Muirne leaned over to peer at her mother’s face. “Mother, can you hear me? Mother!”
Alisdair was sent down to the creek to fetch another pail of water, and the two older children were hovering over Sheila, who sat propped up by one of the cedars, some thirty feet from the house. She was still in a faint. Muirne looked to Neil, panicky tears starting to make her breathe in a jumpy way. “What can we do? A cold cloth? We have no smelling salts to bring her ’round.”
Neil took the shirt he’d tied around his face and dipped it into the pail Alisdair brought back then. He lay the cool cloth gently over his mother’s face and neck, which had both started to pinken and swell. Muirne covered her mouth, pushing away the thought that it looked like a shroud. Neil gathered himself and spoke. “One of us should go and fetch help, someone faster than we are to bring a doctor.”
Muirne rose. “I’ll go down to Antigonish. It’s closer and bigger, and they can send someone back on a horse. They might make it in a few hours if I run.” Saying this, she stayed for neither kerchief nor farewell, but tore down the path they’d cleared. Neil turned to Alisdair, whose lip was trembling mightily against fearful emotions dammed in his face.
“Alisdair, I’ll need you to be our bucket brigade, so we keep the cool water on her face, a’right?” Alisdair picked up the pail and started back down to the creek yet again. Neil glanced down at the few stings he could feel prickling his hands. He stood and gave a strangled cry.
“Of all the—” He thought they’d been careful in all their motions, measured in all their attempts to secure a new place, but now, Nature herself seemed to be rearing an ugly head to chase them away from their dream of a new home.
Neil heard Alisdair hurrying back up the path and knew he had to bring himself under control, but he was suddenly so angry at the injustice of his family’s misfortunes that he let loose with his temper for a moment. He slapped his palms against a log that lay on the ground nearby. God’s blessings they were not burned in their beds, he thought wildly, and is it this she was saved for? God, please take the poison from her—or speed the horse of the doctor in Sherbrooke—or speed the feet of Muirne as she runs—whatever it takes to keep our mother safe.
He gave in to his grief for a few moments, but then he heard Alisdair calling his name. “Neil, what should I do next?”
“Take the—nevermind, I’ll do it.” Neil grabbed up the canteen, hoping he hadn’t sloshed all the water out in his haste. But no, it was still quite heavy. He picked up Muirne’s abandoned kerchief, wetted it with more cool water, and placed it on his mother’s hands. “There, keep you an eye on the kerchief, and when it starts to feel hot, dip it into the cold water, like this.” Neil demonstrated again. Alisdair nodded. Neil went to gather their plaids, bunching a couple of the squares of cloth under his mother’s head.
***
***
Hours later, Neil glanced at the brow of the hill every few minutes. He imagined the journey Muirne must have taken, the search for a doctor, the procuring of a fast horse, the relating of details and directions to the doctor. If I can think through all of it, it could have happened by now, no?
His mother still lay in the shade of the tree. She’d awoken a few times at first, to find Neil by her side. He saw a sort of mute pleading in her eyes, and it cut him to feel so helpless against her suffering. If he’d known some sort of plant he could scavenge to bring down the swelling, but, no. There were red bumps and scrapes all over her collar bone from when she’d fallen and flailed about at the wasps. Her ears and cheeks and neck were all distended beyond their natural smoothness, looking fit to burst. She hadn’t woken for a while now, breathing raggedly through the cold wet kerchief.
As he looked up for the umpteenth time, he heard a crashing in the bracken. Off the road, through the forested part of the hill, there was a horse coming up toward them. Its rider wore no jacket, but was in his shirtsleeves: a tall, dark, mustachioed man. He pulled up the horse’s reins when he caught sight of the family huddled in the shadow of the tall cedar.
“Are you the doctor?” called Neil.
“I’m the best your sister could find,” came the reply, tossed in Neil’s direction as he dismounted unceremoniously from the horse and dropped the reins to the ground. He carried no doctor’s bag, but there was a pouch attached to the saddle, Neil noticed. The man tore it open, pulling out another wee pouch, this one with a drawstring. He shook several dark shapes from it into his hand as he strode over.
