Under the Same Sky (21 page)

T
he braes of Morar were steep and narrow. Iain led the group between rocky glens and under canopies of low-hanging leaves.
After an hour or so, the children were too tired to walk, so Andrew and Iain fashioned slings from their plaids and wrapped the children onto their backs.

Janet had difficulty keeping her eyes on the trail. The changing landscape captivated her. She had seen all of this from her childhood perch high atop Glen Shiel. It had seemed glorious, limitless, and free. Now she clambered amongst the reality of its sharp rocks and unforgiving braes, bruising her feet and legs. And yet she was happier battling the conditions here than when she had safely observed from a distance.

The storm was coming fast. The rising wind whirled between the trees, twisting through the travelers’ plaids, making every step more difficult. Janet wound her
arisaid
over her head, cushioning her face from the force of the gales.

“Follow me,” Iain bellowed over the wind. “I’ll find a place to weather this.”

The men pulled their plaids higher around their necks, and the children all but disappeared inside the fabric. Janet, Andrew, and Iain bent their heads into the wind, searching the hills for shelter.

Thunder echoed through the mountains, and dark clouds massed over the travelers. Andrew followed Iain up a crag, slick with pebbles, and Janet followed him. Her foot slipped and she caught herself on one hand, cutting her palm on the rocks.

“Are ye all right?” Andrew called, reaching for her. She nodded, but accepted his hand.

The clouds thickened, twisting down in black on black, their contours defined by an angry gray. A bolt of lightning ripped from the sky and struck close to where they stood and Janet caught her breath at its ferocity. The first padding sounds of raindrops hit the earth and when the thunder came, the children screamed. Tiny fingers emerged from within the plaids and clutched the weary
shoulders that carried them. All at once the clouds yielded to the pressure, funneling rain onto the travelers.

“Oy! Here!” Iain cried, and they ran to catch up to him.

Iain led them into a cave that had been almost impossible to see along the steep hillside. They crowded in through the small opening, then spread apart in the open cavern and unwrapped the soaked coverings from their heads. They could see the downpour through the narrow entrance and hear the shrieking wind.

Janet felt around in the darkness, sweeping together a small pile of dry sticks and grass. Iain cracked his flint against it, shooting orange sparks into the blackness until the tinder caught fire. The glow of the infant fire lit the walls of the cave and drew everyone nearer. They fed it bits of wood and the small blaze licked at it, growing stronger with each flickering shadow.

The tempest continued to rage. The ragged land above their cave began to flood and collapse, plopping lumps of mud around the cave’s entrance. Rain dribbled into the cave and pooled inside the entrance.

Inside, the travelers were relatively warm and very weary. The smell of wet wool rose from their plaids, mingling with the smoke. Janet spread her arisaid over the ground, hoping the heat from the fire might dry the skirt and bodice she wore underneath, then she leaned against the cave wall with a sigh.

When Janet opened her eyes a while later, she was the only one awake. The storm still raged outside, but there was no sound in the cave besides Iain’s occasional snores. The children sagged in a boneless heap across her thighs. Andrew and Iain slept, spread out on their plaids.

The fire had faded into pulsing orange embers. Trying not to disturb the children, she fed it a few more sticks and stoked it back to life.

She stole a quiet moment to observe Andrew, reining in the impulse to stroke his beard-shadowed face. Her lips still remembered the tenderness of his kiss, the rough bristles that had burned her cheeks. She had never really kissed a man before that day. Not like that.

Janet reached into her bundle and brought out rolls and cheese. The need for sleep had been stronger than her hunger, but now her stomach growled. She chewed the bread and watched Andrew sleep, wondering at his dreams. He frowned in his sleep, and if she looked closely, she could see his lips move, as if he were speaking. She knew so little about this man whom she had dared to claim in that desperate moment.

Andrew stirred, rolling from his side onto his back. His kilt slid as he moved, revealing a jagged pink scar that stretched the length of his thigh. She shuddered, imagining what he must have survived to carry such a scar.

As if sensing her gaze, Andrew opened his eyes and his lips pulled into a sleepy smile. She looked away, not wanting him to know she had been staring.

“How are ye, lass?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“I’ll do.”

