Under the Same Sky

by Genevieve Graham

  Endless waves eased the ship into the infinite sea. Janet stood with the children at the rail, eyes squinted against the wind as Scotland’s profile faded away. Andrew and Iain worked among the sailors, straining muscles and following orders, but when they could, they also faced backwards, their dark eyes seeing beyond the untidy buildings of the town, imagining the Highlands. The certainty of the past disappeared with each white-capped splash on the hull. The future stretched invisibly into the horizon, promising nothing.

  The sailors plainly didn’t see it that way. The sun was out and the wind had come up. The decks were scrubbed, and their clothes and bodies were relatively clean from their layover. They flew from rope to sail to mast as easily as Andrew might have skipped a stone across a stream.

  The crew was a moving patchwork of old and young, wide and wiry, some bald, some with hair that hung in thick tangles. They wore breeks or kilts, many wore coats, some wore rough-hewn shirts that had seen better days, and a few stripped to bare torsos. Sun-darkened skin stretched over honed muscles, gleaming with exertion. Grime stained the sailors’ hands and faces. Many of them tied rags in bands around their foreheads to keep the sweat from dripping into their eyes. A confusing medley of languages bounced across the deck: English, Scots, Irish, French, and another Andrew couldn’t recognise. He thought maybe German.

  And there was another sound. One that drew everyone to midship like a school of fish. Music. A lone fiddler stood by the bow, stomping a leather-clad foot in time to a jig. A wave crashed against the hull, showering the fiddler with seawater. The man laughed, throwing back his head as if waiting for more, but didn’t stop playing.

  Andrew leaned against the rigging with his arms crossed, slightly apart from the other crew members. When he saw Janet and the children, he smiled and cocked his head, inviting them to stand by him.

  “He’s mad,” Andrew said, and she nodded.

  “Aye. But he can play,” she said. “Geoffrey would have liked it.”

  “What’s ’at?” Peter asked, watching the fiddler with open awe.

  The fiddler whirled toward them, dancing while he played, grinning from within his flaming red mane. His tunic was butter yellow, belted over black breeches, and he spun among the sailors, diverting them and spreading his enthusiasm. Before long most of the crew had joined in, clapping and whistling while the tempo built to a frenzy. At last the fiddler dropped his arms and bowed toward the company, shamelessly encouraging the burst of applause.

  The captain’s boot heels struck the deck like a soldier’s drum as he strode toward the fiddler, thumbs in his belt. He stopped in the centre of the group, lifted his chin, and blew a stream of smoke into the air. He didn’t look at anyone, only focused on the line of clouds overhead. His voice was genial, with an iron core.

  “Am I payin’ ye to be entertained, lads? Mr. MacKinley?”

  MacKinley stepped out from where he had plainly been enjoying the music as well. “Cap’n?”

  “If ye would be so kind?”

  MacKinley bellowed, “Get yer lazy arses on deck, lads! This ship’s no’ goin’ to sail herself!”

  Andrew and the rest of the crew, cheered by the music and chided by the captain, returned to their work, muttering good-naturedly to one another.

  After they’d left, the fiddler approached Janet, smiling under twinkling eyes. “Seamus Murphy. At your service, ma’am,” he announced and bowed elegantly, fiddle tucked under his arm.

  “That was lovely playin’, Mr. Murphy,” she said.

  His ever-present grin widened. “Most gracious of you to say so, ma’am. I’ll be guessin’ this might be yer first time on a ship, am I right? I’ve a bit of experience I’d be pleased to share wit’ ye, if ye’re at all inclined. Yer accent tells me ye’re a Highlander, are ye? From Dublin I am, sailin’ to me fortune in America.”

  “Good luck to ye, Mr. Murphy,” she said. Peter jerked on her hand and she nodded toward the fiddler. “If ye’ll excuse me, I must go an’—”

  “Och! And be these yer precious children? Or”—his pale blue eyes went wide with feigned wonder—“might they be faeries?” He stepped back to get a good look at Peter and Flora.

  The two were struck dumb. They stared open-mouthed at the stranger. Seamus didn’t wait for Janet’s answer but returned his laughing eyes to hers.

