Under the Same Sky

by Genevieve Graham

  “Aye, well,” Hector said softly.

  They were across the clearing from where some of the others chatted around the fire. Janet sat off to the side, silently poking the ground with a stick. Andrew smiled. The lass was going to get what she wanted after all.

  Chapter 22

  Farewells at the Fire

  Iain tucked the children into their box bed and wrapped a blanket around the two small bodies. They fell instantly asleep in a confusing array of skinny white arms and legs. He smoothed the hair over their foreheads with calloused hands that were larger than their faces and brushed his lips over their brows.

  He stood for a moment, listening to them breathe. It calmed him to hear the little purring sounds that trembled through their throats, the occasional peep as something secret happened in a dream. He had done this every night with his own children. With them gone, it seemed so important that he stop and listen to these two.

  He dropped his chin to his chest and stepped outside, latching the door behind him. Iain joined the others by the fire, where Geoffrey played his fiddle, accompanied by the songs of night creatures.

  Andrew sat beside Iain and told him of his separate discussions with Janet and Hector. Iain raised an eyebrow but nodded. He was surprised she wanted to go with them, but he wasn’t averse to bringing her.

  A faint yellow glow spilled from the door of the cottage as it swung open. Hector and Sorcha stepped out, leaning against each other, Sorcha talking and smiling at her husband. He held her, letting her support him. They found a place among their friends, then Hector cleared his throat and began to speak.

  “As master of the house,” Hector began formally, letting his eyes meet those of Andrew and Iain, “I thank ye both for everything ye’ve brought to our family. It was a blessin’ that ye came to our home when ye did. Ye brought my family laughter that hadna been wi’ us for some time.”

  He glanced at his sons. “Simon and Geoffrey, ye’ve no knowledge of what I’m about to say, and for that I apologise. Things have come about very quickly in the past couple o’ days, and I’ve no’ had a chance to speak wi’ ye proper.”

  Something about his sons’ expressions caused a lump to rise in Hector’s throat. When had they become men? He could remember the pull of Sorcha’s apron against her growing belly as it held each babe until its birth. He recalled the days when his children had entered the world and how their tiny naked bottoms had felt as soft as dough, cradled in the palm of his hand. The memories made him feel old, and he found he needed the comfort Sorcha’s hand gave.

  “Mr. MacDonnell and Mr. MacKenzie are leavin’ tomorrow. They’re taking ship to—where is it? America?” he asked Andrew, who smiled in response.

  Hector continued, his voice growing hoarse with emotion. “What I did no’ find out until this day”—he paused and cleared his throat—“was that our own sweet Janet would like to include hersel’ among the travelers.”

  The boys turned to their sister, who blushed and glared into her lap.

  “Janet, look at me,” he said, and she frowned at him. “Yer mother and I dinna want to see ye go, lass. I canna imagine bein’ wi’out ye, to tell ye the plain truth of it.”

  He shook his head slowly, but kept his eyes on hers. “But ye’re not a wee lassie anymore, as ye’re keen to point out. Ye’ve nae fear, which is no’ necessarily a good thing if ye’re travelin’ into the unknown. But yer mother and I have spoken about what ye said. We trust yer good sense. We shall pray for ye every day, and… and we hope ye find what ye seek.”

  There was a stunned moment of silence.

  “What?” Janet squawked, bolting to her feet. “Ye’re sayin’ I can go?” She turned to the only one who seemed able to help her understand. “Andrew?”

  Andrew grinned. “Aye. Yer da’s lettin’ ye go, and I’m lettin’ ye come.”

  She whooped and flew across the clearing toward her parents. She threw herself onto them, thanking them, trying to reassure them through grateful sobs. Simon shook the surprise from his head and went to his family, leaving Geoffrey on his own.

  “Who would’ve thought ye’d be the first of us to go?” Simon declared, his voice thicker than usual.

  Janet turned from her parents and held Simon, then looked over his shoulder to where Geoffrey sat, elbows braced on his knees, face turned toward the flames. A lock of his golden hair, shining almost white in the firelight, hung over his eyes and hid his expression.

  Janet released Simon and stepped toward her fair-haired brother. Geoffrey rose without meeting her eyes and disappeared into the trees. Her father shook his head.

  “Leave him be. Give him time to deal wi’ his grief.”

  Sorcha gave up trying to hold back tears. She pulled her daughter into her arms and held her tight.

  Andrew glanced at Iain, who offered a weak smile and shrugged.

  The conversation by the fire dwindled. It seemed there should be much to talk about, but suddenly it was hard to find words.

  Chapter 23

  Toward the Sea

  In the morning Andrew found Janet and her brother Geoffrey sitting under a shared blanket, reunited on a log by the cooled firepit. That was good, Andrew thought. It would have been difficult for Janet to leave without Geoffrey’s blessing.

  After breakfast, the group quickly assembled everything they would need for the journey. Clouds hung low over Hector’s farm. Andrew, Iain, Janet, and the children were eager to get as much ground behind them as possible before the storm hit.

  They had a long way to go. Iain had made the trip years before, travelling with kin to a Gathering. He would be their guide to the major shipping port of Greenock, eighty difficult miles south of Hector’s home. There they would somehow manage to purchase tickets and board a ship to the New World.

  The plan was to hike the treacherous pathways inland, avoiding coastal areas. English dragoons still patrolled those routes in search of Prince Charles and the handsome price on his head. The soldiers wouldn’t hesitate to confront any other Scots, Jacobite or otherwise.

  Before the group set out, Janet turned toward her father and he placed his hands on her cheeks, raising her face to meet his. The knowledge that this would probably be the last time he ever touched his daughter made him feel strangely vulnerable.

  “Ye’ve been my sunshine all o’ these years, Janet. I pray ye find what ye seek. Always remember I love ye, mo nighean.”

  Janet blinked hard. Hector dropped his hands from her face and reached into his sporran, pulling out a small cowhide bag. He placed the bag into her palm, then folded her fingers over the gift.

  “For yer journey,” he explained. “Keep the lads well.”

  He pulled her to him and hugged her fiercely, then stepped away. Janet tucked the little bag into the depths of her bodice, unable to speak.

  “Where’s Geoff, Mam?” Simon’s voice came from behind them.

  “I dinna ken,” Sorcha said. “He’ll be here, though. Dinna fash yersel’. He’d no’ miss this.”

  A gust blew across the yard, lifting hair and kilts, bending branches and shimmering leaves. As if drawn by the wind, a thin sound pierced the morning, plunging through their ears to grab at their hearts. Geoffrey, the quiet brother and son, the poet, the musician, emerged from the trees, eyes fixed on his sister’s. His arm squeezed the bag against his side, and his fingers flicked over the small holes of the chanter. Even the children sat still, swallowing through their birdlike throats. Andrew’s eyes stung as the pipes sang, wishing them well in their travels, wishing they would never leave.

  The 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 see
med 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.