The Keening

by Margaret Pinard

  She wondered if it would be any better in a bigger city or in the country ’round about Pictou. She’d felt safe at home on their island, but was that because she’d been younger and less experienced? Or because they knew all their neighbors and shared the same code of civility? She hadn’t thought it was a question of civility, but of common decency, but apparently, the Big City and the New Country had their own codes. She was relieved to know Neil would stay close by, even though it looked to be taking a toll on him to assume such a role so young.

  ***

  ***

  They prepared for Gillan’s leave-taking. He’d had the offer through Mr. Brown’s friend confirmed, and would be setting off by St. Columba’s Day. For his part, he did his round of thank-yous, making sure to leave what neighbors there were on good terms. It was agreed that the eldest Wilson boy would accompany him, to look out for any opportunities upriver. Gillan also updated the will they’d carried with them, leaving the document with a bank clerk.

  The family felt the edge of Gillan’s bitterness in these last few days, even when he made efforts to be involved. Sheila expressed her faith in his ability to earn the silver to find a good plot. She stayed down in the common kitchen for a long time, at the stove making oat bannocks and stovies that would keep for a few days of his journey.

  Neil tried to stay out of his father’s way, as he could feel the bridled hostility most acutely. It was a bustling, but not a happy household, despite the good situation they had found and the good weather that held. When Gillan had his food laid in, his few tools collected, and his spare shirt packed, he announced he was ready to leave that morning. He said farewell on the steps of the boarding house, promising to send word as soon as he could with any news.

  Coming to Neil, he put his hand across to his shoulder. He seemed about to say something, but coughed instead and pulled him close. Neil pressed his arm around his stepfather, but kept his expression schooled to blankness, Muirne saw. It was painful, and she put her hand to her breastbone, which hurt with this break in the family. The last time she had felt the pain just there had been when they heard the news her father was gone.

  Gillan saw his family’s tears: they stayed in his mind’s eye as he left to catch the boat that would take him up the St. Lawrence. He shook his head to free himself of the image a few times, then gave it up. His wife’s anguished expression haunted him. He’d promised her to make as much as he could, as quickly as possible, and spare nothing for his own keep, until they had enough for the new land west of the river, said to be flatter and more fertile.

  Muirne heard his whispered words to her mother, and winced again at the breastbone. “When I return, it will be worth it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  When Gillan left, Neil’s journeying stopped. He was not sure if it was temporary, but he could no longer leave for a night and a day at a whim. For one, it would be leaving the other four alone; for another, he could no longer go without sleep to walk that far. And for a third, he had heard of a very good possibility for them out east.

  The next town over from them was New Glasgow, and Neil had snorted at the name. Not there, certainly, he thought. But when he approached the town from Pictou, there was a ridge of land that he ascended slowly, only to see the whole of the valley laid out before his eyes. It being June, Neil looked and looked, the sun pouring down and the light glinting on the water which wound its way through the settlements.

  Instead of heading south to Truro or Halifax, where it was lowland and fertile, he was forming a dream of finding a high point for their new home, a place to look out to sea from, maybe even eastward to look toward home. Should I confide in Muirne or wait until it is a closer possibility? Nay, I’ll wait.

  He had a while to wait, for he had first to recover his strength from the double schedule. This he had done in under a week, but then Muirne had voiced a desire to accompany him on the overnight trip. They agreed it might be helpful for both to go, but then there were more preparations to make, as well as ensuring his mother was safe and well-stocked while they’d be gone. By now they had faith in their neighbors, and two of these agreed to stop by each morning to check in on them and help out if need be.

  In a leave-taking uncomfortably close to their father’s, Neil and Muirne set off. They were keen to see the acreage off the Sherbrooke Road that Neil had heard called a good prospect. Muirne was both excited and filled with trepidation, a mix which made her frequently glance around at the thick forest, so different from Scotland’s barren volcanic hills and lowland valleys. They wore the same heavy plaids that had journeyed with the family from Mull, which were still in good repair despite their heavy service in the outdoors and on the ship. Long parts of the day saw them carrying them, as it was humid and warm, but they were thankful when they made camp for the night to have their warmth.

  “Thank God for those hardy sheep,” Neil said to her over their first campfire, outside New Glasgow. His grin won Muirne over and she relaxed a bit.

  “I wish we had a way to recover a loom for Mama. She could do so much with one here, where people don’t seem to have as much skill with their wool.” This brought up a low laugh from Neil, as intended, since he knew she was thinking of a comical episode outside the kirk the week before. Someone they did not know had stood in front of the main door as the folks filed out, wearing the long kilt, but it was atrociously woven, such that long strands hung down from many points, and floated around as he turned this way and that.

  “Aye, I’ve been thinking on that too, and watching for any opportunity, but I haven’t seen any weavers advertising in the town, have you?”

  Muirne shook her head. “But how would we pay for it if we did find one? Are we not already doing all the wood chopping and coal gathering and water carrying for our room now? And yerself also the sanding and repairs and anything else that Mrs. Conaghey can think up for our board?”

