Love and Music Will Endure (6 page)

Her eyes snapped open and she jerked herself upright. The room was full of brooding shadows. She shuddered and clenched her hands on the blanket. There was a sound from below her window, a door being unlatched. She remembered where she was and sighed. Something had woken her, something from outside caught in the net of her dreams, rocking her as it was hauled aboard. She had been dreaming about that night when old Donald MacKinnon was shouting and singing to the bewildered calf.

But there were real voices now coming from inside the house. She could hear Mrs Carmichael summoning her, but Màiri was already stumbling down the stairs. Her employers were looking out of the window, pointing at plumes of grey smoke to the south.

‘Ah. There you are Màiri. You must help me load food and blankets onto my husband’s horse.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘Hurry up girl, there’s no time to explain.’

What disaster has happened? She wondered. There must be a fire but she was too unfamiliar with this western part of Skye to know where it might be. The minister was as tight lipped and urgent as his wife so she concentrated on helping him lift the provisions onto the horse.

‘If only I could carry more,’ he muttered.

‘Excuse me Sir, have you any more beasts?’

‘I could get hold of another one or two but what use is that when there is only one of me?’

‘I was just wondering, you see. I learnt to ride as a child. I don’t know what disaster has happened but if we both rode we could lead another pack horse and carry much more.’ She spoke softly and looked down when she had finished.

He frowned. ‘I don’t know what to expect when we arrive. It might be dangerous.’

‘I understand, but if there are women and children in difficulties, a second pair of hands might be useful.’ Again the modest downcast look.

He stared at her and nodded. ‘Very well. Needs must when the Devil drives.’ Who was the Devil here, she wondered.

They set off, each on a sturdy garron with Màiri leading a smaller pony behind them. She noticed with amusement that the Reverend rode stiffly, his knuckles clenched white on the reins.

‘We follow the Carbost Burn and then the Eynort River south. Then we climb over the ridge through
Bealach na Croiche
.’

‘And where is it we are headed to, Sir?’

‘Tuasdale, a settlement of twelve families. I’ve been worried for some time about them. The land is divided between two landlords, neither of whom has any care for his tenants. I fear we are too late to stop them.’

‘But the smoke seems to have died down.’

He fell into a gloomy silence. Despite the circumstances of their journey she couldn’t help feeling a surge of pleasure at being out on the moor on an early autumn day after being confined to the house. She felt her horse’s swaying gait beneath her, the sea borne wind snatching at her hair and the salty taste on her lips. Far above their heads an eagle circled, rising to become a tiny dot. They breasted the ridge and the way ahead opened like an unclenching fist. It was a wide, green valley leading to a meeting of two streams.

‘It’s beautiful here, and fertile.’

‘That’s part of the problem,’ he replied.

Everything looked as it should; houses sprouting out of the earth, the slopes on each side carved into lazybeds for potatoes, the hill pastures still green, but there were no people or animals to be seen. The village seemed to be under an evil enchantment.

‘It’s so silent,’ she hardly dared to whisper, ‘Look up the hill there, Sir. It’s still smouldering. What a terrible smell. What on earth were they burning?’

They dismounted and climbed up to the cottage standing on its own. The thatch had been set alight and was still smouldering in sullen blackness. Sticky, treacly streams slithered down the walls and oozed onto the ground.

He prodded some of it with his shoe. ‘I think it’s the stored cheese and butter.’

‘And what are you doing trespassing here?’ They both jumped at the snarling voice. A group of men had appeared from behind the house with mastiffs trotting beside them, teeth bared. The man who had spoken was broad shouldered, with his cap pulled well down over his eyes. All three of them carried thick sticks.

‘I’m the Reverend Carmichael, come to check on the welfare of my parishioners.’ Màiri admired his courage as the slight man held himself tall and spoke out in ringing pulpit tones.

‘Well, you don’t need to worry about them, they’re gone,’ the first man barked. He turned to smirk at his companions.

‘What do you mean, gone?’

‘Just what I said.’

Carmichael held his ground, staring at the speaker.

‘We’re just doing our job. Go and speak to Mr MacCaskill or Dr Lachlan MacLean. They paid us to move the people out.’ He waved his arms impatiently, making the nearest dog jump up.

One of his companions added, ‘They need this land for keeping sheep.’

Still the Reverend stood glowering and implacable. The dogs circled, whimpering.

‘You will have to answer for your actions to a higher authority on the day of Judgement.’

Two of them shuffled and looked away but their leader shrugged, turned his back and, whistling to the dogs, sauntered off down the hill.

Màiri could contain herself no longer, ‘Where have you driven them away to?’ she shouted.

‘A fiery lass, is it? Like the old woman who lived in this house. She made a fuss too. Wouldn’t leave until we made it too hot for her. Then she took to her heels, squawking like an old hen.’