“This is a very long shot, son, but it may help.”
“Aye.”
“Let us hope.” He knelt down and carefully applied a sweet-smelling herbal oil to her skin, replacing the cool cloths as he went. Then he bent down to listen to her breathing. “When did it happen, by your estimate?”
Neil looked at the sun, barely visible, over the low mountain across the west valley. “More’n two hour ago, sir. I’d say it was around two and a quarter.”
“Well, I think she’ll make it, since she’s still breathing. Her throat isn’t constricted, but we’ll see.” He rose and returned to the saddle bag. Neil marveled at the horse standing stock-still, catching its breath after the mad dash up the hill. He returned with a small glass bottle. He uncorked it and waved it under Sheila’s nose. She shot up, startling Neil and Alisdair. She looked around, panting after the first gasp of recall. Her speech was slurred, but understandable.
“Alisdair… Neil, coom here to me. Oh boys…”
The man had stepped back quietly when she woke, and watched as the boys hugged their mother, carefully avoiding the exposed parts of skin that by now flared red and pouchy. She raised a hand to her face.
“I wouldn’t recommend that, mistress,” came the voice a few feet away. Sheila turned, emitting a painful intake of breath, to look at the stranger.
“Mam, this is the man who’s just come to our aid,” said Neil. “Thank ye sir, may we know the name of the man we must thank?”
“I’m Ed Turner, and it was no trouble. I was just in the process of buying that mare, and you’ve given me the perfect occasion to test her mettle. She passed with flying colors, I must say.” He turned to Sheila, “So did you, I’m glad to say.”
“Are ye not a doctor, then?” Alisdair still clung to his mother’s skirt, but peeked his head out to observe the stranger.
“No, but I’m studying to be one, and was right near the school, where I could get that tincture of yarrow root. Have you any vinegar or alcohol near?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it then. We can’t risk waiting any longer.” He moved to the saddle bag and brought forth a small bottle with paper on the front and wax at the top.
“This was an early graduation present from my own father, some very expensive brandy,” he said, musing. “And I suppose it could be put to no better use.”
“Now hold still there,” he said, and dropped a few drops at a time onto a corner of cloth and dabbed at certain points on her exposed skin.
“Mr. Turner,” said Neil, when he had finished, “Thank ye so much, sir. Ye’re helping us out of a terrible misfortune. And we’ve no way to pay you at present, but—”
“Well, I will be most happy to hear from you when you are back on your feet and walking, Mrs. MacLean. It’s not too far from Pictou to Sherbrooke, and I hope you’ll pay me a visit in future. We can talk about payment then, when you’re fully recovered. For now, though,” he paused, glancing around him. “I’ve a mare to pay for!” He laughed, and rose to dust off his breeches. His disheveled shirt he shrugged at.
“I would recommend letting those sons do most of the work around here for a few days, madam, and only moving when you feel up to it. Happy to be of some little service,” he said as he threw the reins back over the mare’s head and mounted.
“Goodbye!”
He left them more than a bit astonished at his exit. What on earth kind of behavior was that? thought Neil.
“What a quee
r man,” Alisdair said.
“Queer or no, he’s done us a good turn. Oh, Neil,” she sighed, wriggling her free fingers toward him.
“I was so scared,” Neil murmured to her.
“You did right,” she replied. Louder, she said, “And I think we’ll need some more water for our camp. And that Neil will be cooking dinner.” She tried to smile without moving any of the muscles in her swollen face. “But where’s Muirne? Is she the one fetched Mr. Turner?”
“Aye, Mam. She’ll be walking back to us now, not as fast as the horse.”
“Ah. Well, we can’t do much more here, so it’s back to Mrs. Conaghey. When we get back in two days’ time, we’ll celebrate two happy occasions: your saving my life, and Muirne finding a beau!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Before they returned to town, Sheila did indeed take the opportunity of quizzing Muirne on the subject of Ed Turner. At first Muirne only let on how desperate she’d been to find someone who could help, and how relieved she was to find two men right outside the medical college. Sheila could well imagine the state Muirne must’ve been in when she arrived in Sherbrooke. She probed further.
