Love and Music Will Endure (3 page)

Never mind baby, she whispered, stroking the mound of her belly. At least you won’t be born in a distant country, an exile for ever. You’ll be born in Scotland and one day we’ll return to Skye.

As a child Màiri loved to hear Pappa’s stories about the ship that nearly took him and Mamma to Canada, long before she was born. She shivered when she thought about how her own life was decided by a sudden turn of fate. What would it be like living in that land across the sea? It was full of dark, devouring forests. Not like here at Skeabost where her eye could soar out in the open, an eagle in flight and watch the Old Man of Storr rise up from the darkness. What more could you wish for?

‘What do you know about anything? You’ve never been anywhere else,’ Seonag sneered. She was her elder sister, raised in Glasgow before their parents returned to Skye. Màiri and her elder brother Murdo were both born later on the island. Seonag was staying with them for a short visit and how Màiri wished her far enough away.

‘If Glasgow’s so wonderful why don’t you stay there? And why couldn’t Pappa and Mamma wait to leave it?’

Seonag jabbed her sister in the ribs. ‘Stop blethering and look for some eggs. I’m not wasting my time arguing with a wee fool.’

It’s living in that stinking city that makes her so
bad-tempered
, Màiri thought as she flounced out of the door. Ah, there’s Mairead. The sight of her friend coming to see her made her smile but something was wrong. Mairead was shuffling her feet instead of scampering along as she usually did.

‘Come and help me find some eggs,’ Màiri called.

The girls walked into the byre attached to the house. It still held the musty smell of their dun cow,
Blarach
, and her calf,
even though the animals had been let outside to snuffle the moist spring growth. They rifled through the straw and Màiri plucked out two warm eggs. She made a nest for them in her basket.

‘I won’t be helping you do this anymore.’ Mairead rubbed her eyes with her sleeve.

‘Why ever not?’

‘We’re leaving for Australia. Do you think they’ll have hens there?’

‘How would I know?’ Shock made Màiri’s voice sharp, ‘You can’t go.’

‘My Pappa says he can’t endure it here any longer. He works so hard and bad weather spoils it all.’

‘Let him go then if he wants to. You can stay with us, we’ve plenty of room. Lady Seonag will be away again soon. We’ll tuck up nice and warm in my bed with the curtain pulled tight.’

‘I have to go.’ This time she didn’t stem the flow of tears streaking down her face. ‘It’s so far away we’ll never see each other again in this life.’

‘Well, what you must do is look at everything here so closely that you can’t ever forget it. So when you’re far away you can picture it all in your head.’

She seized her friend’s hand and together they ran up towards the common pasture where everyone kept their beasts. Prickly gorse tugged at their skirts. When they reached the top of the rise they flung themselves down, breathless, their faces nuzzling the neat buttons of primroses. After they had stopped gasping they played at rolling down the hill, spinning ever faster, hearts in mouths, crushing the new grass beneath them. Then they trudged further up the hill to a hideaway they had made the summer before. It was beside a lochan, hidden in a dip. They had woven a roof of branches in the gap between some rocks. Màiri’s stomach began to rumble. She groped in her pocket and found
a piece of crumbled bannock. She broke off half for Mairead, who remembered where they had hidden an old cracked plate and two battered wooden cups. She pulled them out from under some dried heather branches, spat on them and wiped them on her skirt. They filled the cups from the lochan. The water was teeth-jangling cold. Màiri was still hungry. She offered one of the eggs to Mairead who shook her head, screwing up her delicate features. Màiri cracked open the top of each egg in turn before tipping her head back and letting the raw liquid slither down her throat. She smacked her lips, laughing as she belched.

‘Oh, we better hurry back. We’ll have to tell the others your news.’

Mamma was busy kneading the morning bannocks to put on the girdle. She looked up with a frown as the children appeared in the doorway. There was Màiri with her skirt stained green and was that part of the hem hanging loose? The size of her, only ten years old, yet as tall as a woman already. And always leading with her chin. She was as ungainly as a young deerhound with big feet that promised plenty more growing. She tutted.

‘Behold the dreamer cometh. Where are those eggs? I want to warm them in milk for Seonag. She needs building up.’

‘We couldn’t find any,’ Màiri said, licking the corners of her mouth in case any tell-tale yellow was smeared there.

‘Well, she’ll have to have the milk on its own, then.’ Her tone was reproachful.

‘Mairead’s leaving for Australia with all her family.’

Flòraidh smiled gravely at the child, ‘I shall miss you
isean
. You’re such a sweet, polite lassie.’ She gave her daughter a sideways glare. ‘May God’s blessing be on you.’