Màiri bent down and picked up a jagged stone. Carmichael sprang forward and grabbed her wrist as she bent her arm back to aim.

‘Drop it at once. You’re only making things worse.’

She struggled against his grip. ‘They’ve driven all these poor people from their homes. They must be stopped.’

‘But this isn’t the way to do it. “Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord.”’

‘I wonder which path they took. We didn’t see anyone coming up here,’ Màiri said, when she had got her breath back.

‘We can’t ask those bailiffs now,’ he replied.

She hurled the stone away.

‘It was a mistake to bring you when you’re so intemperate.’

She didn’t seem to hear him. ‘They can’t be far away. They would be slow carrying all their belongings with them.’

His expression was still pinched and disapproving. ‘They would have taken the shore path beside
Beinn Buidhe na Creige
towards the church.’

As they turned their horses’ heads Màiri thought bitterly how the melting stores of cheese would glow as brightly as the Yellow Hill of the Sunlight itself as they poured down the walls of the
burning house. As Reverend Carmichael had predicted they found the people, sitting in hunched groups inside the church, stunned and blank faced. Even the children were cowed and silent. The minister moved among them, distributing food and blankets but they seemed barely to notice him. She went outside to gather firewood and came across an older woman among the gravestones. She was sobbing as she scraped up handfuls of earth, scooping them into a small dish. Màiri knelt down beside her.

‘I’m taking my last memory of the land. I’ll never return to live and be buried with my forbears here.’

Màiri touched her arm. She could find no words. After she had lit a fire to warm them she found the old woman whose stores had been destroyed. She stared blindly in front of her, her lips mumbling and her hands plucking at her shawl like the scrabbling claws of a trapped bird.

‘All that good food wasted. They even used my basins of milk to douse the fireplace. How will I live?’ Rivers of tears poured down the crevices of her cheeks. She brushed her hand across to stem the flow. ‘What use are tears? I’ve shed more tears already than all the milk my cow ever gave me.’

There was no time to think while Màiri and the minister did what they could to help. Some families were already setting out to the homes of relatives. They shouldered clattering pots and pans, held drag-footed children by the hand and coaxed along lowing cattle. One of the men complained that they had not been allowed time to lift down any of the roof timbers. She gasped, the wood was so precious. It was never left to waste. How would they be able to build a new house? They put the weakest among them on the horses; a new mother and her tiny, bleating baby, the bewildered old woman and two small children stumbling with fear and exhaustion. As they led the sad, bedraggled group back to Carbost Màiri’s head teemed with questions.

‘Why’ve they been treated like this?’

‘Greed. The landowners don’t need people any more. They say there are too many of them. Sheep, the big English sheep, are more profitable.’

‘I know times are hard but the land here is good.’

‘That’s why the landlords wanted it, to make more money in rent. This time they didn’t even offer them inferior plots in exchange, or a passage on a ship.’

‘Maighstir Ruaridh doesn’t agree with emigration. He says folk should be given enough land to live on.’

‘Hmm, but emigration and the chance of a new life might be better than what these people face scraping a living on a relative’s plot.’

Màiri thought about what her father always said, “If it’s such a land of milk and honey abroad why aren’t the landlords falling over each other to buy a berth for themselves on a sailing ship?” Aloud she said, ‘Can nothing be done to stop the cruelty we saw today? The landowners and their bailiffs should be stopped.’

‘Indeed they should but how is that to be done? Not by violent methods like throwing stones. We must look to the Bible for guidance. Think about the parable of the tares, Màiri. Remember how the servants wanted to pull out the tares growing among the wheat? Like you wanting to throw a stone? But the Lord said, “Nay, lest while you gather up the tares, ye root out also the wheat with them. Let both grow together until the harvest; and in the time of harvest I will say to the reapers, Gather ye together first the tares, and bind them in bundles to burn them; but gather the wheat into my barn. The reapers are God’s angels who on the Day of Judgement will throw the sinners into the fiery furnace.” How does it continue?’

‘There shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth. Then shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father.’

He nodded. ‘You are well versed in the Good Book, but beware the sin of pride, Màiri. Judge not that you be not judged. What is the state of your own soul? Will you be among the wheat or the tares?’

She winced. He had touched a sore place. She remembered as a small child sitting on Pappa’s lap and tracing the lines on his palm with her fingers. She found a silvery scar and curious, pressed it. He winced and took his hand away, ‘That’s an old wound from a gutting knife. It healed but I always know it’s there.’