  “Have mercy on a wretched soul, I pray ye. I’m afraid ye’ve the advantage, for I’ve given ye my name. Might ye gift me with yours?”

  He waited expectantly, wearing a genuine expression of friendliness on his face. Janet frowned. She wasn’t used to strangers. And this Seamus fellow spoke so quickly it was difficult to understand a word he said.

  “I’m inclined to keep that to myself, Mr. Murphy. Now, if ye dinna mind, I—”

  “Oh, but I do! I do mind! A lass needs a proper escort on her first day aboard ship. How could I e’er forgive meself if sommit was to happen? It’s yer lucky day, sure and it is, that Seamus Murphy is here, for I know the ship as if ’twere the back o’ me own ’and. Allow me, miss”—he crooked his white-sleeved arm in invitation—“to give ye a tour—”

  “The lady has said no, sir,” came a low voice, “and I’ll ask ye to respect her wishes.”

  Andrew appeared behind Murphy, and the Irishman stiffened, but quickly regained his composure. He winked at Janet before turning around to face Andrew.

  “Seamus Murphy, sir, at yer service,” he said, beaming at Andrew. “Am I to be acquainted with your name then, sir, as the lady isn’t wantin’ to tell me hers at present.”

  “Andrew MacDonnell. Pleased to make yer acquaintance, Mr. Murphy. The lady is wi’ me, and ye’ll mind yer manners around her.”

  Andrew kept his expression calm, holding the Irishman’s gaze. He saw curiosity sparkling in Seamus’s eyes. After a moment, Seamus bowed his head in good-humoured acquiescence.

  “Sure, and I’ll remember that. I’ll apologise for any offense I might have given.” He tipped an imaginary hat Janet’s way, then turned back to Andrew. “I don’t recall seein’ you afore, Mr. MacDonnell. Is it your first time at sea, then?”

  The fellow’s energy was contagious. He reminded Andrew of his brother, Dougal, and he clung to that thought. Seamus seemed like someone Andrew would like to know. He was someone who knew nothing about his history—about the battles he had fought, the horrors he had left behind.

  “Aye,” Andrew said. “ ’Tis my first journey across water. Did I hear ye say ye were familiar wi’ this ship?”

  “Sure an’ I did, Andrew,” Seamus answered in his cheerful lilt. “Is it all right I call ye that? Andrew? I prefer the less formal in ever’t’in’, I do. Aye, an’ I’ve been aship afore today, although I must admit I might have stretched the truth a wee bit wi’ the lady.” He grimaced and plucked one of his fiddle strings. “I’ve no’ bin on this particular ship afore. How different can they be from one anot’er, though, I ask meself. Well, Seamus me lad, I says, let’s find us a mate an’ we’ll go explore the ship. An’ here stood this bonny lass”—he winked at Janet—“all alone wi’ the wee ones. I t’ought to maybe cheer her up wi’ a walk round is all.”

  Janet arched one cool eyebrow.

  “Well, Seamus,” Andrew answered, smiling and using the fiddler’s first name. “I’d be much obliged if ye were to show me around. I dinna ken if the lady is of a mind to join us, though.”

  Andrew looked to Janet for direction. “Might I introduce ye?” he asked, and she pursed her lips, but nodded slightly.

  “I’ll do it myself. And I’ll do it in my own time, thank ye. Mr. Murphy, I’m Janet MacLeod. At your pleasure, sir.”

  Seamus nodded formally in acknowledgment. “Indeed. And t’ese?” He looked down at the children, who stepped forward to touch the strings on the fiddle, cushioned between Seamus’s arm and his side.

  “These are Flora and Peter MacLeod,” Andrew said. “We are takin’ them to America since they’ve no kin left in Scotland.”

  “Ah,” no
dded Seamus. He frowned as he stooped and spoke to the children. “Not faeries after all then. For the faeries wouldn’t be near so brave as you two.”

  Peter plucked one of the strings, then looked up at Seamus.

  Seamus squatted so he was face to face with the little boy. “Have ye not seen a fiddle afore, lad? Well, an’ t’at’s a sorry thing to be sure. Tell me now”—he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“have ye never afore met with an Irishman, either? Ah. Now that’s a sin, it is. It’s fine to meet you, sir.” He offered his hand to Peter, who stared at it, then back at Seamus, who waited. The boy looked down at his own hand, then very gently placed it within Seamus’s palm. Seamus nodded and shook the little hand. “Right, then. Let’s go see the ship, aye?”

