All my love to you and the children,
Kenneth
Sheila caught Gillan’s eye. She waited. He did not speak.
She said, “There have been no more announcements or notices since the one at kirk. No officers or tacksmen down to see if we’re out since the last of June. Is that what makes ye sure that—”
“No, no, I’m not sure of anything, and that’s the trouble. Is it better to leave or to stay? To keep together or split up to find work? All we see are the people who completely vanish, so they aren’t much help. The ones still here are in the same boat as we are.”
Sheila saw both Neil and Muirne look restlessly at the floor: they had never heard their stepfather sound so frustrated and they were embarrassed for him. That he should hesitate, unable to decide, unsure what the best course was for his family—it was unmanly. They stayed silent, hoping that Sheila might have a solution.
“Well, Kenneth says no on the Carolinas, but Jenny says yes to Glasgow. There’s a chance to take. Perhaps you and Neil should go there for a visit to see if there is good work, in case we do have to leave here.”
All eyes turned to Gillan.
“Aye, perhaps. I’ll think on’t.”
Muirne sighed with relief.
***
***
The next morning Gillan came in early from the fishing, annoyed that it had not been a good catch. He threw the half-dozen or so fish in the net on the table, and yelled at someone to take them to the smoke shed. They’d all been shivering, not wanting to get out from under blankets to stoke the fire again, but Sheena jumped out, wriggled into her long coat, and dashed outside with the line of fish, letting in a blast of pre-dawn air.
The sun was angling its rays above the mainland through a blue-grey mist, but had not yet broken the horizon. Sheila got up and patted the blankets down in the corner then went to the cooking fire to stoke it up. Neil rolled himself up from the floor where he slept by the fire and added his blankets to his mother’s. Alisdair stayed asleep, and Muirne stayed in bed with him, eyeing all the action.
Gillan sat at table, clutching his hands together, leaning forward, watching Sheila bending over the fire. “Woman!” he finally said. “Sheila, come here to me, I’ve made a decision.”
Sheila came and sat on the bench next to him, but with her back to the table so they looked into each other’s faces. “Yes, Gillan? What’ll we do?”
“I’ll take Neil with me to see the situation in Glasgow with Jenny. We may as well leave today. You must write the letter for me, and it should arrive in enough time before us. I think it’ll take us under a week, with the ferry and any luck.”
“Today? But I’ve no extra food packed for ye, and the money—”
“We’ll be fine, fine. The ferry’s only a few shillings for us both, and that counts the return. Any road, you can always make it back with all that weaving you’re doing. It’s coming along fine, Sheila.”
She opened her mouth and emitted a gasp full of anguish and shock, but covered it quickly, looking down and smoothing the folds of her dress. “So you’ll go today,” she said, glancing at the cloths near the loom, wrapped in muslin to keep them clean of the ash in the house.
“Aye.” He gave her another glance, then turned his attention to Neil. “Neil, you ready for a journey?”
“Yes, Father.” Neil finished tucking his shirt into his old trews and grabbed up his plaid. He rolled up and folded under the large square of cloth so it could fit under his elbow easily. He turned to his mother. “Anything you need before I go?”
“Coom here, son.” And she folded him in a tight embrace.
Muirne stood up in her shift and wrapper, an old muslin cloth, and her eyes sought Neil’s. He came over to embrace her as well, and she whispered, “Hurry back.”
Alisdair got his hair ruffled as he was waking, and then they pulled together the food and walking clothes they would need for the first few days at least: gaiters for their feet, Gillan’s large plaid to sleep on, the sheepskin for the cold, dewy nights, all the oatcakes stored in the drawer of the baking table, all the cheese from their one cupboard.
Just as they’d rolled it all up into a haversack, Sheena came back in. She looked at the men, dressed to leave, and burst into tears. Her hands were icy and smelt of fish and salt, and she rubbed them against her eyes, making the tearing worse. “You’re leaving us?”
Sheila’s heart broke at the sight. Sheena could barely remember her father Alec, who’d left for the Canal when she was just starting to talk, to never return. “Aye, young miss,” Gillan answered. “But we’ll be back, nae worry. Neil and I are going to visit your Aunt Jenny in the city, and see whether it’s all as good as one could wish there. Don’t worry, there, we’ll be back in a few weeks.”
Her sobs subsided, but her mother had to go fetch a towel to wipe away the salt from her eyes and rub her hands back to warmth. Gillan stepped in, claiming a kiss from his wife, and then the men were gone.
CHAPTER SIX
The two men headed up the hill to the road, then southeast to the ferry. A pleasant grey light had crept over the hills, and it was easy walking that warmed them with the effort. They tramped over dark purple heath and green sedge grass. They hopped over little chasms carved by winter streams. They passed neighbors’ houses, members of their kirk, but most were not looking out the small high windows, and did not see them pass. People were breaking their fast and looking inward, not out.
Mid-afternoon, their path brought them to a high point from which they could see north to Skye. Gillan pointed to the black crags, visible from Mull as a shady crooked line with a deep v-notch. “The Cuillins, Neil. It’s a different view from here, but they’re the same.”