Her sister’s death was Màiri’s scar. Seonag had been so angry and upset over Màiri’s poem, saying it had blighted her wedding day. Mamma had never blamed her in so many words but the accusation was there in her eyes. Seonag was so delicate, unlike her younger sister and should be treated gently. Had her verses hammered themselves like nails into Seonag’s coffin? Did Mamma believe in her heart that the wrong daughter had died? Those were questions that could never be asked or answered. Pappa had told her that being a bard was a gift that she couldn’t refuse, but was it a cursed gift? Did her guilt mean that she couldn’t condemn anyone else’s actions? Mamma, like the Reverend, would quote Scripture, “How wilt thou say to thy brother, Let me pull out the mote out of thine eye; and behold a beam is in thine own eye?”

Pappa, though, would argue with Mamma about religion. Like boats moored side by side in a choppy sea their hulls would scrape and grate. What would Pappa say to the Reverend Carmichael? “I don’t see the oppressors seeking forgiveness for their sins and crying out for salvation. It’s the godly folk who end up in tenements in the city or disappear across the seas.”

‘Don’t look so troubled, Màiri.’ The Minister’s voice interrupted her thoughts, ‘You were intemperate earlier but you have been a good Samaritan today to these suffering souls. We
must make haste to Carbost now. Tomorrow you can help the women gather more supplies while I organise the men to carry them to those in need.’

So she wouldn’t be given a chance to protest again. Màiri didn’t know whether to feel angry or relieved.

‘Will this be the end of it Sir?’

‘I wish I knew. The Assyrians have attacked but I fear the Babylonians have yet to come.’

‘So this is only the beginning?’

‘Maybe so. We must follow God’s commandments and pray for his guidance.’

The next few days passed in a blur of activity as Màiri worked herself to a standstill, making enough bannocks to feed a hungry regiment, stacking them in towers and wrapping them in cloths. The congregation had been generous in giving oatmeal, potatoes and bedding and no-one was left without a roof over their heads. Those who didn’t have relatives to go to were taken in by families in Carbost. Màiri shared her room and her bed with two girls in their early teens. They blundered behind her wherever she went, like hand reared lambs. During the day she kept them busy helping her in the kitchen but they were fretful in the night, muttering in their sleep and thrashing their limbs about. So to stop herself getting vexed with them she bedded down in the kitchen. She walked to the evicted families who were staying close by, carrying a deep basket piled with food. Going to visit them reminded her of the times when she had walked with Pappa the six miles to Portree to sell cattle. Some of the waiting animals bellowed in protest while others froze, too shocked to move or make a sound. It was the same with these people, driven away from everything that was familiar and dear to them.

The minister and his wife worked without sparing themselves. Màiri had to be firm, almost ordering her mistress to rest for the sake of herself and her unborn child. When she finally set off on the steamer to Fort William with Elizabeth Carmichael she felt glad that she had been so busy that she had not had time to dwell on the journey and what would happen afterwards. She had never been on a ship, only small boats. This vessel had no
sail, only a funnel whose bellow shuddered through its decks. It sliced through the waves too fast, leaving the land shrinking behind them, the hills swaddled in mist. She was on her way, it was too late to turn back. Like the lobster that blunders into the pot she had no way of turning round.

After docking at Fort William they travelled by carriage to her mistress’s family home on the Inverness road. She left the next day on a cart that would take her the rest of the way. She climbed up and settled down in the back, leaning against the sacks of meal. She felt for the small bag tied around her waist. The coins clinked together and the folded paper crackled. Mamma had been anxious to unearth a Skye connection in Inverness to smooth her arrival there and ease her own worries about her last child leaving home. She had identified another Flòraidh, a distant cousin who was married to Iain MacPherson, a hemp weaver in the town. Even more promising, she smiled, the couple had an unmarried son living with them. In a lather of excitement she had scurried to the manse to ask for Maighstir Ruaridh Macleod’s help. She returned, eyes gleaming, waving the letter in triumph.

‘You must keep this safe and hand it to the minister at Inverness Gaelic Chapel. It says that you come from a God-fearing family and asks him to introduce you to the MacPhersons.’

Màiri sat on the cart, straight-backed and grim faced, hoping that the carter and the other passengers couldn’t see how terrified she was. As they neared the town surprise drove away her fear. She gazed open-mouthed. Everything seemed so big, as if made for giants. The river was so wide, straight and full of boats. She was used to humble bridges like the Fairy Bridge, crouching down under the hills, but the bridge over the Ness soared upwards on its seven arches, rising like a crown above the river. There was the massive castle brooding on its hill, but what most impressed her
was the Tolbooth spire jabbing at the sky. It seemed as tall as the Tower of Babel.