  A smile lit in Peter’s eyes that Andrew hadn’t seen before. The little boy followed Seamus without a moment’s hesitation, leaving Andrew and Janet slightly bemused in his wake. Flora clung to Janet’s hand, but tugged on it, hurrying so she wouldn’t lose sight of her brother.

  The Boyd of Glasgow carried her passengers for three long months, holding together when massive waves dwarfed the ship and flushed gallons of freezing seawater through her cracks and joints. The wind was often brisk and the evenings sharp. The sky alternated between a gray expanse into nothingness and a blue so vivid it hurt to look into it for too long. At times it was easy to forget there was any land at all, so insular did they become on their floating home.

  Andrew adapted easily to the rhythm of the sea, and worked harder than he’d ever worked before. Sometimes, when he took in the vast emptiness around him, he wondered at his decision to leave Scotland for this rocking, stinking craft. At other times he let the wind and surf pound at his body, slicking back his hair, burning his eyes, and he exulted in the fact that he had had enough courage to risk doing it.

  It didn’t take long for Andrew to get used to sleeping in his allotted hammock in the crew’s quarters. It was different from curling up on a hard forest floor, but aside from the tight quarters and the stink of the neighbouring sailors, it wasn’t an unpleasant change. On calm nights when it wasn’t too cold, he lay on the deck, lulled by the lapping waves, admiring how the Milky Way smeared its translucent shine throughout the heavens.

  One evening, in celebration of a particularly windy day, the crew broke out the whisky and danced to Seamus’s fiddle. Andrew enjoyed the party, but the night was cold and he was tired. He headed down to his wool blanket and hammock, trying to ignore the dancing feet on the deck above his head and the raised voices of tone-deaf sailors. After a while, he rolled onto his side and folded his arm into a pillow, then, still smiling, closed his eyes and sank into sleep.

  Maggie was there, waiting. Her blue eyes moved through him, warming his blood with their intensity. The soft line of her smile roused his own, although he still couldn’t see her. He shivered at the hint of the breeze, believing it was her fingers on his ear, tucking the hair back from his face. It wasn’t like the last time, when they spoke, when they actually held each other. This was more like a dream, reality twisted with his subconscious. But it was real all the same.

  Then she was gone. The sudden loss awoke him, and he opened his eyes to the water-stained boards over his head. A tickle of sea air teased over his face, whispering through the vents in the cabin walls.

  She had been there. The knowledge held him like an embrace.

  PART 5: MAGGIE

  Healing and Hurting

  Chapter 26

  Changing Leaves

  The Cherokee village revolved around Waw-Li. So did my life. At first I approached cautiously, wary of her flame but needy of its heat. When I drew closer, she brought me in, making me part of her fire.

  Waw-Li asked me to call her Grandmother, as the others did. She taught me many things, not least of which was the ability to calm my thoughts and drift into a place where my dreams could find me. She showed me how to ease myself into a trance, allowing me to direct my dreams, to use them and free them. At those moments I felt anything was possible. I lost all sense of time.

  Every day for four months I walked from my house to the seven-sided council house, where each wall represented a different Cherokee clan. Waw-Li taught me all she could. One season passed into another, and our connection grew with each lesson. She asked me what I saw in my dreams, and I told her everything: what I heard and saw, how I felt. She interpreted what she could, building bridges between dreams and reality. She showed me the scars buried within me, and taught me how I could use them to strengthen my life.

  She taught me the mysteries of animal totems, explaining to me why the shiny blackness of a raven always brought me comfort, why I always saw my world from a bird’s-eye view.

  “You are the raven,” she said, her old woman’s voice clear as spring water. She said shamans among the Cherokee often spoke through ravens. Some could change their human shape into that of the bird itself when it was required. The totem of the raven allowed them to pass between the worlds, between the veils of life and death, waking and dreaming.

  “And there is a wolf that I see,” she said. She opened her gnarled hands, palms up, as if accepting a gift. “This wolf is in your blood. He is with you awake or asleep. You must look for the wolf.”

