Little Bird Lands

by Karen McCombie

  “So we will set up a schoolroom here,” says Dr Spicer, “until such time as the schoolhouse is built and a teacher appointed.”

  “I-I see,” I stammer, though I am not entirely sure I do see.

  “School will run in the morning, leaving afternoons free for me to see patients – when they choose to come. I will teach the older children and you will teach the young ones,” says Dr Spicer, all of a sudden making her meaning more than plain to me. “What do you say?”

  I can say nothing; I am struck dumb. At fifteen – and after everything my family have been through – I do not feel much like a child any more. But I am hardly a grown woman ready to take on such a role! And when did a lowly crofter’s daughter ever become a teacher?

  “Excuse me,” a voice interrupts from behind, and I stand aside as Jean walks in bearing a bench made from a plank. “This all right, Miss?”

  His dog stops at the door and turns its thickly furred body in a circle before settling on the wooden floorboards. Odayan looks comfortable but keeps a keen eye on his master.

  “Perfect. Thank you, Jean. Can you make me two, no, three more of those, please? And some basic long tables too? Just when you have time between your other jobs.”

  With the business of the school furniture settled, Dr Spicer turns her attention back to me.

  “Naturally, we can teach more than just reading and writing and arithmetic, Bridie,” she says, as she grabs hold of a long, wrapped roll of roofing tar paper and begins to drag it across the room. I grab the other end of the heavy roll, beating Jean to it. “There’s science and medicine, of course. And as for politics, well, we can talk about our wonderful President Lincoln and discuss the Civil War, and the injustice of the slavery system in the south. In fact, you could tell the pupils about the terrorist attack in New York, Bridie! And we could ask the children to recount why their own families came to America – whether it was due to poverty or religious persecution or war in their homeland – that would be a good introduction to geography, wouldn’t it?”

  I cannot keep up with Dr Spicer. She may not be one for common small talk, but when it comes to bookishness and learning, her mind seems to sprint, fuelled by science, while mine lags behind, filled as it has been by laundry work and chicken feed the last two years.

  “And it doesn’t have to be just the children talking about where their families originally hail from,” Dr Spicer continues. “The mine manager and his wife are from Sweden… Perhaps I can persuade him to join us too!”

  “The wife is not Swedish,” Jean interrupts. “I heard her speak when she arrived in the summer. I think she is from England.”

  Dr Spicer blinks, taking in this new information about the mine manager’s wife. “You have met her? What is she like? Was she poorly when she arrived?”

  “I only saw her a time or two,” Jean replies with another of his shrugs. “Seemed pretty young. Looked skinny and pale.”

  I think I am as intrigued by this solitary, sick person as Dr Spicer clearly is. Dr Spicer’s interest might be that of a doctor thinking of someone’s physical health, but I simply find it sad to think of anyone being locked away indoors and lonely…

  “Anyway, Jean, we must of course have you talk to the pupils,” Dr Spicer announces, changing the subject as the young man rearranges some gleaming new shovels and hoes to make space for the tar-paper roll. “You can tell us about the first people of this land – how does your tribe say it?”

  “All tribes say it: Anishinaabe,” says Jean, repeating the word I heard him use on the day we arrived.

  “Yes, you can tell all the children about the Anishinaabe and your customs.”

  “I don’t think there’s many people in the town that would care to hear that,” says Jean darkly.

  Dr Spicer takes the weight of the tar-paper roll from me and props it up against the wall. “The American Declaration of Independence clearly states that all men are born equal, Jean. Now some of the older residents of Hawk’s Point might struggle to remember that sometimes, but let’s at least try and make sure the children understand that fully, shall we?”

  Jean does not seem convinced, but at least gives Dr Spicer a nod and a shrug.

  And now she’s addressing me again.

  “Bridie, I’ve heard that the mining company delivered a parcel of slates and pencils to Mr Nathaniel’s store back in the summer, in readiness for the school being built. Can you fetch them sometime? I think we should aim to start in a week or two. Perhaps after Christmas. A new term for the new year!”

  At last, I find my voice.