She noticed a group of women on the other side of the river beyond the bridge. They were all barefoot, sleeves rolled up and skirts hitched up above their white knees. They pummelled the washing in the water, soap suds floating around them like flakes of snow. Her heart lifted as she watched them. It was like washing days at home, she and her sister splashing each other while they pounded the clothes until the water was dyed grey-black. Then they would haul out the sodden clothes, heavy as a net full of fish. Once hung out on a rope to dry the sleeves and legs would fill with wind, wriggling and writhing to free themselves. All those people in the fine houses needed to have their clothes washed, she thought. There’s bound to be work.

She asked the carter to stop and leapt off the cart without a backward glance. Groping inside the bag she found the minister’s letter and tore it into shreds, laughing aloud as the scraps scattered, falling like feathers. She ran after the washerwomen who had shouldered their tubs and were trudging up the hill. They called to each other, sounding as friendly as gulls telling each other where the fish could be found. She followed them into a street lined by tall houses with sharply angled roofs and castellated eaves. Then they stopped in a square. There was a large stone set in the middle of the road and the women dumped their tubs there, straightening and rubbing their backs. Behind them was the solid bulk of the Town House. Màiri craned her neck to look up at the arched doorways and the two floors of long windows above. Was it some sort of palace?

‘Are you looking for someone?’ a voice called out in Gaelic.

She turned towards the wiry, middle-aged woman with her reddened arms. ‘Aye, I’m looking for a position.’

‘Well you’ve come to the right place. This is the Clachnacuddin stone. All of Inverness stops here for a gossip.’

‘I’m Màiri. I’ve just arrived from Skye.’

‘I think we might have guessed that my dear, what with your accent and ruddy complexion.’ She laughed but not unkindly.

‘To say nothing about the clothes,’ added a younger woman with gleaming eyes and curly hair sprawling over her shoulders.

Màiri smiled uncertainly, suddenly uncomfortable in her hairy tweed skirt and faded shawl.

‘And take a look at those boots. What giant did you get those from? Are they Finn McCoul’s cast-offs? They must breed big folk on Skye. Big and hairy like the cattle.’ The younger woman made a loud ‘moo’ and hooted with laughter.

Màiri glowered and clenched her fists.

‘Take no notice of that
banshee
Jeannie. She can’t stop herself from being rude,’ said the older woman. ‘I’m Morag. You can stop with us for the time being until you find your feet. It’s no palace but I dare say you’re used to sharing a bed.’

‘Not for years, since my sister, Seonag, left but I can happily squeeze into a small corner,’ Màiri accepted gratefully.

She ended up staying with them for weeks. She had work, a bed and company. And what work! She considered herself to be hardy but the laundry work was exhausting, pounding clothes in the river and carrying sodden heavy bundles to the drying green. She spent her sparse free time resting and couldn’t rouse herself early enough on the Sabbath to go to church. What would Mamma think? The longer she left it the harder it became to go and make herself known at the Gaelic chapel.

‘Only the well-off have time to be religious,’ Jeannie laughed, tossing her bubbling head of curls.

‘You sound like my Pappa,’ Màiri laughed, but she secretly worried about how shocked Mamma would be by her behaviour.

One fresh day they were sitting, legs outstretched on the Clach. She closed her eyes, glad of the rest.

‘Good day to you ladies. How are you all?’ a deep voice rumbled above her. She opened her eyes to see a burly man of her own age, a little taller than herself.

‘Well enough, Isaac. How about yourself? I’ve not seen you around for a long time,’ Morag replied.

‘You won’t have met Màiri,’ added Jeannie. ‘She’s from Skye and still has heather sprouting out of her ears.’

‘I hope you’ve not been tormenting her,’ he growled with a half-smile on his face. ‘Have you forgotten I’m from Skye myself?’ He turned to Màiri and grinned broadly, showing strong teeth. Her face lit up at the reminder of home.

‘You’re bound to be related then,’ chuckled Jeannie, glancing at Isaac under her lashes, but his attention was fixed on Màiri who hadn’t spoken.

Morag, thinking her tongue-tied and wanting to help, touched her arm, ‘Isaac could help you. He’s a shoemaker and keeps all of Inverness shod. He would know who might need a servant girl. It would be easier work than washing.’

‘I can do any job around the house, Mamma taught me well. I’m used to hard work,’ she spluttered.

Still staring at her he tilted his cap back and scratched his head, ‘Pick up one of those tubs and hold it at arm’s length until I tell you to stop,’ he told her.

She did as he asked, balancing one of the tubs that was weighted down with soaking clothes. She looked him straight in the eye as she gnawed her lip with the effort. The women watched silently as she struggled to stop her arms from trembling. After a long minute he told her to put it down. She did so, slowly and carefully.

‘You’re certainly strong and you’ve got spirit. Walk down the road with me and we’ll call at a house where I know the mistress is looking for a willing worker.’

He turned away from the gawping washerwomen. Màiri followed, head held high and Jeannie winked at her behind Isaac’s back.