Little Bird Lands

by Karen McCombie

  My stirring words work. For a whole few seconds that is – till I hear a sound.

  A small sound, a barely there sound to the right of me, in the huddle of the pine trees: a crack of a stick, stepped on.

  I freeze, my heart and my breathing held coil-tight in my chest. Have I been foolish to walk this way alone, thinking myself safe so close to the town? How can it not have occurred to me that while we are contained behind our walls, by our cosy stoves, the wolves might think to pad down from their hillside lairs to sniff curiously around our very doorsteps, no matter how early the hour of the evening?

  As the blood suddenly races once again in my veins, I quickly turn to run back the way I came, to the road, to the fluttering hope of light from the nearby miners’ cabins. But at that very second, the creature that lurks in the woods … it shows its shadowy shape to me, and I gasp with what little breath I can muster.

  For it is no wolf.

  It stands upright, looking my way. A full, dark cape, a hood, a slim, tall figure. Can it truly be her, the spectre, the curse-maker? But how can I see something that Jean himself confessed does not exist? Yet there she stands…

  Whatever this person is, I see with a start that she has begun to turn and hurry from me as much as I was hurrying from her. Frightened footsteps crackle more sticks in her path.

  And now it appears that she is not alone, this disappearing figure in the trees. A smaller shadow runs behind her, pulling free her long, heavy cape – made of fur, not feathers, I think – as it snags on branches.

  Back in Scotland, these two might have been considered a pair of shape-shifting selkies. And no doubt the German and Cornish and Irish and Swedish folk in Hawk’s Point have similar dark creatures they may call upon if they saw such figures in the woods.

  But all of a sudden, I am certain that I can guess the true identity of the Chippewa ghost. She is one who drinks her secret sleeping potions like a princess from a folk tale, dreaming her way through the noise of the working day, only to rise in the quick of the night and drift like a phantom through the town, sometimes, just sometimes, glimpsed by one or other of the townsfolk.

  She is someone who has no need of the pamphlet I carry, encouraging exercise and fresh air, since she sees to that already, in her own, secretive way.

  She is Easter’s mistress if I am not very much mistaken.

  She is the mysterious, never-seen Mrs Eriksson.

  And Easter is by her side.

  Now they are a little closer to the glow of lamplight seeping from the window, I see Easter turn to me, raising a finger to her lips…

  Easter kept the secret of her mistress’s after-dark wanderings very well all these last months.

  And since stumbling upon it, I have not, I’m ashamed to say.

  But then I’ve only shared it with the two people I trust most of all – Father and Dr Spicer. Father, since he is kind and decent and pities young Mrs Eriksson, although he has never had the pleasure of meeting her; Dr Spicer, since she is Mrs Eriksson’s physician.

  Much as I love my younger brother, I did not trust Lachlan with the secret. I worried that he might tell it without thinking, setting off a great rolling stone of gossip before he realised his mistake.

  But most excitingly, this evening, I – along with Father and Lachlan – will finally meet the mysterious Mrs Eriksson face-to-face! It has been two weeks or so since I came across the entrance to the ancient mine works, and tonight there is to be a celebration at the Erikssons’ house with – and I can hardly believe this – myself as guest of honour. I have not seen them yet, but two important men from the mining company offices arrived here today, after travelling overland by dogs and sled, to witness for themselves this treasure chest of a find. Not only does the old mine contain great tracts of ore, but even a six-foot high boulder of pure copper, a thing so remarkable that it will make Hawk’s Point famous across all of America, Mr Eriksson has proclaimed. Lachlan wonders if Mr P. T. Barnum himself might seek such a thing out for his museum!

  “Tha thu a ’coimhead brèagha, Bridie!” Father compliments me now, as he runs his hands over his newly trimmed red beard.

  “You’re looking very handsome yourself,” I answer him brightly.

  It might just be the lamplight, but Father’s eyes appear to glisten as he gazes upon me. I think it is not so much that I am all of a sudden “beautiful”, it is more that I remind him a little of my eldest sister Ishbel tonight, with the tight black circlets of hair that Dr Spicer has neatly braided and pinned up for me. Not that they will stay neat for long, since my unruly hair tends to do what it pleases.