  “I-I am not sure I can…” I stumble.

  “I’m sorry?” says Dr Spicer, her stare intense behind the wire-rim circles of her spectacles.

  “What I mean is, I don’t think I can teach all those children,” I tell her. “I don’t know enough to do it.”

  “Don’t be silly, Bridie,” Dr Spicer says matter-of-factly, brooking no refusal. “You’ve been to school yourself. You seem intelligent and sensible and will be more than capable of following my lead. So what on earth can stop you doing whatever you set your mind to?”

  I am confounded by Dr Spicer’s bossy tone at first. But as soon as I see past that and make sense of what she has said, I feel a bloom grow in my chest, in my heart; a bloom that tingles in my veins and explodes in my head.

  Her words, they sound like freedom. And there was a time I dreamt of freedom, back on the island, back on Tornish. I’d lie on the moss at the top of the Glas Crags, staring up at the sea eagles soaring in the cloud-stacked sky above, wondering what it might be like to be a girl who could go where she wanted and be whatever she pleased. But that carefree thought has lain buried inside me for the longest time now.

  Till now.

  Perhaps I am no longer lucky enough to have my mother, my sisters, the friendship of Will. But I am lucky enough to have myself and that is sufficient. I am Bridie MacKerrie, and nothing can stop me doing whatever I set my mind to.

  Nothing.

  I rush over to a plainly surprised Dr Stephanie Spicer, because right at this minute, hugging her is what I have set my mind to…

  I waken to a soft, bright quietness outside and a warm tinkle of voices and breakfast things within.

  The hay-filled mattress rustles softly as I toss aside my blankets, clamber out of bed and pitter-patter on cold tiptoes to the window. And wonderfully, there has been a pause to the endless snow; the piercing blue skies and butter-yellow sunlight – so dearly missed in the daily, swirling blanket of white – are like a gift for the eyes. And another gift is the silence … for this morning the stamp mill is thankfully stilled. Not because it is Sunday and a day of rest, but because it is Christmas. A day when the miners’ wives might make a bit of a better meal for their families than the usual carefully rationed salted bacon, stew and skillet-fried biscuits.

  I hurry out of my thick nightdress and into my warm layers of skirt, flannel petticoat, shirt, knitted jumper, stockings and shawl. But before I leave the bedroom, I pause by the hanging sheet that separates my half of the room from Dr Spicer’s. My half has the window and door, and hers … well, I don’t know what it looks like. I’ve been curious, of course, but always too polite – or too scared – to peek. But this morning, the doctor is clearly not there; I have heard the muffled sound of her voice through in the parlour. And the sheet, it does not fall straight today; it hangs a little to one side. Perhaps I might dare a swift glance…?

  And so, breath held, I part the sheet a little further and stare into the private space behind it. The bed has been neatly made, as I would expect of Dr Spicer. A trunk and several bags are stacked at the end of it. Her dresses and skirts and coat are hung on roughly carved wooden pegs mounted on the wall. Above her bed there are two stout shelves, the upper laden with jars and thick glass demijohns with curious names written upon their labels: ‘SALTS’, ‘CASTOR OIL’, ‘QUININE’, ‘CALOMEL’, ‘DOWNER’S STANDARD COUGH MEDICINE’, ‘MORPHINE’, ‘LINIMENT’ an
d more.

  On the lower shelf are many leather-bound books, a prettily shaped kerosene lamp, and something I have seen photographers on the streets of New York offer – a tintype photograph. I take a step closer and gaze at a gentleman’s head and shoulders printed on to the thin metal plate, set inside a varnished wooden frame. The gentleman’s oiled hair is combed close to his head, and he sports a bushy moustache and a serious but kindly expression. So this must be Dr Spicer’s dear departed husband, I suppose?

  A sudden ripple of laughter from the parlour makes me jump and remember my manners. I don’t want to be caught and I don’t want Dr Spicer to think ill of me… I have been enjoying our talks about what to teach once our make-do school opens. I am still in awe and a little shy of her however, and I have certainly not made a repeat of the hug I gave her not so long ago. The hug rather shocked us both, I think…

  With a quick flick of the sheet “curtain” to neaten it, I turn, hasten through the door and see what is going on in the room beyond.