“Did ye sleep a bit?”

She nodded and handed him a roll. “I did. ’Twas just what I needed.”

Iain woke and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Janet offered him bread and cheese, then brought out a bottle of ale. Iain nodded thanks, took a sip, then passed it back.

The rain slowed to a steady shower, then stopped altogether, though water continued to drip from the mouth of the cave. There was less need for the fire now that the sky offered glimpses of blue.

A small voice interrupted the quiet. “Are we goin’ soon, Mr. MacKenzie?” asked Peter.

“Aye, lad,” Iain answered. “We should see how far we can go afore night settles. Wake yer sister now an’ we’ll be off.”

“Wait,” Janet said. She handed Peter some food. “Eat a bit first. Give Flora some as well, aye?”

After the children finished eating, Andrew rose, wrapping the length of his plaid around his waist and over his shoulder. He fastened it at the front with a small silver brooch. Flora grabbed Andrew’s hand and smiled up at him.

“Ready, lass?” Andrew asked, and she responded with an enthusiastic nod. He squeezed her little hand. “Be sure to hang on tight, aye? ’Tis slippery going now.”

Andrew ducked through the cave’s entrance and Flora followed, squeaking with surprise when her feet slid in the new banks of mud. Andrew held on to her and they walked on, their shoes making squelching, thirsty noises in the mud.

Janet emerged from the cave and snorted at the mess around them. The wind had felled a tree by the entrance, and hail had crushed a number of formerly defiant flowers. Below the travelers’ path, mud and rocks had slid into a deep gorge.

The weather continued to be miserable over the next three weeks. The group plodded onward, singing or telling stories to help pass the time. Even the children contributed by gathering firewood and helping cook whatever game they caught along the way.

One day, as the wind rose in anticipation of another storm, the group came upon a quiet, windowless cottage in the woods.

“Halloo the house!” Iain called through cupped hands.

There was no reply save the wind in the trees, swaying the branches so they creaked like rocking chairs.

Iain called again, then stepped up to the door and knocked. When there was still no response from within, he unlatched the door and pushed it open. Andrew and the others followed Iain inside.

The cottage was neatly swept, the kitchen tidy. A bed of peat lay in the hearth, waiting to be lit, but there was no one home to light it. A layer of dust covered everything, suggesting the cottage hadn’t been occupied for at least a month. Andrew went to the hearth and raised a flame so heat spread through the cottage and softened the clammy dirt floor. The group peeled off their soaked kilts and hung them on the available furniture in hopes the wool might dry.

While the others sat around the fire, Andrew went back outside to relieve himself. Twenty feet from the door, he stopped, frozen at the sight of a pale white hand, the fingers stiff under a pile of wet leaves. When he moved the leaves aside, he uncovered two bodies lying a few feet from each other. Their faces were unrecognisable, but the bloodstains on their clothing were all too familiar. Not even the steady impact of the rain could rinse the material clean.

Andrew stood beside the bodies, feeling sick. Then he turned back to the cottage, pulled open the door, and stepped into the doorway.

“Come in all the way!” Janet called. “No need to soak the floor.”

“Aye, well,” Andrew replied. “I’ll no’ come in just yet. Iain, could ye maybe come give me a hand wi’ somethin’?”

Iain nodded. He left the children with Janet, who watched Iain shrug back into his plaid.

“What is it?” she asked.

Andrew lowered his voice and looked at Iain. “The people o’ the house. They’re no’ coming back.”

“Right, then,” Iain said. Janet closed her eyes and sighed.

When the men were outside, Janet went to the pantry to see what food could be salvaged. The cottage was deserted, but not empty. The pantry held a treasure trove: golden strings of onions, a few cabbages, dried peas, and a large sack of potatoes. Two bags of oatmeal and one of flour sat on a lower shelf, but grubs had destroyed
most of the flour. Dried mutton and fish were stacked in the shelves. And higher up, glowing with amber sweetness, sat two unopened jars of honey.

