by Jane Yolen
I mumbled something then, and turned away, looking for Mairi in the press of folk. Finally, I found her, standing on her tippy-toes behind Mistress MacKinnon, the farrier’s fair wife. Mairi was waving her hand at me to get my attention. “Duncan, here! Here!”
I went over and handed her the button I had taken from the soldier. “I won this for ye, Mairi.” Which was not really the truth but all I could manage.
She looked at the button I’d put in her palm, folded her hand over it carefully, and put her hand up to her breast. Then she spun around and about, and when she stopped spinning, she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “For courage,” she said, though I couldn’t tell if she meant for the courage I had used in getting the button or courage yet to come.
“Hurrah!” my brother Andrew shouted, and the others took up his cry.
“Och—it was nothing,” I protested, meaning it.
But Granda basked in the attention, grinning like a man who’s stumbled on a crock of gold.
“Sit down! Sit down,” he cried, “and we’ll tell ye all.”
So everyone sat down around him, right there on the ground in front of Uncle Dougal’s cottage. Ewan’s ma brought out a dram of whiskey, which Granda began sipping the moment it was put in his hand.
“I have drunk the Keppoch’s whiskey and the prince’s brandy,” he said, licking his lips. “But none can beat the taste of our own.” And then he was off, giving them every detail of our journey.
Now and then he encouraged me to add my piece, saying, “Duncan was there, and perhaps he saw more.” But I didn’t have his joy of words, and besides, the way he told the tale was so much better than the way I had rehearsed it. So much better than it had really been. I couldn’t compete and so I didn’t even try. I just shook my head each time he asked and, after a while, he stopped asking.
Granda spoke of the great Highland host gathered at Glenfinnan, making it sound like ten times the number we’d seen. “A hundred thousand,” he said, “cheek by cheek and arm by arm from one side of Glenfinnan to the other.” And he called the great roll call of the clans who’d been there. “Och, ye should have seen them,” he said, “all the lairds of the Stuarts, and the Camerons, led by gentle Lochiel. The MacLeods were there in a mighty number. Clanranald, too.”
“And the MacDonalds!” called out the farrier’s wife.
“Of course the MacDonalds, and didna the Keppoch look grand, Duncan?”
I nodded.
He went on. “And above them all, the golden St. Andrews cross on a blue field flying. The king’s own banner.”
Mairi clapped and sang out, “The prince!” I guessed she was speaking of that faerie prince of hers and not the Stuart, but no one else seemed to mind, shouting out with her, “The prince!”
Then Granda took little Sarah in his lap, and continued with the tale. He told of my translating from Scots-English into Gaelic, and how well I had done, never mentioning how I’d stumbled nor that I’d made up things. Of course, he might not have known, and I was not about to say.
Everyone turned toward me and this time Sarah led the clapping. I blushed again, but now it was with shame. If anyone could have told the difference, no one said.
After that, Granda described the prince’s fine clothes in such detail, ye’d have thought he had been the one that did the dressing. And when he was done, he started the whole tale over again, as a fiddler does, repeating a favorite tune.
Our brief time of fame was soon over, though. As Ma said, “It’s God that feeds the crows that neither till, harrow, nor sow.” She meant that we had work waiting to be done on the farm, work that had piled up while we were gone. And that we were not crows, to fly away from such work.
Andrew complained, saying, “Och, Ma …” and she fetched him a clout on the head.
“I would think,” she said to him, “that ye’d be glad to go back to work, since there will be so much less of it to do now that Duncan’s home.” He brightened at that.
So first he and Granda and I went to the byre, the barn where the cows were bedded. We had to prepare it for the winter, a filthy job.
Then the cows needed tending in their summer pastures—the shielings—high up in the hills. While we’d been gone, Ewan had watched our cows as well as his own, but nobody had been happy with the arrangement, especially Ewan.
