by Gian Bordin
Mary’s sense of smell, sharpened by the ever-present hunger, let her guess the content of the little package. Opening the cloth, she was sorely tempted to take a bite of one of chicken pieces, but quickly began cutting them up into small chunks and adding them and the bones to the soup of roots simmering in a pot over the fire. Then only did she lick her fingers, savoring the salty flavor of chicken fat. She hid the cheese for another day, called the children to her, and handed out the bread and biscuits.
Betty savored her small piece of bread in small bites, chewing each until it tasted sweet. She wondered where the bread and biscuits came from. They had not had any for weeks now. She joined Helen who sat behind the house.
"You want a bite?" Betty offered.
Helen shook her head and moved over, so Betty could sit next to her, and she put an arm around her shoulder, hugging her.
"You are sure? It’s good, better than our own, when we still had flour left."
"I know," Helen replied with a smile.
"You had some too?"
"Yes."
"Did you bring it?"
"Yes, but don’t tell anybody."
Betty would have liked to ask who gave it to her, but there was a strange expression on her sister’s face and she didn’t seem willing to volunteer more.
* * *
That evening, when they shared their communal meal, Helen did not eat, claiming to feel sick.
Next day, she returned to the lochan. After releasing the goats, she hurried up to the promontory and searched the fissure. A soft cry of joy escaped her throat when she discovered a heavy jute sack. Her keen nose detected the smell of oats. She could hardly lift it out. It must weigh at least forty pounds. She realized that if they were economical, this quantity would sustain all of them for more than a month. If they stretched it with roots, and berries later in the summer, it could even carry them for two.
Behind the bag was another small parcel, wrapped in a red cloth. It felt soft. Curiously, she unwrapped it. Her little russet jacket dropped out. She held it out in front of her. It was undamaged. Where did he get that from? How did he know it was hers? The thought of Andrew having held this in his hands made her go crimson. It had been her most priced possession. She held it against her cheek, smiling, and whispered: "I got it back!" She quickly slipped it on and brushed it smooth, looking down at her bosom, admiring it.
She grabbed the sack and, feeling hard lumps inside, opened it. On top of the oats were four honey biscuits and a smaller bag, containing white grit. She tasted it and contorted her face into a grimace. It was salt, but she did not spit it out. After its first, sharp tang, it actually tasted good. She couldn’t resist eating one of the sweet biscuits right away and put the others into the pocket of her jacket.
With difficulties, she lugged the sack back to the shielings. She would have to go back to the lochan and milk the goats later on. Mary saw her coming over the rise.
"Why are you coming back already? Has something happened to our goats?" she called out, alarmed. Then she saw Helen struggle with her heavy load and ran to help.
"Where did you get this, child?" she asked when she smelled its content.
For a short moment, Helen almost panicked. She was so full of joy that she hadn’t thought about what to tell. She uttered the first thing that entered her mind: "I found it in a hole under wooden planks in the hut where we keep the goats."
She felt her cheeks getting hot under her mother’s critical gaze, saw her look at her jacket. Did she guess who gave me these oats? Suddenly, she remembered the salt on top. This surely would give her away. It disturbed her even more that her mother did not pull her up for such a clumsy lie. Mother must know, but doesn’t care where the food comes from, she surmised. The only important thing for her was that they had food. So she wasn’t surprised anymore when her mother repeated her lie to the other women and none questioned it.
The evening meal was a feast. The best food they ever tasted, everybody agreed. The men congratulated Helen for her lucky find. Were they really that naive as to believe her story? Only her father searched her face thoughtfully, and her heart jumped into her throat, waiting for him to challenge her. But he said nothing.
* * *
Next morning, Helen went to the lochan early to release the goats. Her thoughts were with that young man who had assumed such an enormous importance in her life. She suddenly became aware that she had never spoken to him. She hadn’t even thank him for the food the first time. But somehow she felt that he hadn’t really expected it, that he had almost been grateful to share his food with her—to give her all his food, she corrected herself.