Janet was comfortable in a kitchen. This one beckoned and she set about preparing food for that night and the days to follow. She found a sturdy kitchen knife and chopped onions and potatoes, setting them to fry in the cauldron, mixed with lard and bits of dried meat. The aroma filled the air, and the sound of sizzling fat made everyone’s mouth water. She added a little water to help everything soften, dropped in some peas, and let the mixture simmer. Off to the side she kneaded what clean flour she could find with lard, then sweetened the batter with honey. She set the bannock beside the fire to rise and bake.

Andrew and Iain disappeared into the woods to bury the bodies of their slain hosts. The rain turned the ground into a slimy base of mud, but death demanded respect. The men dug shallow trenches, lowered the corpses into them, then piled boulders over top.

“Tha sinn a’ guidhe gun téid gu math leibh air an t-slighe chun na duais bith-bhuain,”
Iain murmured in formal Gaelic. We wish you well on your journey to eternal reward. And we thank ye for the bounty ye left for us in your home.

Soaked and chilled, Andrew and Iain went back inside to sit by the fire. Without a word, Janet poured each of them a cup of rough whisky she’d pulled from the pantry. Andrew inhaled its aroma, trying to clear away the stench of death.

Flora sat quietly in the corner, watching Janet work. The little girl’s face was dirty, her eyes wide as an owl’s.

“I’ll go find a cloth for yer face, shall I, Flora?” Janet asked, turning toward the back room.

The room was crowded with two tick mattresses, made up with rough white sheets. A ewer and urn sat in one corner, a chamber
pot in another, and at the foot of one of the beds stood a large oak chest. Janet pulled open the lid of the chest and found a homespun gown, towels, blankets, and a forest green length of plaid.

She hesitated. She felt awkward, helping herself to the clothing, but the owners were dead, and no one else had been in the cottage for a while.

They would want to help
, she thought.

She removed everything from the chest and laid it all on the bed. She took off her gown, which was badly in need of a wash, and slipped the homespun over her head. The rough material hung loose on her small frame, but she belted it at the waist and approved of its practicality.

Janet took another peek inside the chest and spied a tiny rag doll lying in one corner. Its sagging head was sewn from an old stocking and stuffed with straw. Strands of blue wool hung down its back in place of hair. A layer of green tartan wrapped around its body, the same material as the larger plaid Janet had laid on the bed. She looked into the doll’s face and its carefully stitched blue eyes. The doll stared back.

“I ken a wee lassie who would love to have you,” Janet murmured to the doll, and tucked it into her apron pocket. Then she loaded herself up with towels and went back to the main room.

“Come here,” Janet said, crooking a finger at Flora, who came to sit beside her. She dipped the corner of one towel into a pot of water on the floor, then dabbed at the little girl’s face. “That’s better. Let’s take a look at your hair, too, shall we? Lean back. There. That’s it.”

Flora hung her head back so her long red hair dangled over the pot. Janet poured water over Flora’s head, then scrubbed lye soap through the little girl’s scalp and hair. When Janet was done rinsing out the suds, she pulled a comb from her pack and ran it through
the little girl’s tangles. Flora squeezed her eyes shut and squeaked at the tugging, but sat without squirming until Janet was finished.

Iain brought Peter to the tub, and Janet did the same for him. When they were done, the clean children stood side by side, smiling, looking quite different from how they had looked a half hour before.

Andrew sat close to the fire, trimming the scruff of his beard with shears so it fell into a pile of tangled curls on the floor. Janet moved her stool so it stood across from Andrew, then reached for his dirk.

“I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ve a better view from here.”

He smiled and placed the worn leather hilt in her palm. She lathered her hands with soap and spread the suds over his cheeks and chin. Then she squinted and bit the corner of her mouth.

“I used to do this for my brothers. When they were being lazy.” She scraped the blade with a steady pressure across Andrew’s beard, cutting away the coarse hairs. “They had to behave when I held the knife.”

Her lips shifted in concentration, and she sucked her cheeks tight as if she were shaving her own face. When she had finished, Andrew scrubbed the soap over his face, neck, and hair, then rinsed off the suds so he dripped onto the floor.

“Thank ye,” he said. She handed him a towel, which he scrubbed hard over his face and hair. He grinned. “It feels fine to have that beard off.”

“Wait,” she said. She looked him over carefully. “Your hair.”

He dug his fingers into the thick, wet waves. “What of it?”