So I got myself ready to go up to our shieling hut alone. We had four good milkers—Bessie, Cana, Rona, and Flora Ann—and I was to keep them safe, and see to their milking till summer’s end and they came back down to the winter pastures and the byre.
The hut was one my great-grandfather had built, a little stone thing with room for a wee fire, a mattress, and a small table shoved against the back wall, but nothing more. Still, it was enough.
It took half the day walking to Ewan’s shieling, two hills over from our own.
Ewan greeted me with a little shrug, hardly interested in any word of what had happened.
“Yer a liar,” he said, when I tried to tell him about talking to the prince. “It’s like one of yer granda’s tales, or yer sister’s daft stories, full of clouds and nae sky showing.”
I wondered if he was still angry with me, for I had gone and he had not. When I said so, he turned his back on me.
“It’s all true, ye know,” I shouted at him. But he treated me as if I were havering, so I had to gather up our cows by myself and drive them over the two hills to our own shieling.
The first full day up there alone was strange after so much time surrounded by other folk. Cows are not much for conversation, though they’re not bad as company. I spent a lot of time twisting grass ropes and thinking now and again about Ewan’s sister, Maggie. I replayed my brief moment with the prince more often than I should have. I worried over Ewan’s calling me a liar. And I moaned a bit in my mind about not being with Da and the men.
But otherwise I settled into the hills. I watched a golden eagle catching the hard wind in its wings. A flock of peewits flew in one day and were gone the next. I kept an eye on the hundreds of hares playing by their burrows, for holes that large could break a cow’s leg.
A great stag and his harem of hinds crossed at dawn and at dusk every day and we greeted one another solemnly. He is king here and I a lowly subject, I thought. But even a lowly subject can know a bit about the hills.
Every few days Ma or Mairi or Granda would come up to lend me a hand with churning the milk into butter or wrapping it up to be made into cheese. But most of the time I was simply alone, with too much time to think.
Ma always worried when she had to be up in the shielings, thinking about all that was left at home to do, so she rarely visited. And it was a long, hard walk uphill and down for Granda after his march to see the prince. But Mairi loved it. She said she felt closer to her faerie folk than when she was up in the hills.
“The Folk are there,” she would say, pointing to a wee puddle or a stream. “And there.” Though I could see nothing but the water and the little ripples as the wind passed over.
Of course we didn’t dare let Mairi come up to the shieling on her own. Too daft to care for the cows by herself, she’d go running after any butterfly or strange light she saw, leaving the cows unmilked. This time Ma had left her with me for a couple of days and I made sure to keep her close and give her plenty to do.
“The prince is watching,” Mairi told me in confidence, and I knew from the faraway look in her eye that once again she did not mean Prince Charlie. “Soon he’ll take me away from all this hard work.” Her hand was on the butter churn as she spoke.
“And I suppose he’ll give ye wings while he’s at it,” I said, and she hit my shoulder with her fist for saying so.
I suppose I deserved that for being so unkind, but for a moment I had wanted to shake some sense into her. After all, I had seen a real prince and here she was still havering on about the prince of faerie. But then, I reminded myself, Mairi believed every word of her own faerie tales, and if it brought her comfort, wh
o was I to destroy her dream? “I’m sorry, Mairi.”
“That’s all right, Duncan.” She stroked the spot where she had just hit me, as if trying to soothe away the hurt. “How are ye to know? Was Prince Charlie real to ye before ye saw him? Did ye believe in him before he spoke to ye?”
“Of course I did,” I muttered, but she chose not to hear me.
“My prince told me once, when I was sleeping, that I’ll soon go live in his palace, and have pretty winged maids to serve me.” She began to rub at her fingers, which were rough and red from all the churning. “When I am in the Fair Country, my hands will turn soft and white. I’ll wear a dress of the finest silk …” She smoothed down her homespun plaid skirt. “And I’ll sleep in a huge bed with pillows and silk sheets. It will be like sleeping in warm snow.”
“Warm snow? Hah!” I cried. “That’s havers, Mairi. Who would want to sleep in warm snow?”