‘What about us? Are we going on that ship too?’ Màiri demanded.

The door swung open and Pappa dipped his head to enter.

‘We are not. I left once and never again. I shall only leave here feet first.’ He grinned as he sat down heavily on a stool, taking off his cap.

Flòraidh watched as her daughter rushed over to hug him. Sometimes she shuddered, wondering if Màiri was a changeling, a fairy child smuggled into the cradle to replace the human baby. She was so different that she could hardly believe that Màiri was her own flesh, quite unlike her eldest with her deft, nimble ways. Iain looked up and ruffled Màiri’s hair, coarse and strong as his own although he was fairer. They had the same jutting jaws and heavy brows. No, she was no changeling, but she was no beauty either. Iain had indulged their youngest, letting her run in the hills like a savage. She needed breaking in, Flòraidh decided.

As the days began to stretch out Màiri missed the quiet presence of Mairead, who had always been her audience and accomplice. She didn’t have much time to think about her loss though for Mamma was determined to keep her busy.

‘Idle hands are the Devil’s playground,’ she would say.

If Màiri wasn’t being slapped for having a heavy hand with the bannocks she was practising how to produce a fine, even thread with the spinning wheel. She was sent out to scrape crotal from the rocks to make the red dye for the wool. Her fingers swelled with the cold as she squelched through boggy ground to dig out iris roots. It seemed so strange that a plant whose flower shone like spilt sunshine should yield such a sombre grey-blue dye. There was plenty of heavy labour too; carrying creels of seaweed to fertilise the fields or stacking and turning peats to dry them. But no amount of work could tire her furious energy. When she swept the beaten earth of the floor she wielded the broom like a weapon. It banged into the lime-washed walls, knocking down clouds of sticky, black dust from the encrusted rafters, a
coating settled there from generations of peat fires. Finally, in the evenings while her father went to the cèilidh house, sometimes taking Murdo with him, she had to stay at home cutting down Pappa’s old clothes to fit her brother. She hacked through the fabric as if it was an enemy hide and one time cut her finger to the bone. Mamma was angry about the blood stains seeping through the cloth. That task was bad enough but even worse was having to knit a shawl for her sister. To Màiri’s relief Seonag had returned to Glasgow. As a parting challenge she announced that she hoped to be betrothed soon, after all, she had a whole herd of men keen to marry her. Kenneth, the chosen one, worked in Glasgow too, but his father would soon come over from Kintail on the mainland and speak to Pappa about the wedding. And both her parents nodded and smiled, even though they knew this was not the way of doing things. Kenneth should come himself to ask for their daughter’s hand.

‘It’s different in the city,’ was all her mother would say in explanation. So they had to make new clothes for her wedding. The knitting pins rebelled against Màiri’s fingers, slipping and dropping stitches. She felt her life closing in; those imagined Canadian forests growing tall around her so that she couldn’t see beyond them. They were bars squeezing out the light and swallowing her up in their shadows. The endless sky, the soaring mountains and the shifting tides had all vanished from sight.

But now it was May at last and they were going up to the shieling with the other women and children from the village. She had overheard Mamma and Seonag talking about it before her sister left.

‘I shall be more at ease this year with only the younger two. They’re not of an age yet to be a worry.’

‘Oh, Mamma, did you used to worry about me then?’ asked her sister, giggling.

‘Of course I did – a pretty girl like you and those lads prowling around like foxes outside the hen house. I’m so pleased that you’re to be married soon.’

‘Well, I doubt you’ll have to worry about Màiri on that score, even when she grows up.’

‘That’s not a kind thing to say about your wee sister.’ But there wasn’t much conviction in her mother’s voice.

But nothing could quell her excitement as they finally loaded up their old horse
Dileas
with kegs, churns and casks, blankets slung over his back and a spinning wheel teetering on top so that he looked like a tinker’s beast. When they were small, Màiri and Murdo used to be lifted aboard him for the journey, their short legs splayed across his broad back. Now they walked alongside, helping to herd the cattle up to the fresh summer pastures where they would meet the other women and children from the village. Before they left they had filled the churns with cream. Drops trickled out as they travelled and the calves were allowed to lick the spills as it stopped them from wandering off. It kept the children trotting on too because they knew that the cream would have turned into butter by the time they arrived and they would be allowed to spread some on their bannocks.

