Thorn in My Heart

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Even now Jamie's insides trembled as he recalled the vivid images and the words that were spoken: “The land you sleep upon, to you will I give it, and to your seed.” It was true; all the McKie lands would be his someday, even that of Uncle Patrick, who had no heir. But what of his own seed, the children he and his lady cousin—he knew not which one—would someday bear? Was this his father's blessing, revisited in the night, or was it something more?

  A light breeze lifted the hair off his neck, sending a chill down his back, waking him further. In a moment the dream would be gone for good. He hastily closed his eyes and washed clean his thoughts. Like a snippet of a song, a spoken promise came to mind, the words as solid and true as any written on a page: “Behold, I am with you wherever you go, and will bring you again into this land. I will never leave you.”

  Who would be with him? Was that Alec McKie's voice he heard echoing through his dreams? Nae. The words were different and the voice like none he had ever heard before. Slowly opening his eyes again, Jamie lifted his gaze to Merrick's peaks and the sky above it, washed with stars. “Who is it?” he whispered to the heavens. “Who is the one who will never leave me?”

  Not his father, doomed to leave this world only too soon.

  Not his mother, nearly forty years his senior and aging by the hour.

  Not his brother, who would leave him for dead if he could.

  Who? Who would never forsake him?

  And then Jamie knew. And knowing, he fell to his knees on the hard rock. This was no ordinary dream. The Almighty, the Holy One, had come to him in the dark of night. In a prayer, in a dream, in no more than a vapor, the Maker of heaven and earth had come to his rocky bedside. Had come to watch over him—him, James Lachlan McKie—to bless and protect an ungrateful son who'd deceived his father and stolen his brothers blessing.

  Jamie's mind reeled, his eyes stinging with tears. How was it possible? No one deserved God's favor less than he did. No one. Undone, he ran his hands across the stone slab, trying to grasp the astounding truth: Almighty God still cared for his wretched soul. The Father of mercy and God of all consolation had not punished him for his sins. Instead, he had stood by him in the night and offered him hope for the future.

  “Bethankit!” Jamie whispered to the ancient stones. “God be thanked.”

  And he was grateful. Grateful to be spared his brother's vengeance, to have lived through the night to see another day. Could he put his thanks into words? Speak to the One who'd spoken to him in the night? Jamie sat back on his heels and began as though Thomas Findlay or some other friendly soul were sitting across from him at Glentrool's dining table. “If it please you, be with me, merciful Father. Show me the way to Auchengray and the way home. Give me bread for each day and clothes to cover my back.”

  Jamie's face grew warm as he realized he'd not prayed in such a manner before, right and good as it seemed that Sabbath morning. Dare he ask for provisions so boldly, without making some promise in return? He grabbed the loose rock that had served as his pillow and held it aloft. “May this stone be my witness. If you do as I've asked, a portion of all that I have now and in years to come will belong to you.” With a new and unfamiliar sense of reverence, he placed the rock on top of the cairn and rose to his feet, brushing the dust off his hands.

  Around him the air was growing lighter and the sky more dove gray than dark blue. As if he were just now waking and seeing things for the first time, he noticed his borrowed plaid in a slitterie heap near his feet, apparendy discarded during his resdess slumber. His gelding Walloch waited elsewhere for him, boarded with the stable lad at House o’ the Hill. At least he'd not dreamed of losing his mount while he slept among the plants and rocks. He rubbed a berry-stained hand across his stubbly face. “You were a tired man, Jamie McKie, to claim a stone for a pillow.”

  “Aye,” a gruff male voice behind him answered. “And a fool as well.”

  Jamie spun on his boot heel and reached down for his dirk, then froze, his dream forgotten, his hand gripping nothing but air.

  “Missing somethin, lad?” An old Gypsy stood a stone's throw away, his arms folded over his chest, a wry grin stretched across his craggy features. “Have ye naught in yer boot but breeches and stockings?”

  Jamie straightened, his peaceful thoughts gone, his face hot. Bad enough that he hadn't heard the man approach. He'd also missed the deft fingers that had lifted the dirk from his boot as he slept. Jamie made certain that his words, at least, bore a sharp edge. “I suppose you know the whereabouts of my blade.”