“I would,” she said, her thin face wreathed in smiles.
“Well, we can hope for something better now without expecting the Fair Folk to help us,” I told her, and I grabbed up her hands and held them tight. “There’s a real prince in Scotland now. And he’s going to bring health and wealth and happiness to our poor land.”
“My prince is as real as yers,” she said, pulling her hands away and hiding them behind her back. “Yers comes from across the water but mine comes from under it, where the Fair Folk dwell.”
I stomped away from her to go and bring back the cows for milking. Honestly, she was such a daftie.
A day later, as we watched the great stag and his hinds come up over the hill and dawn, Mairi forgave me.
“Tell me again,” she urged. “Tell me all about the prince. Yer prince.” It was a peace offering of sorts but I was too tired to take it as offered. I had already told her the story of my meeting with Prince Charlie many times. And while the story had gotten better with each telling, by now I was thoroughly tired of it.
“Mairi, I’ve said everything a hundred times already.” I started to stand, but she put her hand on my arm and pulled me back. The sudden movement startled the stag and he stamped his feet and raced away, the females right behind him.
I was sorry to see him go, afraid he would never return, for a deer startled once may be gone forever. But Mairi only shrugged. “Ye’ll see him again, just like yer prince.”
I had to smile at her. It was hard to hold a bit of anger against her.
“Tell me, Duncan, please.” The wind puzzled through her straw-colored hair. “Ye make the prince sound so wonderful,” she said. “With his scarlet laces and the yellow bob on his bonnet. I wish I had seen that.” She raised a hand to her hair as if straightening a bonnet of her own. “And when he spoke to ye, yer heart near bursting.”
“Well, he didn’t say all that much.” I was suddenly embarrassed at having exaggerated my telling of it. “He only said he wished he had a hundred hundred other strong young men like me.”
“A kind thing to say,” said Mairi. “He must see truly indeed, to know the brave, strong heart in yer small body.”
“I’m no so small!” I told her indignantly, my voice rising at the end.
Mairi lowered her eyes, and I turned and left her, going into the shieling house, where I poured new milk into the churn and worked at it all the morning, till sweat beaded my brow and rolled down my back.
After a bit, she came in to watch. Neither of us spoke a word.
Suddenly, we heard a haloo and went outside, where we saw several figures struggling up the hill, each carrying a basket. It was Granda and Ma and the little ones all waving at us.
“There’s news!” Granda called. “Grand news!”
I stood and waited while they labored up the rest of the hill, red-faced and puffing, for this was one of the few cloudless autumn days, with a sun shining full down on us.
“News of Da?” I asked.
Granda sat down on my stool and wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “I’m sure yer da’s well enough.”
Ma added, “More than well. He’s probably been drinking and feasting for days.”
Mairi was up now and bouncing on her heels. “Feasting for what?”
“The prince has taken Edinburgh!” Andrew and Sarah cried out together.
I let out a cheer, but Granda waved me to be quiet. He had caught his breath and was ready to tell the rest.
But first Andrew and Sarah had to be hushed. Only then did Granda continue. “Ye recall when we left them, they were off toward Edinburgh. Well, they got into the city with hardly any trouble at all, and made their way up to the castle itself.”
“Is it a strong castle, Granda?” Mairi asked.
“It is a very strong castle, my lass,” he said, “perched high up like an eagle on its rocky nest. Well our brave men knew that anyone trying to get in at the West Port gate, the nearest at hand, would be shot to pieces by the castle guns.”
“So …” I said, eager to have him get on with it. “So …”
“So, it was just at dark, which can seem blacker in the midst of a battle than up here amid the hills, that Lochiel made a wise decision. And a lucky one, too. He brought his men away from the West Port and to one of the lesser gates, the Netherbow. And just as the Camerons had concealed themselves, the gate was thrown open to let a coach get out and Lochiel and his men raced in.”
“God on our side,” Andrew and Sarah cried together.
Granda leaned back and grinned.