Their small party headed the few miles to
Bealach a’
Chaoil-reidh
, the narrow path leading to the hill where the bothies lay. No-one knew when they had first been built, but each year they were repaired and re-thatched. Milking the beasts, churning the butter and making the cheese kept the women and girls busy. Once the evening milking was done people and beasts could lie back on the mossy grass, studded with ladies mantle and campion.
Blarach
was so calm up there that she didn’t need to have a rope tied around her back legs when she was being milked. Seonag should have one of those, Màiri thought, to stop her lashing out.

Everyone sang at their tasks. The cows gave a better yield when they heard a familiar song. The hard work at the churn was lighter if you sang. Best of all were the songs in the evening as they all sat around a fire outside in the glowing light that lasted most of the night; songs about the old heroes, about courtship and love.

They had marching songs too this year. Murdo was in a sulk. He was desperate to go off to the fishing with Pappa but he had been told to spend a last unwilling summer at the shieling. He planned to become a soldier and amused himself by getting the younger boys drilling with staves held over their shoulders. Màiri joined in as she enjoyed strutting up and down, finding that her clumsiness disappeared when she had a rhythm to follow. After a few days of the drilling Murdo scowled when she arrived to join them, brows pulled together and eyes spitting sparks, looking very like Seonag, she thought.

‘You’re not marching with us anymore. You’re making a mockery of it. Only men can be soldiers,’ he snarled as the other lads grinned.

She strode silently up to him and stood close, staring. Suddenly she thrust her staff down thumping the ground right by his feet. Instinct made him leap back.

‘I’m just as tall and strong as you are.’

‘But you’re still a lassie, even if you’re a big one. You’ve no place here.’

She looked down her nose and, head held high, turned sharply and marched away.

When they returned home in July the long white nights were shrinking and she too had to shrink back to life at home. Still, there was the harvest to look forward to, the hectic cutting down of the oats before the weather turned its tricks on them. Then down to the mill with
Dileas
hauling a full load. The feast
afterwards was so tasty, the usual bannocks but with silky butter spread on them, butter that held the memory of the summer pastures. Rowan jelly too and soft crowdie cheese with its clean, salty tang; herrings and tatties baked in the embers of the peats. And afterwards, the singing; songs of joy and celebration. She loved the turning wheel of the seasons. But she longed for something more … if only she could put a name to it.

She fell asleep picturing the harvest feast but woke suddenly, her heart pounding. Was it a dream that had roused her? No, she could hear muffled shouting coming from outside.

She swung her legs out of the box bed and peeped round the curtain to see Pappa groping around in the dark, searching for his boots. Quietly she pulled on her shawl and skirt over her shift.

She crept outside, following Pappa but keeping her distance. He tilted his head to listen as the noise started up again. It didn’t sound like someone shouting in pain or fear, more a sort of bellowing. He hurried towards the house of their neighbour, Donald MacKinnon. At first glance his home looked much like their own, crouching down into the earth, but as they came closer they could see the ragged line of the turfs on the roof, the lopsided peat stack and the muddle of tools by the door. There was his black cow, shaggy head lowered, treading backwards and forwards in front of the byre. She was lowing in distress, stamping her feet and banging her horns against the door. A strange crooning came from inside.

Màiri stood back in the shadows as her father whispered to the beast. ‘What’s the matter, old girl?’ He half turned and out of the corner of his eye he saw Màiri move.

‘What are you doing here, lassie? Well you can make yourself useful calming her down while I see what’s going on.’

She inched forwards, singing her own cow’s favourite tune. The animal turned her big mournful eyes towards Màiri, dark pools fringed with eyelashes thick as reeds. While her father
slipped inside the door she found a piece of rope snaking among the abandoned pots and nets. After tethering the beast to a tree she put her head round the door. Her mouth fell open. A young red calf stood there, stumbling on its neat little hooves. Clinging to its neck and slobbering into its face was a strange creature with a pale back, scrawny legs and sagging buttocks. Pappa was pulling the creature off the calf. It turned, arms flailing and she recognised the blotched red face of old Donald. What drew her eye though was the purplish worm nosing out from the undergrowth between his legs. She gasped in surprise making her father spin round.

‘Go into the house and bring some clothes for him.’

She hurried back with a long shirt. Together they pushed the old man’s protesting arms through the sleeves.

‘Come on now Donald, we need to take the wee beast back to her mother before she curdles her milk with worry.’ Between them they half led, half lifted him inside to his bed. He muttered and groaned in protest but soon he was snoring and dead to the world.

Màiri felt pleased that her father had not ordered her back home but let her help him. There were so many things she was told she couldn’t do; fishing, playing shinty, drilling like a soldier and going to the cèilidh house. The night’s events must be some sort of omen, she decided. It was as if she had climbed up one of those tall Canadian trees that barred her way. Now she could see the way ahead.