  The elderly man's face darkened beneath the brim of his cap. “Nae, I do not. All I know is that on my way to Monnigaff I came upon a daft young man talking to himself while standing on an auld grave. And a rude lad at that, accusing me of stealing his dirk.” The Gypsy lowered his arms with a certain swagger, taking his time about it, and shortened the distance between them with two firm steps. He was broadly built and short in the legs, his strength apparent from the thickness of his arms. Though his clothes were plain, the silver on his boots shone. So did the fiendish gleam in his eye. “Only a fool would speak so boldly when he has no dagger, no horse, and no friend in sight.”

  Jamie realized his mistake and none too soon. “I'm afraid I've misjudged you.” He couldn't bring himself to add “sir.” Not to a weather-beaten tinkler, the traveling sort who lived in a mean tent by the roadside, tinkering and trading. Jamie could flatter the man though. “You have a knack for hammering tin and sharpening blades, do you not? Surely a man wouldn't bother to steal what he could better fashion himself.”

  “Aye, I make a fine knife when I put my mind to it.” As if by magic, a slim dagger appeared in the Gypsy's hand. His dark eyes, trained on the deadly blade, no longer met Jamie's gaze. It was some time before the traveler spoke again, his voice low but far from sinister. “I'll not cut ye down, lad. I'm a tinkler, not a murderer.” He sliced the blade through the air, smiling faindy as he did. “Seeing how fate has stolen yer dirk, yell be needin’ a new one.” All at once the Gypsy pinched the blade between his thumb and forefinger and extended the carved bone handle toward Jamie, an unexpected gesture of trust. “Have ye a shilling to spare?”

  Jamie nodded immediately, weak with relief. “Aye, I do.” If it came to it, he'd buy back his own knife to be rid of the man and his foreign ways. “Right here in my leather pouch.” He patted his shirt, surprised when his hand touched nothing but cambric and skin. “Och, it must be wrapped in my plaid.” He bent down to shake the length of wool, chagrined to see nothing fly out but blades of grass and bits of dirt. Had the pouch fallen among the rocks while he tossed and turned in his dreams? Cold dread knotted in the pit of his stomach as he began to search. It had to be there. It must be. He jammed his hands down one crevice after another, avoiding the truth as long as possible.

  “Ye've not lost yer purse, have ye?”

  Jamie finally stood, biting back an oath. “So it appears.” Furious, he kicked the stone slab, then ignored the pain that shot through his foot. No use denying it: The leather pouch was nowhere to be found. His shirts and bannocks could be spared, but without coin or banknote, his journey was over before it had begun. And to think, he'd promised a portion of it to God! Let the Almighty find his own silver. As to his midnight blessing, God could do with it as he pleased. Clearly his words had not improved Jamie's lot one bit. In mere hours he'd gone from being laird of all the land to a penniless vagrant.

  The missing purse no longer of interest, the tinkler squinted at Jamie's stony bed. “Tell me ye didn't sleep among those berries?”

  Jamie was in no mood for Gypsy lore. “What of it?” he growled.

  “Don't ye know the plant, man? That's belladonna.”

  “Bell what?”

  “What a stupid lot ye gentry are!” The Gypsy threw up his hands and stamped about the stony ground like a man possessed. “Ye wrapped yerself up for the night in a patch of plants meant to kill ye.”

  “Kill me?” Jamie stepped back,
eying the crushed berries on his plaid.

  “Ye're lucky ye didn't lose more than yer silver.” The Gypsy, still huffing, came to a halt in front of him. “Let me see yer eyes. Come along; I wont hurt ye. Haven't I already offered ye a blade, and me without one in the other hand ready to cut ye?”

  Reluctantly Jamie let the man jerk down his chin and peer into his eyes, ignoring the reek of onions on the Gypsy's breath and the grime on his hands. “What are you looking for, man?”

  “Just what I've found. The centers of yer eyes are black as pitch. In a moment, when the sun is brighter, ye'll be squeezin ‘em shut from the pain. I'm surprised ye can even talk. Most times the voice is gone.”

  “The voice?” Jamie jerked his chin out of the man's grasp. “What are you saying?”

  “Have ye not heard of deadly nightshade?”

  Jamie had heard of it all right. Though he was not an expert in plant lore, Scottish history was another matter. “The soldiers of Macbeth poisoned a whole army of Danes with it. Chaucer called it dwale.”

