too much drink, gone too far and then his own bad conscience did the rest.’ Listen to yourself, he thought in wonder. Who’d have thought you had it in you?
‘Knowing Aly Bain, I’d say you weren’t too wide of the mark. But Donald, listen. I stand by my family. If you tell me that there’s nothing uncanny about your lass, then I’ll believe you. Can you do that?’
Donald took a deep breath, or as deep as he could manage. ‘I can’t say that for sure. But I don’t believe she’d set out to harm anybody unless they hurt her first, and that’s the truth.’
Hugh was looking at him intently. ‘Well, I suppose that’ll have to do,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of folk I couldn’t say that about, though they might be canny enough. And Donald…’ He paused, choosing his words. ‘You do want this marriage, don’t you? You’re not being pushed into it by your mother? I know how she can be. If this is the right thing for you, then I’m with you all the way. I haven’t always looked out for you as well as I might, but things will be different now, I promise. I’ve seen the way you are with Mairhi, and the way she is with you, and I still can’t make it out, Donald. What’s brought the two of you together? But if you can tell me this is what you really want, then I’ll hold my peace and give you my blessing. Can you do that?’
Donald glanced up at him, still holding that terrible bundle, and could not meet his eye. ‘It’s what I want, Uncle Hugh,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’ll be a father soon, and I’ve sworn to care for her and for the child.’
Hugh looked down at the bundle in his hands, as though he had forgotten it was there. ‘Well, there are worse reasons for being wed,’ he said. ‘And now, lad, you look all in. Get some rest; I’ll come over again tomorrow.’
23
Left alone, Donald could barely summon up the will to ease himself back down onto the wide bed. His head ached, and he could not even remember what he was supposed to be worrying about. Half sitting, half lying, he fell into an uneasy sleep. When he woke, the shadows had shifted in the room, and Mairhi was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him. For a long moment, they simply looked at each other. It seemed she might go on that way forever, but Donald could not bear it.
‘Would you get me a drink of water, lass?’ While she was gone he shifted about, trying to get comfortable, trying to clear the fog in his head. She gave him the cup, watched while he drank.
‘What is it, Mairhi? Where’s mother?’
She lifted her shoulders a little – a gesture learned from Catriona, though his cousin’s shrugs were much more emphatic.
‘Maybe she’s gone to see Father Finian already. How long have I slept?’ It was easy to talk on when he was with her; not that he expected an answer – his words falling like stones into the bottomless well of her silence. ‘Mairhi’ – he caught at her hand, and then lost his train of thought. ‘Look at your skin now. It’s getting stronger, isn’t it? No new blisters here on your arm. Looks better than mine!’ He laid his own forearm against hers, turned it over to show the thickened parts, like old lichen, where it had inflamed and settled again and again over the years. ‘I don’t think mine will ever heal properly, but maybe yours will, if you don’t scratch at it. See here, you can rub it with the backs of your nails to soothe the itch.’ He almost said, I could do with stepping out of my skin the way you did, but the image of the sealhide gloves, lying just where her hands were resting now, stopped him in time. There were so many thoughts that could not be spoken, after all. ‘You helped me, lass,’ he said instead. ‘I’ll be up and about again soon, and next time someone tries to hurt you, you come to me before you do anything back to them. Can you do that?’
He was still holding her hand, and perhaps he squeezed it as he spoke, for she nodded as though she were agreeing. How could he tell? He looked up, then grinned and said, ‘And between you and me, it was a grand thing you did what you did! Worth a few cuts and bruises, any time. But don’t tell mother I said so!’ It was strange. When he was younger and Bridie had tried to fight his battles for him, he had wanted to die of shame, though he would not stand up for himself. Now, although he knew Mairhi had been fighting her own battle, he felt that he had gained an ally; that in some strange way, the beating he had just endured was a kind of victory. ‘Just go easy next time,’ he said. ‘Don’t waste it on small fry like Aly Bain.’
He did not really care whether she understood or not, in the end. Seeing Aly like that, hearing him pour out his terrors onto the wet cobbles for everyone to see, had changed something in him. It hadn’t settled yet, it was still new and uncertain, but the prospect of facing the village in his bruised and battered state did not make him want to slink away into the hills as once it would have. Almost, he looked forward to it, though he was not inclined to wonder why that might be. Instead, he said, ‘Help me up, would you? I need to see if I can walk at all now.’ He knew well enough that it would be hopeless, that his injured leg would buckle as soon as he tried to put weight on it, but he wanted Mairhi close to him; there was something marvellous, just out of reach of his questing mind, that she had given him when she came to his rescue, and he hungered for it. Now, though, there was none of that, just her warm and solid presence at his side.
He kept his arm around her after he had collapsed back onto the bed, and she did not pull away. They were sitting like that, leaning companionably against each other, when Bridie came in.
‘It’s too early in the year yet for some of the things I need,’ she said, ‘but I’ve got some birch bark and some juniper to help the healing.’
Donald made a face. Mairhi, watching them both, looked startled and then laughed aloud. He smiled back, then stuck out his tongue and screwed up his eyes, pretending to gag, and she copied him, giggling like a little girl.