“But what was your very first thought when you saw Mr. Turner?”
Muirne’s eyes strayed to the side. Sheila waited. “He looked like a man to rescue us,” Muirne said softly. Sheila noted the ‘us’ instead of ‘you.’
“Aye, and right well he behaved,” said Sheila. “What was his first reaction to ye then?”
“He was talking with another man about the mare, as he said. They were standing in the street near the school. Mr. Turner was facing me, and I’m sure saw me before I noticed him, since I was so out of breath and in such a panic. I was trying to look around but the world felt all a bit crazy by then. I felt like I’d never stop running.”
She paused. “Anyway, I fairly collapsed at their feet. I had no breath to shout, so I whispered the words that came to me. Mother—wasps—fallen ill—hurry—old Campbell steading. They held me up and listened, I think. Then I saw Mr. Turner rush for the school, and I thought he was leaving me. But the next moment he came right back out, spoke to the other man who was holding me up, and then leapt onto the mare. He told the man to look after me, and was off.”
Sheila approved of the narrative, both the behavior of the gentlemen and the conduct of her daughter. “And how long did you stay?”
“Oh, I couldn’t, Mother. I had to get back here to you!” She turned tortured eyes on Sheila. “I only rested until I’d caught my wind, drank some water the man got from a pump, and then started walking again.”
“Well, when we go back to Mrs. Conaghey’s tomorrow, we shall send a note of thanks to Mr. Turner and friend, by way of the school. I’m sure we can find the name of it from someone in town—Mrs. Conaghey.” She attempted to snicker, and Muirne’s seriousness fell away. She smiled at the mention of the old gossip, now a true friend.
“Very well. We shall send a note. But don’t let’s tell Mrs. Conaghey all the details I’ve just told you, Mam.”
***
***
They learned of the school: Frederick Taylor School of Medicine Practice. They sent off the note. Muirne told Neil a slightly modified version of the same tale, omitting the feeling that Mr. Turner looked like the rescuing type of man. She didn’t want to bother Neil with such sentimental twaddle. They stayed in town several days to be sure Sheila’s swelling would go down and not lead to complications.
There was no news from Gillan. The family thought about writing him of their near escape, but as they had no address, they let it bide.
A week went by, and the areas where Sheila had been stung—head, neck, and arms—looked to be almost normal. Sunday came, and kirk. The children attended, leaving Sheila at home with their Bible. She sat studying it, pondering their position. So precarious it had been, but they had been pulled back to safety. “Thanks be to the Lord,” she whispered.
As she was sitting on the bed, she heard someone enter downstairs, and the muted sounds of two people conversing through the floor. Who would be visiting now, during kirk? Sheila thought. She found out soon enough. Mrs. Conaghey was off to the service as well, so it was a housemaid who knocked on her door and introduced a Mr. Turner to see her.
Sheila’s heart went all a-flutter at the mention of the name—a chance for her Muirne! He entered and bowed; the maid withdrew. He held his hat in front of him, twirling the brim. Sheila asked him to sit, and indicated one of the chairs not piled with maps, dull tools, and piece-work.
“Thank you, madam,” he said. She was pleased by the low timbre of his voice. Mellifluous.
“It is I who should be thanking you, of course, sir.” She smiled. “Both for coming to my aid and for paying me this call, although you perhaps thought to find more people about than just me? You’re rather early—”
“Yes, it’s Sunday, isn’t it?” This took Sheila aback. Of course it was Sunday; who did not take notice of the bells and follow them to kirk? “Would you have any objection to my waiting until your family returns? You are right; I intended a visit with all of you, but neglected to mark the time. Foolish of me.”