She picked flowers on the shores of the lochan. Then she climbed up to the rock and wove a small garland, humming contentedly. Will he find my little token of thanks silly? she asked silently. But, something inside assured her that he wouldn’t. She carefully put it into the crack where she had found the oats.
She checked again next day and found it still there. But three days later, it was gone, and in its place was a small package of honey biscuits. Her feet dangling over the edge of the rock, looking over the lochan, she ate one of them. She wondered when he had come. Except for a period around noon yesterday, she had been with the goats all day. Before she realized it, she had eaten all biscuits. But she didn’t feel bad about it. He had intended them for her, her alone.
What a strange man! Why did he help them? The only plausible explanation she could think of was that he fancied her, fancied her very much. She had never been aware of a grown-up man being in love with her. Oh some, she knew were lusting after her from the way they looked her over, undressing her with their eyes. But he didn’t look at her in that way. Vaguely she remembered how he had almost bashfully covered up her exposed breast when he had lain on her that dreadful day. And then he killed that officer! … Did he really fancy her that much that he put himself in danger? It felt exciting and a bit scary at the same time. Didn’t mother warn her sternly not to get involved with gentry from the castle, sprang to her mind? But she didn’t have the sense that he expected something from her, that he wanted something in return for the food he brought. If all he wanted was to ravish her, he could have done it then. No, he loved her. She leaned back on her elbows, idly watching the inexhaustible clouds march across the gray sky. She felt light and happy. And then, suddenly, her father’s words rang in her ears again. "Five, woman," he had said. Tightness gripped her heart. He must never find out that master Andrew came up here… Would he come again? … Did she want him to come again? She knew her answer was ‘yes’.
* * *
Helen now checked every day for any signs of his coming. On Saturday morning, his horse was grazing near the lochan. She released the goats and hurried up to the promontory, where she expected him to be. As she came nearer, she slowed her steps. Suddenly, doubts rose in her. Why was she running to see him? A MacGregor running to a Campbell. Enemies like oil and water who never mixed. And an illegitimate son moreover. For a moment, she hesitated, ready to turn back, but then she was slowly driven up the path. She found him sitting in the morning sun, leaning against the wall, a book in his hand. She watched him for several second, before he sensed her presence and looked up, his eyes locking onto hers, drawing her to him
"It’s a nice morning, Helen."
"Yes, it is, master Andrew." The first words she had ever spoken to him.
He smiled.
"Please, call me Andrew."
She nodded.
"Will you join me? I brought some delicacies to share with you."
So he had fully expected to meet her. She sat a few feet away from him, while he opened his pouch, laid out a cloth and displayed chicken pieces, a small sausage, cheese, several small bread buns, and raisins and other fresh and dried fruit. Her eyes opened wide. She hadn’t seen such a selection of food for more than a year. Some , like those two orange fruit with the crinkly skin she didn’t even know what they were. Andrew chuckled softly when he saw her rea
ction.
"Shall we eat?"
She just nodded, inhibited to speak. He cut the sausage into slices, and put one piece into his mouth. She did the same, and they both chuckled, a bit embarrassed. For a while they ate silently, looking at each other, smiles lighting up their eyes.
"The English soldiers have left. Did you know?" he said.
She shook her head and a cloud crossed her face.
"I’m glad they are gone," he continued. "Life can now become a bit more normal again."
"For those who have left any cattle. They took all of ours. We only managed to save the goats."
"I know, Helen. I had to witness it."
"You led them to our clachan," she murmured accusingly.
"I had no choice. They forced me to lead them to all the places where the men had joined with Prince Charles. I could do nothing to prevent it."
"You didn’t want to do it then?"
"No. At the beginning, I protested, but was told bluntly to shut up or be thrown in jail as a Jacobite sympathizer… I felt so ashamed for what they did… Many of the tenants who stayed home got robbed too."