  “But if Mother had a loom, she could be earning money with it, and not having to scrub floors as now.”

  “Aye, but it’s that first step: how to leap over that little mountain?”

  ***

  ***

  They slept warm under the stars that night and the next. The third day, they reached the start of the hill path described to Neil, and began their ascent mid-morning. By noon, after fighting brush and brambles fiercely for a couple of hours, Neil called for a break. He could see Muirne’s frustration, and they sat down to eat the oatcakes in their parcel and drink the water taken from the stream that morning.

  When they started again, Muirne had regained some of her equanimity, but called out to Neil in good humor. “What was that big knife you said they had for cutting through the jungles in Africa? Ma-cherry?”

  “Ma-chetty,” he pronounced. “It’s as long as a scimitar but straight, and cuts through vines and new growth like butter.”

  “And who told ye of this marvel?”

  “Martin Wilson, while we were on the ship. As his older brother is going to run the smithy after their father, Martin’s decided to go into the navy, but he’s promised his mother to apply for a scholarship to one of the church schools in Quebec before he leaves.”

  “Tcha there,” Muirne scolded as she lifted up her skirts to stamp down another patch of thorny brambles. “Are you sure this is the way, Neil? It’s nothing but brambles.”

  “Oh aye,” he said. “Did ye notice that we’ve not had to be cutting down any trees? The brambles have only taken over where the trees were cut down for a path.”

  And indeed, Muirne looked around, abashed she hadn’t noticed something so simple. “Ow!” she cried out as her foot hit something forcefully and she put out her hands to break her fall. “Ooohh, the devil,” she breathed as she recollected herself and saw all the thorns stuck to her palms.

  “Tcha now,” Neil said, imitating her scold a minute before. He laughed at the look she gave him. “What took your foot?”

  “What else? A tree stump! Just as you were explaining about the
cut-down trees.”

  Neil threw his head back to laugh freely at that, a kind of release for both of them in it. “It’s only a short way before the crest. Come on, we’re almost there.” He helped her with the last of the thorns, and she pressed the cloth of her petticoat to her palms to staunch any blood coming up.

  They struggled up as before, but Muirne could see the end of the ridge now, too. Neil reached it first and stood stock-still until she joined him. Where the path turned to run along the ridge, they stood under a grove of tall cedars. She gasped at the view and reached both hands outward to balance herself as she turned to gaze in all directions.

  “We’ve got a view of the whole country here,” Neil said. “It’s quite handsome, wouldn’t you say?”

  Muirne was speechless. They gazed out to the west and south where the sun was just starting its long slow summer descent. There were other hills nearby, lakes glinting between them. Trees climbed high all around, and for the middle of the day, it seemed very quiet. Neil felt his spirit rise with the beauty of the landscape. Turning, he watched Muirne’s eyes skim over the peaks and foothills, the delight evident in her open-mouthed wonder.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been this high,” she said.

  “I know. Folks say the Cuillins are fair tall, but I think this is even higher.”

  “You said there was a cabin started here as well? Why would someone desert their claim here?” A shadow of doubt had come into her voice, he noticed.

  “Well, let’s find the site if we can. Maybe we’ll see why there. If not, it’s back to the town gossips again.”

  They made their way to the right, following the path of no trees again. Muirne laughed at this. “Aye, and I’m no’ to ask how you won the favors of these town gossips, am I?”

  “Mmph,” Neil said emphatically. “I’m no’ getting into trouble, so don’t you worry,” he said, preferring to be enigmatic for the moment rather than dispel his sister’s visions of his being the romantic rover of Pictou.

  They saw the clearance for the site first, as the rocks and shells stood out on the dark earth. Foundation and large logs were covered with moss and mushrooms. Apparently it’s wet even up here on the ridge, Neil thought. Beyond the outlines of the cabin lay the stacks of wood meant for its walls. They were long poles stripped of bark, not milled at a lumber mill.

  “Was this a very early settlement, Neil?”

  A stillness had settled inside him at the sight, and her question broke his train of thought. “What was that?”

  “I asked if it was a very early settlement, since the logs look all homemade, you know, stripped young trees from the forest around, instead of the long rectangular sides you see in town.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” he told her. The stillness returned, and Muirne spoke quietly this time.

  “It reminds me of our house, Neil.”

  “How d’ye mean? Ours was stone and daub, not wood logs like—” He stopped himself at her expression, which seemed appropriate for a cemetery.

  “Not that way. I mean, our house probably looks like this now, burnt down and exposed for a year now. It’s—” she searched for a word. “Lonely.”

  Neil reviewed the images that had been in his head ever since he’d been told in Glencoe of their blackhouse being burnt and abandoned. He’d imagined it burnt to cinders, the rocks strewn about. But Muirne had been there that morning, and now he understood that the men had not returned, confident that the lives of the tenants were destroyed enough. So there were likely corners standing. Hooks left in the walls. Shelves only turned over, still inside the outline of the house.