Neil looked where he pointed but did not recognize the mountains. Dark shapes with crags at the top were shady and far-off, separated by water and the small isles in between. From Dalcriadh, their home, they could see Ben Mor, the largest mountain on the island. From this side of Mull, he saw Loch Ba for the first time, where their minister lived, and Sgurr Dearg, the reddish hill marked by dangerous scree. The Cuillins across the water looked wild and foreign.
Starting down the green hills littered with wildflowers, Neil realized he hadn’t seen much of his own island. He knew most of the Treshnish, but that was only the northwestern sea-end. He’d seen maps: there were great big mountains and high-up lochs he’d never explored.
He made a promise to himself that when he came back to the island, he would visit the four corners of it, so that it would truly be his.
His hands skimmed the rose bay willow herb as he jogged down after his stepfather, who kept his hands at his sides. Gillan was looking down to where they could see the barge stood waiting. A few passengers were forming a queue, so it was to leave soon. “Hurry up, lad, we may just make it!”
With that, they scampered down, hoping the ship captain saw them and would wait a few minutes. It took a quarter of an hour before they were standing at the ticket gate, panting a little, but proud of themselves. The ticket seller asked if they needed the return. They nodded yes. He took the few coins from Gillan, then handed them their tickets. They walked over the gangplank, and as soon as they reached the boat, a man hoisted it up after them.
“You see,” Gillan said, “they waited for us to sail. It’s a good sign.”
Neil nodded, but kept his opinion to himself.
***
***
Another hour, and the barge was nearing the harbor of Oban. Neil and Gillan had stayed out on the deck the whole time, their packs on their back. Gillan had kept their return tickets for safekeeping, and all in all, it was looking like an auspicious day.
They munched on a late breakfast of bread and cheese as the barge docked and let down the gangplank. Gillan hung back, and Neil was curious to see why. They watched as other passengers exited the covered portion of the ferry, Gillan with his eyes narrowed at each one. There were only perhaps two dozen others on the boat beside t
hem, and when they had passed, Gillan muttered something, spat, and cocked his head at Neil to disembark.
What was that all about? thought Neil uneasily. Who was he looking for?
Whatever it was, he would have to hold his peace, for Gillan stepped through the main town of Oban in no time, and they were on the open road through more green hills again. Gillan whistled a few tunes, but Neil stayed mostly silent through the day. When the sun dipped past the horizon, Neil wondered when they would stop for supper, and where. He’d only seen a few cottages in the last hour of walking, and no smoke, a very strange sight. He wondered if anyone lived in them at all, or whether they had all been evicted as well.
Just as his stomach was beginning to rumble, a cottage came into view off the road, nestled up against a small rise in the land. Smoke wound out of a hole in the roof, and Neil’s spirits lifted. Perhaps there would be a chance for some stories and exchange of news with the crofters.
“Could we not stop to ask for some supper here, Father? It is still the highlands.” He looked hopefully over at him.
“Aye, I was thinking the same thing. I shall go and knock.”
An answer came immediately, as apparently they had been sighted coming up along the road. A little woman opened the door to let them in. She was Mrs. Munro, a widow with four children all grown and left. She stayed here in case any came back, but would perhaps soon be leaving too. And what was their business?
“We are on our way to Glasgow to see my sister. She says they may have good work in a cotton mill there, and my family on Mull may have to be moving on,” Gillan said, not sure whether he should broach the subject of evictions with their hostess.
“Oh, evicted, as sure as not, don’t you know, everybody is getting theirs sooner or later. It’s just terrible. As if the lairds had any better duty than protecting their people, now the King and Prince are gone.”
“Mrs. Munro, I do not say we disagree, but who is the Laird in these parts? Has he been any kinder than the tales we hear of the Duke of Sutherland?”
“McDonnell it is, and no kinder than any other. Some out in the isles I heard were putting in improvements to let people stay, but if you’re here, and on your way to the city, then I suppose that puts paid to that illusion.”
“Aye, perhaps. But I didna see any people leaving on the ferry today from our island, the Lord be thankit.”
The three of them toasted to that, and Neil had his answer to Gillan’s scrutiny on the boat.
Mrs. Munro poured water from a jug by the door into a pot over the fire and invited them to stay for tea. They accepted gladly. With the foremost worry out and done with, they could pass on to other news and stories. Neil told of his schoolmaster’s habit of falling asleep at the end of classes because he was staying up late a-courting. Gillan told of his discovery of the perfect cast to catch the silver trout off Dunawald. And Mrs. Munro told them of the time her husband had walked forty-nine miles, clear over to Inverness, to fetch her the flowers she wanted for her bridal bouquet. She still had the dried wreath in her wooden chest.
Time flew by, and several bannocks and cakes had been consumed before the men stood and said they should really be going, that they had many more miles to cover before sleep. The old widow smiled and blessed them, clasping each of their hands and waving them off before shutting her door. They set off on the road again. Neil glanced back to where the moon shone in the west, over his island. He turned, and walked on.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Two more mornings passed on their journey before Neil and his stepfather came into view of a lively town. Broughton it was called, north of Dunbeg, and to the west they could see the works thrown up, belching forth smoke into the sky. At first Gillan was for skirting round the main road but thought that perhaps it would do Neil good to see a bit of the world.