  “You do look very lovely, my dear,” Dr Spicer announces as she straightens the brooch at my neck that I have borrowed from her. It is made of jet and shows two hands holding a wreath. She had several brooches I could have chosen; an oval of ruby-coloured paste gems, one of a bright painted sprig of flowers, a dove-blue cameo and more, but I chose this one, not just because the colour of the dark stone matched my hair, but because it is a mourning brooch which Dr Spicer wore after her husband died in the riding accident a few months back.

  I dare say some at the gathering tonight might find it a peculiar choice of ornament, but they’ll no doubt think it impolite to ask the reason why. I expect that the important men from the mining company would simply laugh if they knew it was in memory of a dog that was killed, that it is also a mark of respect for the dog’s owner who felt its loss terribly.

  “And the final touch!” says Dr Spicer, wrapping a soft but warm shawl around me, another of her fine things she has loaned to me for the evening. I can hide my tatty old gloves – with holes worn in the fingers – underneath, unseen.

  As she smooths the expensive dark wool, I notice that the doctor looks a little tired and drawn. I do hope she is not becoming unwell… But would that be surprising when she has to deal with all the ailments she does, day in, day out? Though Dr Spicer’s unsettled manner is perhaps due to her concern for Mrs Eriksson at this moment. She has been pleased with the small steps to health that her patient has taken, though none of those steps include going out in daylight and meeting folk just yet! But the doctor is worried that the mine manager’s decision to hold a party this evening – to expect Mrs Eriksson to host alongside him – will be altogether too much for the recovering invalid. Still, I do find myself hoping that the young lady will make even a swift appearance. Just so that I might smile at her and let her know that there are people about who might befriend her.

  “Ah, and there’s my boy,” Father proclaims proudly as Lachlan comes out of the bedroom, looking smart in a jacket and trousers and polished boots, his unruly red hair dampened and combed flat to his head.

  Dr Spicer breaks into a warm smile at the sight of him. I think that she has become very fond of the two of us over the course of this winter, having no children of her own.

  “Well, we’d better be on our way!” says Father, ushering us all out. “Now I know you’re not one to be helped, Bridie, but the ground is very slippery with the thaw, so will you take my arm? I don’t fancy you falling over and being introduced to the mine bosses half covered in mud!”

  “I’ll let Lachlan help me,” I say, having spotted the frown on my brother’s face. I think I would like a chance to see how he is doing. Since the death of Odayan, and his master leaving town, Lachlan has been very low.

  Moments later, I am last out and pull the side door closed firmly behind us, and – same as all Hawk’s Point residents – I do not bother to lock it as no one living in this small community would dare steal from another. Lachlan holds his arm out to me, and we head into the twilight of this chilly April evening, following behind Father and Dr Spicer.

  “Nat’s Store looks strange like that, doesn’t it?” I say, nodding over to the building.

  For once, the store-cum-bar is closed, dark and empty. Mr Nathaniel and Charlie are going to the celebration too, it seems. Seamus and the other miners who lodge there have been turfed out and made t
o sleep on the floor of the single men’s dormitory, while their room was hastily tidied and given over to the bosses of the mining company, as they won’t be travelling back to the town down the coast till morning.

  Lachlan says nothing.

  “Are you worried about Charlie being at the gathering tonight?” I ask him. “You do not have to talk to him you know. Not if you don’t want to.”

  Charlie has not returned to school yet, despite the crutches that were found for him. He spends his time behind the counter of his father’s store, eating as much candy from the jars as he can fit in his face, telling anyone who’ll listen how painful his splinted ankle is, and that school is stupid and a waste of his time.

  “It’s true, I’d rather not be in his company,” says Lachlan as we head along the road in the direction of the mining camp and the neat house in the woods nearby. “But I’m more upset about Oskar…”

  I think of the lad whose fingers were blown off in the mining blast. It must be a worry to his family to have him hurt so terribly – and to have lost his wages.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll find something he can do well once he’s healed,” I say, trying to console my brother. “Though a job heaving a pickaxe and wielding a heavy hammer in the tunnels will not be one of them.”