  He turned away from Muirne and a sharp exclamation broke from him, “Mo cridhe!” His hands squeezed tight into fists, and he wished he could stop the new images from forming in his mind, but it was as if he was a bird swooping down for a better view of their own Dalcriadh, a year after they’d left.

  Muirne looked at him, then focused her gaze upon the ground at her feet, the leaves collected there and the plants pushing up through the ground cover. When she’d mastered her own memories, she looked back up to Neil.

  She was unsurprised to see his face screwed up and his nose running as he wept. The beautiful day shone down on them in the little clearing, taking no notice of their grief, finally aired.

  Muirne stepped to his side and he put his arm around her shoulder. She looked out from the site to the north, where one could just glimpse the sea. She knew it must be the strait between Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, but she let it be the sea outside their home for a moment as she gazed, feeling Neil’s tears where her temple touched his chin.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The first news they received from Gillan came two weeks after he had left. It was a fine hot June afternoon, and the MacLeans in Pictou were all occupied clearing the tangle of brambles and brush on that steeply pitched road to Sherbrooke. Faced with the choice of waiting for Gillan’s news and subsequent money or starting on something that could gain them a place sooner, they chose the latter.

  They borrowed scraps of leather to grasp the thorns with, and hacked at the plants with other borrowed implements: a scythe, a sickle, a saw. They were all old tools, blunt and little effective. Still, they’d been at it four days running and made recognizable progress when they were hailed by someone down the hill.

  “Mistress MacLean!” the voice cried, carried upward easily by winds that cooled the brow of those working. Sheila stopped, turned back to look, and saw one of their neighbors from Pictou standing at the foot of the hill fifty feet distant, waving an arm with something white in his hand. Sheena took the opportunity to straighten her back from its bent position and sigh dramatically. She sat down in the cleared area, thankful for a rest.

  Alisdair giggled, imitating her sigh and executed a dramatic swooping fall. Muirne looked at them, shaking her head, then laid down her saw and followed her mother and Neil down the hill. The neighbor was Mr. Macklemore, and he had a smile plastered across his face. “Has the town found a vein of gold under the streets then, Mr. Macklemore?” Sheila asked him.

  He cackled at that, throwing back his head and showing his strong set of discolored teeth. “Ah no, Mrs. MacLean, but you’ve ‘ad a letter from your Gillan these three days past, and I’ve only been able to bring it to you now that I’m on my way to visit a friend. He’s got some horses to inspect. I might buy a few to bring back.”

  Muirne thought of his going to buy horses and felt a momentary twinge of envy for those already well settled, but let it pass. Our time will come, she told herself. In the meantime, no use getting upset at the bragging of a good-natured blowhard. He continued to regale them with the account of the letter’s arrival and the decision of who should bring it to the family while they camped out here. Sheena much enjoyed the rest on the soft earth, choosing not to listen to the rambling account.

  “I was honored to be the messenger,” he said, amusement glinting from his eyes. “And since my friend with the horses lives near a town on the express route, I would be happy to transmit any news back to your husband if there is a reply needed.” He waited then, rocking back on his heels and settling his folded hands on the paunch under his waistcoat.

  Sheila acknowledged his effort in tracking them down and thanked him for the offer of returning her reply. She sat down to open the letter while he waited and beckoned to Neil. Muirne and Neil both moved closer, and Neil took the pages from her hands but held it out so they could all see the scrap of paper from their Gillan.

  There was Sandy Wilson’s splotchy quillwork in Gaelic across two pages. He wrote that Gillan had had two interviews in Tadoussac, a town along the north coast of the river where he had been deposited by the boat. It was an older town at the intersection of two rivers, and there seemed to be plenty of opportunities. He would consider these two posts, but intended to continue upriver into the city even if he was accepted, in effect, delay his start in order to have time to explore the capital.

&
nbsp; He ended with endearments for Sheila and affection to all, and as Neil read that he could feel his stepfather’s solid barrier still there between them. Very well, thought Neil. I will just be proving him wrong by adopting this place and moving into it before he even knows what he’s about. He’ll see.

  No reply was needed, especially since the return direction would likely be wrong now. Gillan was most likely making his way on foot now to the capital, Quebec City. Sheila thanked Mr. Macklemore once again before he continued on his way. Sheila turned to see Sheena and Alisdair standing and watching the action down the hill. She grinned, then with her own dramatic sigh, swirled around and fell to the ground. Children were not the only ones who needed humor.

  ***

  ***

  More days passed with no news, as the MacLeans restored the road to a troddable path. They had one more visit from a Pictou neighbor, who came to replenish their supply of oats and onions, compliments of Mrs. Conaghey, or rather their account with her. He’d thrown in a gooseberry tart that his wife had made, and they almost toppled him with their enthusiastic hugs and exclamations upon the discovery. True, there were gooseberries growing wild enough on the surrounding hills, but they were much too sour to enjoy, and there was the work of topping and tailing each one before you could cook and eat it.