While he spoke, thoughts flashed through her mind. He had no more choice than their own men. The gentry of the castle were as much at the mercy of their overlords as were the lairds of the MacGregors.
"Come, Helen, you’re not eating."
She took more food and ate it slowly, savoring every bit of its taste, all the time searching his eyes, wondering about him. She would have liked to ask him why he helped them, but didn’t find the courage. Instead, she asked: "What are you reading?"
He wiped his hands on his plaid and picked up the book: "Its called ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ by a writer named Jonathan Swift. The story is about a man who gets shipwrecked on an island where tiny people live." He showed their size with his hand. "And it tells about his adventures and the intrigues he gets involved in. It’s probably meant to be a satire on the current political life in England… Would you like to read it? I find it quite amusing."
It surprised her that he didn’t ask whether she read English. He simply assumed it. He must have a high opinion of the daughter of a small chieftain. Although she would have liked to say yes, she shook her head. "No, you’re reading it now." But she didn’t manage to hide her eagerness completely.
"I’ve read it before. I just took it along because I couldn’t decide what book to choose next… Please, Helen, take it. It will help you pass the time while you guard your goats."
He held out the book.
"No, I can’t. I couldn’t take it home."
Andrew was still holding the book. "You can hide it here… Look, you can keep it in this pouch. It will protect it from the wet."
He slid it into a pouch made from the bladder of an animal and held it out for her again. Hesitantly, she took it, pressing it to her bosom.
"I love reading," she murmured and showered him with a happy smile. Feeling his intense gaze on her, she bashfully lowered her face and opened the book at the drawing of a giant, surrounded by tiny people. A soft chuckle escaped her.
"It’s obviously all just imaginary. But it’s written in a very plausible and convincing way. One easily falls into the trap of believing the story. I’m curious to know what you think of it. Maybe we could discuss it together. There’s nobody in the castle interested in literature."
"You read a lot?"
"Yes, whenever I find time. I was too busy much most of last year, with Dougan Graham sick. But before that I read a book each week, if I could lay my hands on one… Do you read much?"
"If I can, yes. But it’s not easy for me to get books, so I read the ones that mother had again and again. But now, all of them are gone. The soldiers took them all." All of a sudden, her voice sounded bitter.
"I’m sorry, Helen… Maybe I can find some of them, or find you others. The speculators haven’t yet carted away all of the stolen goods."
"No, ma—Andrew, please don’t. I couldn’t bring them home."
"I can leave them in a bag in your clachan, for your people to find. They wouldn’t know who brought them. They might even think the soldiers forgot to take them along. Is your mother’s name written in them?"
His eagerness to help made her feel uncomfortable. She would have liked to protest, to tell him not to do it, but ended up simply nodding her head.
"I’ve brought you something else, Helen." He went to the fissure in the rock wall and retrieved a twenty-pound bag. "I could get barley. Will you take it?"
She blushed, not knowing how to react. "Thank you," she managed finally. Suddenly, she had an irresistible urge to leave. "I need to go back to the goats. Thank you, ma—Andrew," she murmured, getting up.
He reached for her hand, holding it briefly in his palms. Their touch was as soft as she remembered from the dance, while hers felt rough and callous from digging roots. Embarrassed, she withdrew it.
"Will you come and see me again? I would like you to. We can talk about the book. I’ll be back in four days."
She raised her gaze briefly. She wanted to flee. Before she knew it, she whispered "Yes", quickly slipped the book into her plaid, and hurried away with the bag. She did not look back, nor did she understand what made her suddenly feel so strange and panicky.
When she was back with the goats, it dawned on her that she couldn’t bring the barley to the shielings. Although she felt pretty sure that her mother would take it, as she had taken the oats, her father would want to know who gave it to her. He wouldn’t be fobbed off again. This would endanger Andrew. Maybe she could give it to mother in small quantities, then father surely wouldn’t notice. Then she remembered Andrew’s remark about hiding the books in the burnt-out clachan. She could place it there for the men to find. Didn’t father say just yesterday that they’ll go down and repair them? So after she saw Andrew ride away, she hid the bag again in the crack up on the promontory.