  “Aye, but the Scots call it something else: Jacobs ladder.” Bending over the offensive plant, the tinkler poked at it with his dirk. “They say, the auld wives do, that men who taste the berries of belladonna—or nightshade or dwale or whatever name ye choose—will sleep the sleep of the dead. No wonder ye didn't feel your dirk and pouch slip away.” The Gypsy looked up, his face lit with curiosity. “They also say the berries give a man ferocious dreams. Was that the way of it?”

  Jamie slowly nodded, noticing for the first time that morning how lightheaded and wobbly kneed he felt. Last night's dream—the light, the voice, the words, the angels, the tall, bright thing hcd seen—had it merely been the leafy spell of Jacobs ladder addling his sleepy brain? How real it had seemed! And how grieved he was to think it might not be. “I dreamed…,” he began, hearing a slight quaver in his voice. “I dreamed I talked to God.”

  “Almighty God talkin to the likes of ye? Ha!” The Gypsy spun in a circle, cackling like an old crone, arms flung out wide. The polished tin buttons on his coat caught the first full rays of the sun. “Did no one ever warn ye, lad?” he shouted, delighted with himself. “Ye should never tell a lie on the Sabbath.”

  Eleven

  Can wealth give happiness? look round and see

  What gay distress! what splendid misery!

  EDWARD YOUNG

  Leana frowned at her reflection in the one decent looking glass in the house, a mirror with half the silvering worn off, mounted over her dressing table. Serviceable was the only word one could use to describe her hat. It was the same hat she'd worn every Sunday for four years, and it had not improved with age.

  Too many earthly possessions turned the mind toward temporal desires and away from eternal truths, or so the Reverend John Gordon said. That explained why the collection box sat on a table inside the kirk door rather than being thrust in front of the parishioners during the worship service by an elder bearing a long pole, as in bygone days. Better not to speak of money and God in the same breath, the minister cautioned. “Since Im off to a worship service,” Leana murmured, straightening the brim, “serviceablewill have to do.”

  “What a dreary thought!” Rose appeared in the doorway, her hands folded around a flowered reticule, her rosy mouth in a petulant pout. “That old gown of Mothers again?”

  Leana looked down at the faded blue linen and shrugged. “It was this or the gray serge.”

  Och! That horrible thing? I thought Neda cut that up for rags.” Rose swept into the room, still shaking her head. The scent of heather, which Leana stitched into her sisters hems and cuffs, wafted around her. “We simply must ask Father for something from the household account. You help Duncan keep Auchengray's books in order, Leana. Isn't there a bittie to spare for new Sunday gowns and hats for both of us?”

  “That would require Father to unlock his wooden thrifite. A most unlikely event.” The key to the revered money box hung round his neck for safekeeping. According to Duncan, Lachlan wanted the key close to his heart: “Ye ken what the Buik says, Leana: For whauryzi treasure lies, tharyer heart wullbe. Yer faithers heart is naught but cold silver, lass.” Duncan understood his masters miserly ways, and so did she. Lachlan was not about to spend an extra guinea dressing his two daughters.

  Leana shrugged. “Not this month, Im afraid, dearie.”

  “Ah, well. No harm asking.” Rose giggled, her good humor already returned. “Guess what Susanne Elliot told me Sunday last?” Rose made certain to arrive at kirk early and linger late. The weekly exchange of neighborhood news in the kirkyard was the highlight of her week. “Susanne said a woman in Dumfries on the High Street makes the loveliest hats. One has an enormous brim…” Rose put aside her drawstring purse to create an imaginary hat with her hands. “It circles round the head, sticking out especially far front and back. The crown is flat— all the fashion now in London, Susanne says—and it's wrapped in silk ribbons that trail down the back. You tie it under your chin with a ribbon as well, a nice wide one in a big, pretty bow. Doesn't it sound heavenly?”

  “Heavenly,” Leana agreed. “And expensive. Father would never allow it.”

  “Hoot!” Rose snatched up her reticule with a noisy huff. “All the man thinks about is how much things cost.”

  “A cruel necessity of life, Rose. We're rich in land but poor in silver. Remember when you were nine and we had such a terrible harvest?”