Bridie said, ‘You’ll be glad of them once you’ve got past the taste.’ And then, not quite looking at the place where the gloves had lain, ‘Hugh took them away with him?’
‘He’ll keep them on the boat,’ said Donald. ‘It’s there I’ll be needing them, anyway.’
‘Good,’ said Bridie, and she shuddered. ‘I thought for a moment…’
‘I know,’ said Donald. ‘But it can’t be, can it? Uncle Hugh said so. Put it out of your mind, now,’ and he drew Mairhi closer again.
Bridie gave him a strange look, almost beseeching, and then she left the room to tend to the fire next door. Once again, she had followed his lead, although why he should know better was beyond him. It might be that whoever had taken the precious sealskin was simply waiting for the right moment to bring it out and denounce them all; or it might already be beyond saving, turned into gloves and boots for men to wear. That was what had so horrified Bridie, he thought. For himself, it was his own guilt that had confronted him. And that would happen again and again, every time he put on the gloves in the sight of his uncle and all the crew, as he would have to do. For the first time, he understood that there would be no end to it, no matter what kind of a life he gave her, this woman who was to be his wife…
The sound of the sea was in his ears – a great, slow heartbeat surging through him as he lay on the hot sand, held between sky and water; and the blessed sunshine laid gentle hands on his wounded body…
He drew away, looked down at the top of her bent head. ‘I don’t deserve it,’ he said. ‘On you g
o now, and let me rest.’
24
Father Finian arrived the next day, attended by a straggle of children who hung about just beyond the garden wall. ‘At least their parents had more shame than to come too, though no doubt they’d have liked to,’ said Bridie, hurrying to secure the barn door before they could get up to any mischief. They had settled Donald by the fire this morning, where he was trying, one-handed, to sort out some fishing tackle.
‘What did you say to him?’ he asked.
Half out of the door, she called back, ‘He’s come of his own accord. I never got there yesterday, I’d other things to do.’ So that was that.
Donald tried to rise as the priest came in, but the effort was beyond him, and in any case, Father Finian was having none of it. ‘Sit down, sit down, for goodness’ sake! I’m glad to see you’re in one piece at least, but you won’t be taking the boat out for a while, hmm?’
‘A few days, maybe. There’s nothing that won’t mend, Father.’
‘Indeed. I’m very glad to hear it, but I’m afraid it’s not just about broken bones, is it, now? There are a lot of stories flying around, and I need to know what this is all about. You seem to have stirred up quite a bit of ill feeling, young lady.’ He shot a glance at Mairhi, who was sitting at the table arranging pebbles. Her collection was growing day by day, and she liked to set them out in changing patterns, which meant nothing to anybody except, presumably, herself. The priest leaned over the table, watched for a few seconds, and said, ‘But that one should go there, surely? Like with like, hmm?’ He picked up one of the stones and set it down in a different place, stood back and said, ‘There, that’s better, do you see?’
Donald held his breath. Mairhi stared down at the stones, and then suddenly she swept them all into a heap and began again to lay them out, one by one. She did not look at the priest at all.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Donald quickly. ‘She’s got her own ideas. I can’t make head nor tail of it either, Father.’
‘Ah, well, there we go,’ said Father Finian. He seemed lost now, standing there in the middle of the room, rocking from heel to toe and back again. Donald remembered him doing the same thing in the classroom, when some ignorant boy had asked a question too far. He doesn’t know what to do for the best, he thought. Do I have to save the situation yet again?
But this time it was not up to him. Bridie came in, saying, ‘They were after chasing the hens in the yard. We’ll have to keep an eye out. Mairhi, love, what are you thinking? Draw up a chair for Father Finian and put the kettle on, would you?’
The priest stopped his rocking movement, watching as Mairhi did as she was told. ‘That part’s true then, at least,’ he said. ‘She’s come on a great deal lately.’
‘Part of what?’ Bridie faced him squarely. ‘I’m sorry, Father, but we’ve had a lot to bear these last few days.’
‘I know, I know, Bridie. I meant nothing by it. Part of what they tell me, is all.’
‘And what’s the other part?’
‘Ah, well now. Tales have a habit of growing in the telling, hmm? Why don’t you tell me your side of things? I know you to be a woman of good judgment, and that’s more than I can say for some of those whose tongues are wagging. Come and sit down now, Bridie, and let’s have this out once and for all.’ Father Finian drew the chair that Mairhi had fetched up to the table, and sat down. Absent-mindedly, he picked up one of the stones that lay there, then threw a quick glance at Mairhi and put it down again.
Despite himself, Donald grinned, and was startled when the priest smiled back at him. Before Bridie could say anything, he spoke up. ‘She won’t hurt you, Father, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Donald, for goodness’ sake—’ began Bridie, but the priest held up his hand.
‘Peace now, peace. It’s fine; he saw what went through my mind there, just for a second. And that’s why I need you to set me straight. I am not inclined to give weight to stories of witchery and magic, but it’s what people believe that leads them to think or do one thing rather than the other, and not what really happened. I cannot have the souls in my care at odds with one another like this. So tell me: not what poor Mairhi may or may not have done, but why folks should be so quick to believe ill of her.’