  “Bridie! Look what we have made!” says Lachlan. He sits at the table with silver scissors in one hand and a piece of old newspaper in the other. But he is pointing towards Dr Spicer, who is fixing a length of twine, laden with lop-sided paper stars, to the wall by the window. The other walls are similarly ornamented.

  “Lachlan was telling me that Christmas was not much celebrated back on your Scottish island,” says Dr Spicer. “But in my hometown of Philadelphia, it has become quite the fashion to have decorations, as they do in Germany. In fact, the Germans also take trees into their homes and—”

  In that instant the side door whacks wide open, battering against the wall. And there stands Father, grinning, one thickly gloved hand holding the trunk of a small fir tree across one shoulder, the other clutching an axe.

  “I just met a couple of Irish fellows hunting for rabbits in the woods for their Christmas dinner. We got to talking and decided that while the weather’s fine, we will have ourselves a gathering by the miners’ cabins, with music and dancing!” he announces, thudding the tree up against the wall, and hurrying over to the shelf where his tin whistle lies. “So hurry – get your coats and warm things…”

  For a heartbeat or two, the surprise announcement makes Lachlan, Dr Spicer and myself pause … then in another heartbeat or two we are rushing around in a frenzy of activity.

  Though I will not be doing any dancing today, I think to myself just a short while later as I settle myself on a tree stump on the edge of the clearing by the miners’ cabins. I will admit it to no one, but I don’t quite trust my legs just yet; since my illness the muscles of my twisted foot in particular are weaker than I would wish. So while back at home on Tornish I would dance as long and as hard as anyone else at gatherings in the island’s townships, this morning I am content to watch as the men, women and children of Hawk’s Point whoop and whirl, whether they are Cornish or Scottish, German or Irish or Yankee, whether they are familiar with the tunes or not.

  It takes a minute or two to realise there is someone by my side. It is the tongue-lolling panting of his companion that gives Jean away.

  “Your father plays well,” he says, giving a simple flick of the hand that has Odayan obediently lying flat down on the hard, snow-packed ground.

  As he crouches down beside me, I notice that Jean’s heavy, worn black coat hangs open and I catch a glimpse of the colourful beadwork of his belt once again. I would so like to learn how to make something that beautiful. How pleasant it would be to pass the dull, winter evenings here making such a thing instead of darning socks and stockings!

  “Yes,” I agree to Jean’s compliment to Father’s whistle skills. “But you should hear him play the bagpipes.”

  I wonder who has Father’s set now? We had to flee Tornish with so little that he gifted his precious pipes to one or other of our neighbours.

  “Bagpipes?” says Jean, turning to me with a quizzical look on his face.

  I struggle to think how I might explain the pìob mhòr… Do I tell him the bare facts of it, that it is a bag made of the hide of an animal, wooden blow-sticks and windpipes attached to it? Or do I let him know the Great Highland Bagpipe is beloved and much revered back home, with such a powerful, haunting sound to it that can make your heart soar to a stirring march played upon it, or just as easily bring you to tears with a sorrowful lament? In this moment I can say neither, for a clear memory is come to me, of the time my friend Will fell backwards on to his brother George’s set of pipes, and the escaping wind sounded near enough like the tortured groans of a dying beast. I cannot tell you how long Will and I helplessly laughed for…

  “It is an instrument of my homeland,” I say simply instead, trying to stop a smile in case Jean thinks I am laughing at him.

  Luckily, his own gaze is on the Irish lads and their handheld bodhrán drums. “We use drums and singing for our dances,” he says.

  At the mention of his people, I take the opportunity to ask Jean something that confuses me.

  “Why is it you have a French name, and not an Indian one?”

  “There have been French-Canadian traders and trappers and missionaries in this land for many, many years, since before my grandfather’s own grandfather’s time,” he answers. “Some married Anishinaabe women. Some French names took hold.”