  “Grandmother,” I said. “I have found the wolf.”

  Waw-Li was the only person I ever told about Andrew. I told her how the mournful howl of a wolf brought me comfort. How I sensed the coarse fur brushing against my fingertips, but when I looked, there was nothing there. I always knew it was Andrew. When I glimpsed his dark shape treading through the night, the wary eyes softened as they met mine. I always felt safe when those eyes looked at me.

  The old woman nodded, her eyes partially hidden by the slack skin of her eyelids. “The raven and the wolf,” she said. “Power between the worlds. Strength of body and belief. Loyalty beyond all else.”

  A new world was opened to me through Waw-Li’s teaching. For eighteen years of my life, things happened. No one ever asked the reasons. My true grandmother, with her many gifts, was an enigma no one in the family discussed. They had no way of understanding her, so they didn’t try. My dreams were kept hidden within a blanket of secrecy, never surfacing until I arrived in the Cherokee village.

  Now I lived in a world of magic. A world where animals and people could exchange forms and powers. Where my gift wasn’t merely accepted, but revered.

  “What is it you want, Ma-kee?” Waw-Li asked one day. “What will you do now?”

  I had wondered when she would ask me that. The question wasn’t whether I would stay with the Cherokee. It was understood that wherever I chose to live in the future, I would always be one of them. No, this was different. She was asking about a practical use for my gifts. Giving something back as a way to thank the spirits. She was asking me to choose a direction. Once I did that, she would help me find the path.

  “Do you have ideas for me?” I asked.

  “Ma-kee, you have many gifts. Your ability to communicate with the spirit world will always be with you, and you will be a wise shaman with time and practice.” She shifted on the cushion beneath her, then leaned toward me. “But there is more. The spirits blessed you with another gift. They dipped your soul into the pots of both white men and Cherokee, so you carry the minds of the two peoples. It came to me that your place should be between the two. I have asked Wahyaw to take you to the fort when he goes to trade. You will teach the white men about us, and us about them. If there is knowledge, there can be peace.”

  The thought of returning to the domain of white men stopped me. Waw-Li saw me stiffen and reached over to pat my leg.

  “Do not let them frighten you, child. You must always be careful, but the men who harmed you and your sisters are no longer a danger.” She brought her hand back onto her lap and smiled easily through missing teeth. “No one will make you go, Ma-kee. It is your decision.”

  My decision was to follow her lead, so when Wahyaw said we would leave in
a week’s time, I was ready.

  Soquili wasn’t coming. He didn’t speak to me anymore. Not since the day I told him I couldn’t marry him. I knew it was a good thing he was out of my life. I only had room for Andrew. But I couldn’t help feeling an emptiness with Soquili gone. I missed him very much.

  The day before we went to town, I went to join the other women as they bathed in the river. I laid my tunic on the grass and stepped in gingerly, hesitating as my foot touched the cold water. While I waited for my body to get used to the temperature, I stood still, examining the opposite bank where it rose toward a maple tree, shimmering with newborn green. Ripples of its reflection lapped the shore, ridged by pebbles that seemed to glow. I took a breath and held it as I waded into the deeper end of the pool, staying hidden and keeping quiet while I washed. I didn’t want to interrupt the ritual exchange of gossip.

  “Awenasa is with child,” reported one woman.

  A chorus of “Again?” danced across the water, followed by giggles and exclamations.

  “I pray she receives the gift of a girl this time,” said a small voice, and there were murmured grunts of assent.

  “It is said Say-Lew Adsila found a new diversion for herself at the Ceremony. Is this so?” I peeked through the branches of a weeping birch to see Say-Lew’s reaction. She was a jolly young woman with round cheeks and twinkling black eyes. She tossed her head back and laughed out loud.

  “Ha!” she said. “The Ceremony is not just for prayers and dancing. Especially not when men like that come to our village!”

  “There was one who had a sharp eye on our Soquili,” someone said, interrupting the earlier laughter.

  A chill tickled through me that had nothing to do with the temperature of the river. I hardly felt the water as it licked my neck with its icy tongue.

  “Yes! I saw that! The chief’s brother’s daughter! He could not do better,” was one jovial opinion.