Donald was impressed. He had not thought Father Finian capable of such insight; but then, before Mairhi, he had not thought much about him at all, other than to keep out of his way as much as he could. So they told him, leaving out only the things that could not be told. Donald glanced at Mairhi from time to time, but she had gone back to her stones, as though she were a child and had no part in it all. He could not tell whether she was listening or not, except that after a while he noticed that from time to time she would grow still, as though waiting for some signal, and then she would move another stone here, or there. Perhaps, he thought, she was telling the story too, in her own way. But he could not spare much attention for that; his mother had come to the end of telling how they had found Donald on the path, and Father Finian was speaking again.
‘Thank you, Bridie, and you too, Donald. Your story is a great deal less fantastic than most of the other accounts I’ve been given, and so of course I am much more inclined to believe it. And I also know, though this is something I would not speak about to anyone whose discretion I could not rely upon, that there are things in this world that do not quite fit. Some people are drawn to them, and sometimes great good can come of it.’
He paused, looking up at the ceiling, just as he did in the pulpit on a Sunday, as though waiting for God to tell him what to say next. ‘That is why I have always respected you and your profession, Bridie, and turned a blind eye to the … hmm … the finer details of your craft. And there are other people who are frightened by them, or try to denounce them, or feel a need to take some kind of stand. I am bound to say that, in my opinion, this tends to lead to trouble rather than to anything good.’
Again, the silent appeal to heaven. ‘So that leaves a third category of people, among whom I count myself, and they are those who choose to leave well alone. As the appointed shepherd of this little flock, I find myself obliged to turn a blind eye to a great many things, or we would simply not get by. Unlike sheep, people do not always go in the same direction, much as one might wish it. God has given us free will for a reason, after all.’
Donald had not understood a good deal of what had been said, but he saw now that the priest was beginning to get tangled up in his own words; he stopped, took a deep breath, and his ears went bright pink.
Bridie said, ‘That’s very kind of you, Father,’ and got up to pour the tea. She turned her face away, and Donald saw that she was hiding a smile. He thought of the women in the village, dipping their heads respectfully as the priest went by and smirking behind his back; of himself as a small boy among others, daring each other to place a dead mouse on his chair in the church, or knocking on his door and hiding in the bushes. He thought of the men, working on the boats, harvesting the oats or the barley, telling stories in the bar. Father Finian was never among them, though sometimes he was standing at a little distance, watching. Up until about half an hour ago, Donald would have said that, of course, the priest was at the centre of the community. Now he realised that he was looking at a man who was perhaps even more isolated than himself.
‘You do a good job, Father.’ Where had those words come from? The priest looked away, and his ears grew even pinker. Behind him, Donald heard Bridie cough, scraping the kettle on the hearthstones to cover the noise. Then Mairhi got up and went to stand in front of the priest. When he did not look up, she placed a hand on his bent shoulder and into his lap she put one of her stones. Donald craned to look. It was a large one, a piece of granite shot through with streaks of mica, glittering as Father Finian held it up and turned it about.
‘Goodness me! Well, thank you very much, my dear. I wonder what it signifies. Of course you can’t tell me, but I shall treasure it none the less. And do you still have your little
seal, hmm?’
‘She keeps it always by her,’ said Bridie, as Mairhi’s hand went to her pocket, and she drew back, wide-eyed.
‘No, no, I don’t want it back! It’s yours to keep. Fair exchange, hmm?’ And Father Finian held up the stone again. ‘And now, let’s see. If there is any harm in you, young Mairhi, it is not apparent to me, but perhaps that is because I have not threatened you in any way. No, no, you need not say anything’ – Bridie had made as if to speak – ‘I know my parishioners very well, including those who do not come to church as often as they might. I know what is, and is not, likely to have happened between Aly Bain and yourself. So what I would like from you, Miss McArthur, and I feel fairly sure that you understand me well enough, is a promise. Can you swear to me that you will do your very best not to let such a thing happen again?’
Donald sat quite still as Mairhi and the priest held each other’s gaze. Then, keeping hold of the seal in her pocket, she nodded. Whether she really understood, or whether she simply remembered that a nod was the right response to his questions, Donald could not tell and did not care. Father Finian smiled at her.
‘Good girl! Then we can trust one another, just like myself and your mother-in-law-to-be. Isn’t that right, Bridie?’
She could not look away this time, in the act of bringing him his cup of tea. She blushed like a girl, and her voice trembled as she said, ‘That’s right, Father.’
‘Well then, that’s settled. Now the wedding is in six days’ time, is it not? Do you think you’ll be on your feet by then, Donald, or shall we have to carry you to the altar?’
After one appalled moment, Donald realised that this was supposed to be a joke. He said, ‘Oh, I’ll be walking, Father, don’t worry.’
The priest’s eyes twinkled. ‘But not dancing, perhaps?’
This time Donald did laugh, and so did his mother. Some things could not be kept secret. ‘No, Father, I’ll not be dancing.’