  Or wielding a gun as a soldier in the Union Army as Oskar had once hoped, I think to myself.

  “It’s not that,” says Lachlan as we follow in the footsteps of Father and Dr Spicer. “Henni told me today that their father beat Oskar awful bad.”

  “No!” I gasp. “What for?”

  “He found out Oskar was gambling. Some of the older miners were boasting how much money they took off him in card games.”

  I had forgotten that Henni had mentioned this when we were up on the frozen pond two weeks ago. And I had forgotten what she had started to say that day, before everything went wrong.

  “But how can that be? Where would Oskar have got the money from to gamble if he’s not working?”

  “His father accused him of stealing it from somewhere, though Oskar was shouting that it was his fair and square…”

  “Dr Spicer, Dr Spicer – come quick!” Easter calls out, running towards us from the top of the path that leads down to the Eriksson’s house. “There’s a terrible quarrel going on between my master and mistress upstairs. She is dressed and ready but refuses to come down. The master is raging at her. Can you help?”

  “I knew it would be too much for her,” I hear Dr Spicer grumble up ahead as she lifts her skirts and hurries after Easter.

  “Well, now … this might be quite an unexpectedly lively evening!” says Father, as we three are left in their trail.

  Turning down the path to the mine manager’s house, I glimpse the warm flow of lamplight and dark figures at the parlour window. The front door has been left a little ajar and piano music drifts out. Someone is playing a rousing version of a waltz very badly, but I suppose it at least drowns out any arguing going on upstairs.

  “Here,” I say once we are inside, offering to take Father’s overcoat.

  In front of us are the stairs, but I can hear no raised voices; perhaps Dr Spicer is doing as hoped and calming the situation? To the right, I can see the kitchen table and chairs already heaving with coats and scarves and hats left on them, and add ours to the pile.

  That done, I follow Father and Lachlan into the parlour, where a dozen or so guests mingle; the mining company bosses in expensive suits, while it’s Sunday best for the mine foreman and a clerk or two and their wives. But if I look beyond these people and the fug of cigar smoke the gents puff out, I can see such things of beauty. Vases, mirrors, paintings … ornate lamps upon finely carved shelves, and a dainty table that holds the centrepiece of the room, a many-layered silver candelabra dotted with a myriad of tiny, twinkling candles. And beside us is the patterned settee I spied Mrs Eriksson lying upon on Christmas Day, only now it is Charlie Nathaniel who takes his ease on it, cradling his crutches and yawning with boredom.

  “Now then, this surely is the heroine of the hour!” I vaguely hear someone say and realise – with a gentle nudge and smile from Father – that I am being addressed.

  The gentleman talking, who has a walrus moustache and a stomach to match, is almost drowned out by the pummelling of the upright mahogany piano as the foreman’s wife begins to murder another tune.

  By his side is Mr Nathaniel, leaning one hand on the back of the settee. His dark brown waistcoat and jacket strain at the seams to contain his bulk.

  “Um, hello. I’m Bridie MacKerrie,” I say, shaking the offered hand.

  “I was just having a very interesting conversation with Mr Nathaniel here,” says the gentleman, without bothering to introduce himself to me. “Are you two acquainted?”

  He points a crystal glass of amber liquor in the direction of the smug storekeeper. I can imagine that Mr Nathaniel has been boasting of the future he sees for himself. All the folk in town are imagining what a grand place Hawk’s Point will soon become, with a church, hotel, sawmill, better harbour and trees cut down in swathes to make way for the streets and cabins and stores that will be built. But Mr Nathaniel shouts the loudest about his plans for a large saloon. A proper affair it’ll be, he says, with a piano player and tables for card games and perhaps some fine ladies to brighten up the place. Father says he’s heard that the storekeeper also fancies himself as mayor of the town too…

  “Yes. Mr Nathaniel is a near neighbour of ours,” I reply with politeness but no warmth in my voice.

  “Well, I was asking him his opinion on what happened with the accidental explosion in the mine, because of his past experience with dynamite,” says the gentleman. “You know, before he…”

  The gentleman closes one eye and pulls such a strange face, to imitate, I suppose, Mr Nathaniel’s injury. I don’t care for the storekeeper one bit, but neither do I care for this clumsy mimicking. Mr Nathaniel, however, laughs loudly. Perhaps with his mouth and not his eyes, though…

  “You specialised in blasting, Mr Nathaniel?” Father asks him.