During the next week she hurried to finish all the mending jobs her mother had given her, even completed the hated shawl for her sister. She was all quiet diligence, no complaining or making faces. The other unusual change her mother noticed was that Màiri often had a faraway expression on her face and her lips moved silently. Well, she’s growing up and maybe she’s even learning the consolation of prayer, Flòraidh thought.

That evening Màiri said, ‘I thought I’d go out and take the air, it’s such a fine evening.’

‘A good idea.’ Flòraidh ignored the whisper of suspicion in her mind. Instead she smiled and patted Màiri’s arm.

Once out of the door she ran to Alasdair Dubh’s house. He was renowned as the best storyteller in the village so the cèilidhs were held in his house. Most of the local men and boys came to listen to tales and riddles, exchange news and gossip and sing a few songs. Màiri crept in and stood at the back, unnoticed in the deep shadows thrown by the candlelight. Her lips moved as she readied herself. Alasdair himself was preparing to tell a story. He put down his clay pipe and wet his lips.

‘I thought, my friends, that you might like to hear another of the adventures of the old fool, although some folk called him a wise man.’ There was a murmur of approval.

‘One night when the rain was heavy enough to drown in the fool knocked at the door of the big house belonging to the minister. He could hear heavy footsteps approaching until at last the door creaked open. There was the minister himself in his nightshirt, a candlestick in his hand. He glared at the fool.

“Please, kind Sir, it’s a terrible night and I’m soaked to the skin. Will you give me a bed for the night?”

“No, I’ve no room.”

“But you must have plenty of rooms in such a big house.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“But I can’t stay outside in this storm.”

The minister frowned at the fool’s miserable expression. “Very well then, but it’s most inconvenient. All I can give you is the loft. Follow me.”

So the fool trudged behind the flickering light, along echoing corridors and up staircases, each narrower than the one before. Eventually they came to a dusty ladder leading up to a trapdoor.

“There you are. Climb up and sleep in the loft but you must be gone at first light.”

The fool cried out, beside himself. “You’re very kind Sir, but I can’t go up there.”

“Why on earth not?”

“I’m scared of heights and I’m so tired after my long walk that I haven’t the strength to lift up the trapdoor.”

“What a useless fellow you are,” the minister snorted. “Here – hold the candle while I open the trapdoor.” He huffed and puffed his way up the ladder for he was a heavy man. He pushed at the trapdoor until it gave way. Finally he heaved himself up into the loft.

“There you are,” he shouted down. “I hope you’re grateful for the trouble you’ve caused me.”

No answer.

“Did you hear me, you insolent rogue?”

Still no answer.

“I’m coming down and when I do I shall put you out of the house for your rudeness.”

This time he could hear a cackle. Furious now, the minister lowered himself down on the edge of the opening and stretched out a leg to reach the top rung. It dangled in the air. He peered down into the darkness. The man had gone and so had the ladder.

The fool picked the choicest food from the kitchen; venison, beef and wheaten bread. He found beer in a barrel and a bottle of whisky. When he was as full as an egg he looked in every room and lay down on every bed until he found the best one. He slept the sleep of the just on a down mattress with fine linen sheets, waking refreshed at the crack of dawn. Then he packed some provisions for his breakfast and skipped off like a goat into the hills.’

‘And what about the minister?’ one of the lads asked.

‘Oh, he shivered all night, shouting in vain for help.’

The audience laughed and clapped.

‘What about a cheery song now,’ a voice called out.

‘I’ve got one, a new one.’ Màiri wriggled and dodged her way to the front. ‘You’ll have to listen hard to find out who it’s about.’

Before anyone had time to comment she started to sing.

She paused for a moment, looking around her to see if she had their attention. Most faces looked surprised, a few of them suspicious but they were listening. Relieved, she unfolded her tale,

There were chuckles now and people joining in the repeated lines.

‘Go on lass, sing it again,’ a voice called out,

And so she did until they all knew the words.

‘Well Iain Bàn, I had no idea you had this young bard in your house. She’s got a gift although she’s a wee bit rough round the edges yet,’ said Alasdair Dubh. There was pride mingled with doubt on her father’s face. As they strolled home together he said, ‘Well that wasn’t bad at all. But I don’t know what your mother will say. Just as long as you don’t get above yourself and think you can be a story teller like Alasdair Dubh’.

But Màiri wasn’t listening. She had escaped the stifling forest and was striding on her way.