* * *
Betty didn’t believe her sister’s story about the oats. Somebody must have given them to her, she reasoned, the same person who gave her the biscuits and the bread, … and now she had her jacket again. She would have liked to ask, but Helen’s face seemed closed off. So three days later, after she had done her chores, she went to the top of the ridge between the shielings and the lochan. Hiding in the grass, she saw master Andrew and Helen share their banquet on the rock. She immediately understood why Helen had lied about where the oats came from, her father’s tirade against master Andrew still too fresh in her mind. But what hurt was that Helen wanted to keep it a secret even from her. She felt betrayed. They had shared most of their thoughts since that horrible day. Maybe she should tell mother and ask her. Surely, she must know. She wouldn’t have bought Helen’s story and wouldn’t tell father, not after master Andrew killed the officer, she reasoned. But something kept her from going to her mother. Maybe she should wait a while and see what happened.
* * *
As announced, the men went down to the clachan the next day, salvaging whatever they could for repairing the roofs and the inside wooden partitions of the cottages, and assessing what building materials they might need. Dougal would then scout around in the nearby forests for suitable trees and along the shores of Loch Tay for thatching reeds. Robin and Alasdair would take turns hiding on the ridge above the glen which offered a good view to the shores of Loch Tay and west to Killin. They were to keep a lockout for soldiers, "just to be on the safe side’, as Dougal remarked.
Helen was in a quandary. With the men at work, she couldn’t carry the bag down to the clachan and hide it there. Unless she carried it down one day, left it in the forest behind the clachan, and early next morning, before the men went to work, hid it in a cottage, she mused to herself. That should work.
Two days later, Dougal returned triumphantly from the clachan with the bag of barley. "Woman, look what I discovered. The soldiers must have forgotten it under roof thatching." He handed the bag to Mary. "I think it’s all right. Maybe we can still sow
it."
Mary took the bag and checked its content. Helen smiled to herself. It worked! Suddenly, she felt her mother’s questioning gaze on her. She suppressed her smile and turned away. Did she guess it? Will she betray me? she wondered. Her pulse quickened, but Mary said nothing, just stowed the bag away, nodding.
* * *
Helen and Andrew met every second or third day for two hours in the late morning. He always brought food along, and they laughed about their secret banquets. They never ran out of things to talk, of books, of history, of politics, of the war, of the life in the shielings, of the MacGregor Clan— Andrew was left in no doubt that Helen was very proud of being a MacGregor. Both talked. Helen found in Andrew a very attentive listener. They avoided personal things. Although she would have liked to know more about him, but was too shy to ask.
Andrew always reached their meeting place early morning, usually before Helen came to release the goats. His grey mare grazing near the lochan told her that he was up on the rock.
One morning when she expected him to come, the meadow was empty. Her disappointment surprised her. She had been looking forward to seeing him. Short, as their meetings were, they provided enough food for thought and reminiscing for the days in between.
It was a warm July day and the water of the lochan beckoned for a swim. She undressed quickly and rushed into the cold, but invigorating water, washing herself from top to bottom, wishing she had soap.
That was how Andrew discovered her, as he came over the ridge from the Achmore Burn later than usual. Following his first impulse, he quickly dropped back behind the crest. He got off his horse and cowered on the ground, not knowing what to do. After a while, his intense desire to spy on her got the better of him, and he hid in the heath. She was just climbing back to shore, pressing out her hair. He could not tear his eyes away, his heart pounding madly. She was the first woman he saw leisurely enjoying her nakedness in nature. She flicked the water off her torso and limbs, briefly pressing her full breasts together. Then she lay on a rock letting the sun dry her white skin. Ashamed of himself, Andrew crawled back to his horse. After a few moments’ hesitation, he left, berating himself for having spied on her.