  “Indeed I did, some years back,” the storekeeper replies, sticking his chest out like a preening pigeon. “I worked at several sites down the coast. Was the best in the business and—”

  “Anyway,” the gentleman interrupts as if he can’t be bothered with the story, “Mr Nathaniel tells me that he does not have a theory, but that given the finding of the new mine by this little lady, there is not much point in crying over spilt milk. And you know what? He’s right – ha!”

  I watch as the gentleman guffaws, and notice his moustache is wet at the ends, soaked I suppose in whiskey.

  “Mr Nathaniel was also telling me what fools the townspeople are – your good selves excluded, I’m sure!” he continues, once he catches his breath. “He says they put the mine disaster down to some utter nonsense … a curse put on by the spirit of some squaw, I believe!”

  Now the man can barely draw breath for laughing, the storekeeper likewise, which is a peculiar thing, since I know for a fact that Mr Nathaniel has been as scared of the supposed Chippewa Curse, and the “woman” he imagined might implement it, as anyone in Hawk’s Point.

  But I’m suddenly distracted by Lachlan whispering something to me.

  “What?” I say, turning to look at him over my shoulder.

  “I’ve just remembered something. Something about Oskar,” he hisses, talking – unusually for him – in Gaelic. “I think I might know why he had money to spend.”

  But Lachlan’s whispers, the loud, callous laughter of the mining official, the clumsy clank-and-clunk of the piano … suddenly I am deaf to them, for Mr and Mrs Eriksson have just entered the room!

  Mr Eriksson appears to force a smile, a smile as tight as the grip he has on his wife’s arm. His wife has her head held low, but I note her artful blonde curls spilling from a pinned-high bun, her long, swan-like neck, a dress made out of some fine gauzy material, all white, though dotted with delicate bl
ue flowers. She looks frail but remarkable – like a tragic princess from a book of fairy tales, not a sickly wife trapped in a glorified log cabin in a mining town.

  Around me, I sense the room quieten as more people become aware of who has arrived in the room.

  Behind the young lady I see a concerned Dr Spicer, and an equally worried Easter.

  “Come, dear!” Mr Eriksson proclaims loudly. “Let me introduce you to everyone. Everyone, this is my dear wife Katherine.”

  I am vaguely aware of Lachlan hissing in my ear again, but this is not the time for worrying about Oskar and his gambling debts.

  “Katherine,” Mr Eriksson continues, leading – somewhat insistently – his wife towards the middle of the room where the soft, dappled candlelight from the centrepiece candelabra is most prettifying. Except that with her unhealthily pale skin, his wife reminds me of nothing more than a barely there, ghostly will-o’-the-wisp, or one of the other phantoms and fairy creatures my sister Effie and so many Highlanders once believed in. “May I introduce you to the gentlemen from the mining company…?”

  Mrs Katherine Eriksson continues to keep her glance to the floor as all eyes settle on her and idle chit-chat ceases.

  “Bridie!” Lachlan hisses at me yet again, but I pay him no mind. His guess at how Oskar got his money can surely wait.

  “Katherine, dear! Won’t you say hello to our guests?” asks the mine manager through his forced smile and gritted teeth. “There’s Mr Schwarz and Mr Belfonte, and of course Hawk’s Point’s own little heroine, Bridie MacKerrie!”

  In the snap of a second, the young woman looks up – at me. She is shaking, her blue eyes pooling with tears. She appears half mad.

  Her trembling lips move as if she is about to speak, but first I finally hear what my brother has been trying to tell me.

  “It’s Miss Kitty!” he mutters.

  It’s Miss Kitty.

  The world slows, the moment freezes.

  Four years ago, the new Laird came to our little Scottish island, his haughty wife and spoiled and spiteful daughter by his side, and bit by bit, destroyed the lives of all who lived there. I’d always thought, and always hoped, I’d never have the displeasure of seeing Miss Kitty again, and yet some terrible, twisted piece of invisible thread had brought her here!