  “Terrible.” Rose sighed dramatically. “No meal, no flour.”

  “Aye, and no bannocks, no bread, no oats, and no barley for our broth.”

  Rose leaned forward and added in a conspirators whisper, “Lady Maxwell confessed to me she had pies on her table that winter that weren't meant to be cut. They were only to keep up appearances.”

  “Because they were made of clay.” Leana nodded soberly. Even the gentry of Galloway struggled to put food on the table that season, including their wealthy neighbors, the Maxwells. “It was a dreadful year. People nigh starved to death. Our father doesn't easily forget such things. That's why he's prudent. Another famine could come without warning.” When her sister's eyes widened, Leana quickly added, “Oh, Rose, don't fret. We're prepared, truly we are. Neda has enough pickled mutton and smoked herring in the cellar to feed us for a whole year.” She stood and lighdy hugged her sister, tipping her head to the side to avoid knocking both their sorry bonnets on the floor. “What we don't have is silver for luxuries like pretty clothes and fancy hats.”

  Rose wiggled out of her grasp. “And I won't let you earn that money by marrying that decrepit old farmer. Promise you'll say no. Promise?”

  “I promise I'll try.” Whether or not Father would listen was another matter completely.

  Appeased, her sister gathered up her gloves and reticule. “I'm going down the stair to steal one of your apples and see if I can't think of a much better suitor for you than Fergus the Haggis.”

  “Rase!”

  “Well he does have a paunch that would do a sheep proud.” Rose floated out the door, waving her hand over her shoulder, a bemused expression on her face.

  Leana watched her sister descend the stone staircase that angled through the center of the house, her footsteps light, her spirits blithe as ever. Rose deserved a good scolding for her impertinent words, but Leana knew she'd never be the one to punish her. From childhood, Rose had held sway over everyone she met. Over Neda and Duncan Hastings, who should have known better. Over Lady Maxwell of late. And over her, the older sister who adored her. Only their father put the fear of God into Rose, and then only for an hour of family worship each evening. Every other hour Rose bloomed with an ardess charm few could resist.

  “Leeeannaaahhh!”

  “Coming.” She pressed a handkerchief to her damp forehead and cheeks, then tucked it in her sleeve and hurried down the stair. A day at kirk would be the very thing to put aside her worries about Fergus McDougal. He would be miles away, worshiping in his own parish of Kirkbean. Tomorrow would
bring troubles enough; this day belonged to God. Leana reached the bottom step and discovered the usual morning bustle under way as the servants gathered for the long hours ahead. The table had already been laid for that night's supper, the food having been prepared the day before and the house made spodess. Sabbath was reserved for worship, not for work. Half a dozen domestic servants stood in a solemn row for their employers inspection, their best clothes pressed, their faces washed.

  Leaving her father to his duties, Leana ventured out into the blue-sky morning to find Rose waiting for her at the edge of the road, tapping her foot, arms akimbo. Leana lifted the brim of her hat to meet her sister's gaze. “The others may be a while, and Father will follow in the chaise. Suppose we go on ahead of them.”

  Rose took off at a brisk walk, her full skirt swinging with each step, her petticoats rusding beneath them. Hoops were not permitted in the McBride household—“vain contraptions,” their father called them—so the sisters and Neda did the best they could with layers of starched fabric. Leana didn't mind, but Rose did.

  “I'll be wilted by noon,” Rose fussed as they hurried along the road heading east. “Look how my skirts are already drooping!”

  “But, dearie, you'll take up less room in the pew,” Leana murmured, keeping her sensitive eyes to the ground and away from the sun. It took less than an hour to reach the parish kirk. Longer if Rose stopped to chat with neighbors along the way. At the moment they were alone on the country road, still a bit muddy from Saturday nights storm. Both sisters held their skirts above the worst of it and left Auchengray and its orchards behind, heading downhill past meadowlands studded with rocks and verdant pastures dotted with sheep. Leana never wearied of the journey to Newabbey, for the view changed with the seasons: wild-flowers in spring, yellow whin in summer, scarlet rowan trees in autumn, holly berries in winter. Scotch pines, green all year, appeared on both sides of the road now—a few trees at first, then a whole forest, dark and cool, with a lush bed of brown pine needles blanketing the ground beneath their branches.