A little on her guard now, Sheila inclined her head. She took up her Bible again from where she had set it on the bed and looked at him. He did not raise his gaze to meet hers, but allowed her an easy inspection of his person. The dark, curly locks remained the same. The shirt, jacket, and cravat were all spick and span, sharply pressed. Sheila wondered who did his laundry for him. His breeches, hose, and shoes were of good quality, and nothing about him looked ragged. Indeed, he had carried himself well into the room, but still she felt he was hiding something, ashamed of something. His downcast gaze seemed to be proof.
“Would you like to hear me read? I was going to reflect on the Book of Nehemiah today, and the Psalms, to thank God for my near escape.”
Mr. Turner looked as if someone had poked him awake. “Ah, surely, madam, if you wish to do so, I will listen.” A queer response, from someone who was otherwise the picture of manners and decorum.
She commenced to read a passage, pausing at intervals to reflect on the words herself. She heard not a peep from Mr. Turner’s direction. She gave up waiting for a response and merely continued as if he were not there. After a good twenty minutes though, there was another stirring downstairs. More muted voices. Another man’s. Oh for goodness’ sake, thought Sheila. Now what?
The same young maid, now looking reproachfully at Sheila for having taken her away from her household duties twice, knocked and announced a Mr. MacLachlan. Sheila felt about to lose her equanimity.
“How delightful, Mr. MacLachlan. You’ll excuse me if I don’t get up; I’ve had a frightful run-in with a wasp colony out on the ridge, and I’m still recovering. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Sheila was still propped up in the low bed, but Mr. Turner rose when the second guest was introduced. They glanced at each other, coolly reading each other’s stations, gauging each other’s intentions.
Sheila had a moment to compare them as well, and sized them both up as suitors for Muirne. Both men were older than her daughter, although how much older she wasn’t sure. Turner looked older, more experienced, and he had a bit of an accent, which she couldn’t identify other to say it sounded educated. Both men looked physically healthy, strong, and confident. MacLachlan was Mrs. Conaghey’s nephew, and so she knew one of his ties to the stable community of Pictou, but Turner could be anybody, really. And he did give off such an aloof air.
Mr. Turner had been sitting on the only chair in the room, but Sheila indicated the chest to Mr. MacLachlan and he accepted with grace. “Mrs. MacLean, I had indeed heard of your accident, and was coming to pay you a visit to see if there was anything I could do. I realize that you’ll want work to continue on the property, and maybe I could help with the possession paperwork. But first things first, are you feeling well enough for a visit?”
“Well enough, Mr. MacLachlan. But let me introduce one of my r
escuers. Mr. MacLachlan, Mr. Turner, from Sherbrooke. Mr. Turner, this is Mr. MacLachlan, our landlady’s nephew.”
They nodded politely to each other. So they haven’t met before, Sheila thought. But there is definitely tension there. “I was just reading from the Bible since I can’t yet make it to kirk, Mr. MacLachlan. Do you go to a different one from your aunt?”
“Er, yes, missus. My mother, Auntie Ann’s sister, married a Seceder—an anti-Burgher—and so converted. Theirs is an earlier service, and I have already attended.”
Sheila’s mind drew back a bit, although she tried not to let it show on her face. “I see. Are you a Seceder as well, Mr. Turner, to pay such an early call a-Sunday?”
“Ah, no, madam. It’s just that I am not very religious in any particular sect. I attend no church since—for a long time.” Sheila noticed the sudden flush of red creep up from his collar, and wondered again at his very odd behavior.
“I see.” She paused. She was not feeling up to this complicated double interview all of a sudden. “Well, gentlemen, I thank you for your pains in coming here this morning, but I must say I am feeling rather tired and the need for a rest—”
“Of course, missus,” MacLachlan said, springing up.
“Of course, madam,” Turner said, raising himself up more slowly.
MacLachlan looked like he was going to speak, but hesitated. “Yes, sir?” Sheila prodded.
“Might I return this afternoon, after you’re more rested and the family is here? I had hoped to talk with you all.”
“Yes, I think that’d be all right.” She inclined her head to each of them as they exited, and her mind was whirling. She pulled up the thick bedclothes and fell fast asleep.
***
The Keening Page 19