“The castle taken?” I whispered.
“Taken!” Granda said. “And all before the redcoats had eaten their evening meal.”
I laughed at the thought of the redcoats fleeing, spilling bowls of porridge and cups of ale, as the Highlanders chased them out of the castle and along Edinburgh’s twisty streets.
Granda added, “They proclaimed James the Eighth king at the market cross the next morning, and the prince entered the next day in triumph, so old Hamish told me, and he heard it from a messenger up the valley.”
“The war’s won then?” Mairi asked, wide-eyed. “Da can come home now?”
“It was but a single battle, child,” said Ma.
“And it was over before ye could clap yer hands.” Granda grinned, ruffling her yellow hair.
“I’ll wager Da was in the thick of it.” I swung my arms about, pretending to chop off English heads with a sword while guarding myself with my shield.
Andrew copied my every motion until he fell over, and waved his bare feet in the air, which made us all laugh. All except Ma.
“This is nae game.” She clucked her tongue. She looked angry and frightened at the same time.
I turned to her. “Da will be fine, I know he will. If ye had seen him on the march, with the men, ye’d have faith in him.”
“I have faith in yer da. It’s the English guns I dinna trust.”
“Now, Catriona,” Granda said, “we silenced those guns at Edinburgh and we can do it elsewhere. Besides, yer frightening the little ones.” Indeed, Sarah had gotten a wide-eyed look about her.
“Aye, what was I thinking,” Ma said. “I’ve not come up here to call in the bogies, but to get both of ye to leave off yer work for a while. I’ve a nice dinner—cheese plus some honey to spread on fresh-baked barley bannocks. We’ll make a right feast of it and drink a cup of fresh milk to Bonnie Prince Charlie’s health. And to yer da’s.”
“Milk, pah!” said Granda, but he said it smiling.
We all crowded into the hut and Mairi and Sarah helped Ma take the food from the baskets and put it all out on the little table. I got a pail of milk from the shed and poured some carefully into each of the wooden mugs.
Then we gathered around the table and Ma was about to say the grace when Mairi clapped her hands together. “Oh, what a land this will be from now on! I wager the faerie folk willna be frightened to come out anymore. And yer prince and my prince will bring a long peace to us all.”
Granda smiled at her fondly and raised his cup. “T
hat’s as good a grace as any, my lass. Here’s to a long peace, indeed.”
But Ma had the last word, as she often did. “There’s a big difference, Granda, between a single battle and a war.”
13 THE GLOAMING POOL
We sat eating bannocks for a long while, using the fact that our mouths were full to keep from talking. But at last we were done, and I feared that the talk would turn again to the war, with Ma and Granda taking different sides. All I wanted was for the celebration to continue. I tried to think how to put that into words.
That’s when Mairi jumped up and, without a word, skipped out the door.
“Duncan, ye hurry after and keep an eye on her,” Ma ordered me. “There’s danger all around.”
“Aye, ye know how flighty she is,” said Granda.
I dropped a half-eaten bannock, licking the honey from my fingers as I dashed out after her. Once outside I saw that she’d stopped to wait for me.
“I knew Ma would make ye chase me and I didna want ye to have to run too far.” Her face was lit with an impish grin.
“That’s good of ye, I’m sure,” I said as she took my still-sticky hand and pulled me after her.
We walked along the hills where the cows chewed contentedly on the remains of the summer grass. September can be a mean time of year, and October worse, but the cows seemed content enough.
Goodness knows there had been lean times the last few years, when I had often wished I could fill my belly as easily as they. But the prince had promised to put things aright, and I knew he was a man of his word, for wasn’t he already winning our country back from the English?
“Where are ye taking me?” I asked, for we were already quite a ways from the shieling hut.
“Och, ye know where we’re going,” she replied, slapping my arm. “We’re going to tell the Fair Folk the news that good times lie ahead for their people and ours.”
She started down a small, rocky path; and I did, indeed, know all too well where it led.