He nodded toward it and Neil followed, hardly taking his eyes off the sight of so many houses together, the clouds seeming to gather over them and knit their brows fiercely. Neil did not know what the large mass of motion was off to the right, but it was making noise enough to be heard across the ten miles. Eagerly he kept his eyes trained on any movement in front of them.
When they reached the edges of town, Gillan told him to wrap his plaid around himself and his pack and to keep a close look-out.
“We don’t know these folk, after all, and there may be troublemakers. Best be prepared,” Gillan said.
Neil hitched his sack higher on his back, threw the plaid about himself, and held on to the tails of it as he walked. At the edges, the city still looked like his island home, with houses a bit closer together and not so shaped by the wind since there was cover from the sea. A few children ran by on errands here and there, only one giving them a curious once-over with his eyes.
As they continued, the gulley beside the road started to smell of rot and other wasting things. Neil glanced over and saw still, brown water, with odd bits of muck stuck underneath. More people were about now, crossing the road, but once again, not taking too much notice of the two traveling men. Gillan took this as a sign that there must have been many men traveling through here, and told Neil so.
“But not from Kilninian,” Neil replied with a wry grin.
Gillan responded with a grunt that said Yet. This was a pessimistic mood, even for his stepfather. “I wonder if they’ve come for the works here, whatever they are. Can you tell, Father?”
“Right by the water like that? Probably a woolen mill or maybe mining something from the cliffs.”
“Did you ever do any mining before?”
“Pshhh, no, there’s none of that out on Mull. We’re fishers and farmers, son.”
The noises coming from the works on the right got progressively louder, a great hammering and whining and small pops of something falling. It was nearing the noon hour, and they had managed well on others’ hospitality so far, stopping at crofts and being greeted with a meal and any news of the goings-on in this part of the country. However, as Neil looked around, none of these houses were of the kind that looked welcoming or hospitable.
Long, low buildings on the right of the road seemed to house workmen only, and some were used for secondary works such as blacksmithing. Taller buildings on the left of the road were connected, presenting an imposing front. The only windows were high up near the roof eaves, the field about was pocked with dig-marks and broken bits of wood, and no entrance could be seen. Neil pointed this out to Gillan.
“Where’s the entrance there? Away out back?”
“Must be. But we’re nae going in there, now.”
More houses, these lower and leaning against each other, showed alleyways and angled dirt roads. Neil wished for the cleansing salty scent of the sea, as the black pall they’d seen from a distance seemed to close about them and stuff his nostrils with a foul, dry odor. He brought his plaid around to cover his nose and mouth, but it did little good.
Here and there they could spy the steeple of a kirk, and when they got to the center of the town, they saw how all the businesses radiated from the square: the tailor, the cobbler, the post office, a grand-looking bank, and several small groceries. Neil sensed that it was Gillan’s wish to be rid of the town before stopping for a meal, and he couldn’t have agreed more. It somehow got under his skin: this air, these people. As they crossed the square, with its large fountain and fine statue of some royal bust, Neil heard a snatch of conversation between a mother and her son.
“Don’t you go being like yer father now, or it’s to the slates with ye! I haven’t worked sae hard…”
Slates—they must be mining slate! thought Neil. What a terrible way to grow up: being threatened with your eventual employment. He hoped the cotton mill near Glasgow would turn out better.
***
***
Three mornings and several slate towns later, they neared Glasgow. Neil did not hold out much hope that he would like the big city, especially if it was simply a bigger version of these mill and quarry towns. However, as th
ey packed up and shook their clothes free of the leaves of Loch Lomond’s forest, he was hungry to complete their quest and meet his father’s sister. He’d only met her once before, when she and her family came to Kilninian from the other side of the island for Gillan and Sheila’s wedding.
After several days in the long glens with fine weather, Neil was disappointed when a sudden mist hid his view of the city as they approached. The noise escalated, the traffic of horse and cart and person multiplied, and before he knew it, they were standing on a street pavement, weaving in and out of the way of dozens of others. They had arrived in Glasgow at supper time midweek, when all the workers in the city’s businesses—its trade houses and mercantiles, its shops and entertainment venues—were all closing shop and heading home at the hour of five.
Neil looked up. He saw far grander buildings than he’d ever imagined, six stories, bunted balconies, window dressing in stone, and grey, grey, everywhere. He tried to look through the crowds of people as well but saw no other highland travelers like themselves in the middle of the city. I wonder where all those travelers Mrs. Munro spoke of have found their work then, if not here.
After they passed through the center of the city, with its fancy buildings and richly dressed denizens, Neil saw once again the low, squalid buildings of the mill towns appear, at the ragged edge of the city. The stink once again asserted itself, and he guessed that everyone must immediately toss the contents of their chamber pots out the window upon returning home.
The Keening Page 4