  “So the French that first went to Canada, they travelled south here long before any of the rest of us travelled across the sea to America?” I ask.

  Jean nods. “Yes, but there were not so many of them. Now there are many, many more of you. White people are coming like a sea; like waves and waves that never stop…”

  I feel sick, suddenly realising that myself, Father and Lachlan are part of that unstoppable wave.

  “I’m … I’m so sorry that your people are being made to share your land,” I tell him, my words sincere though they might sound shy and awkward.

  “There is no sharing, miss,” Jean says sharply. “There is just taking.”

  I halt for a moment, then try to explain how it has been for folk from the Highlands and Islands for the past century.

  “Jean, I do understand about land being taken,” I say. “Where I’m from in Scotland, hundreds of thousands of poor families have been cleared off their farms, left homeless and desperate by landlords who care not how they survive. It goes on still – it is why we come to countries such as this to start new lives…”

  “Yes, but then for your people to have new lives, is it fair that my people lose our old lives?” Jean counters, sounding weary and not angry, though he has every right to be.

  “But I thought tribes were given money by the government to move to reservations?” I say.

  “Money that is often never paid,” says Jean. “Moved to land that is often so poor it is impossible to farm or hunt on…”

  Despite the joyful jigs and reels going on only a few feet away, my heart suddenly aches. For all of us who have left dire situations in our homelands for a better life, it means someone else’s life must become much worse. I find myself ashamed that I’ve not properly understood this till now.

  “What are they dancing for?” Jean suddenly asks me, perhaps sensing my discomfort and so, very kindly, not letting me suffer it.

  “To celebrate Christmas Day,” I tell him, gulping down my difficult thoughts. “Do you know of that?”

  “Uh-huh,” Jean mutters, his eyes on the crowd, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. “In the town down the coast I have heard people sing together for Christmas. Their songs sounded serious and sad. I have never seen white people dance like this, like they are full of joy.”

  Full of joy, and a fair few of them full of ale very soon. On the far side of the crowd I have already caught sight of Mr Eriksson, as stern-faced as usual, feeling duty-bound to take part in his workforce’s celebration. He must have organised the ale to be brought down from the general store – Henni’s lanky brother Oskar is rolling a rattling barrel down the road, followed by Mr Nathaniel himself – but
his gesture obviously brings Mr Eriksson no pleasure.

  I’ve seen Easter too, a large shawl wrapped tight around her as she walks amongst the watching, foot-tapping audience, offering biscuits from a large plate.

  “My father says that the music will also give some cheer to everyone in town,” I carry on, feeling the weight of Odayan’s hairy head rest on my booted feet. “It’ll take them away from the gloom of this hard winter, he says, and their worries about the mine being jinxed.”

  “Jinxed?” Jean checks my meaning again.

  “Having bad luck wished upon it,” I try to explain. “The mine is not producing enough copper, and the folk here think it is cursed.”

  “The mine is not cursed,” Jean mutters. “And maybe they’re mining in the wrong places…”

  “What do you mean?” I look up at him and ask.

  “People mined here in ancient times. You can still see traces of the places they dug for copper. Large hollows in the forest floor show the places of their mine heads, if you know where to look.”

  “And do you?” I ask.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” he says with another of his shrugs. “But I’m not here to help the white men. I’m here to work hard and make money for my family.”

  “And what of the curse folk chatter about?” I ask, bending over without thinking to ruffle the ears of Odayan, the way I would our old pup Patch. “The Indian maiden with her cape of black feathers that some have seen by the mine…?”

  Jean notices the dog’s obvious pleasure, its head tilting back towards my hand, its steely grey eyes softly closing. Its trust in me appears to settle something; Jean must surely trust me too, for in the next moment, he tells me a startling truth.

  “That fool Nat – I was in his store one morning last summer. He was shaken up. Said he’d seen a dark shadow hovering up by the mine the night before, same as many others had. He must have been drunk on his own ale. He asked me if it could be an Indian spirit.”

  “And you told him it was?” I ask.

  “No. I just did this,” says Jean, giving one of his usual shrugs. “It was up to him to think about my meaning.”