The Betrayal of Maggie Blair (14 page)

I went outside, not daring to look at the wall over to my right, and fumbled with Samson's bridle, my fingers all thumbs.

"Danny, come on, will you!" Mr. Lithgow called again.

And then I was running beside the trotting pony, down across the lush grass of Bute to the little strip of pale sand, and my bare feet were crunching on the litter of white shells, and then there was the water, ice-cold, making me gasp with the shock of it, and I was hanging on to Samson's bridle as he pulled me in, and the touch of land fell away beneath my feet, the last touch of my island, and I was struggling, choking, and gasping as the water closed over my head.

It was only the thought of the gallows and the fire waiting for me in Rothesay that stopped me from giving up the attempt to cross that fast-flowing channel of freezing water. Without the fear of what was behind me, I'd have thrashed my way back to the shore of Bute. But the thought came to me that if I had to die, I would rather it was by my own action than through the cruelty of others.

I managed to keep my head out of the water until we were more than halfway across, then my fingers, which were stiff and numb with cold, slipped from the pony's wet mane. I was under the water at once, and only frantic kicks brought my head up again. Luckily, Samson's bridle was wrapped around my other wrist. I was dragging too hard on him, and he started to struggle in the water. For a moment I panicked, terrified that he would shake himself free of me, but from somewhere outside myself came a feeling of calm and strength. Taking a deep breath, I hauled on the bridle and drew myself close enough to catch Samson's mane again. A few moments later, his hooves rattled against the rocky shore of the little island, and he was off at once, scrambling out of the water. I managed to release his bridle just in time to prevent myself from being dragged on my knees across the stones. I had done it. I had felt my father's presence with me in the water, giving me the strength to survive.

The cattle were already on the far side of the tiny wooded island, plunging without hesitation into the second channel. I stood for a moment, shaking uncontrollably with the cold.

"Danny!" Mr. Lithgow called.

I looked around, thinking for a strange, unnerving moment that he had seen my father and was calling to him, but then I remembered my new name, and I staggered stiffly across the rough ground, streams of water running off my shirt.

"You can get in the boat this time," Mr. Lithgow said. "Lamont won't see you clearly from this distance. Here, take your plaid."

I dared to glance back. Mr. Lamont seemed to have lost interest in the crossing of the cattle. His stocky figure could be seen walking back along the coastal path toward Rothesay. I looked across at the bothy. There was no sign of Annie, but Tam was standing in the doorway, shading his eyes from the rising sun as he peered in my direction. I dared to raise my hand for a brief moment. I didn't wait to see an answering wave but scrambled into the little boat, keeping my head turned away from the boatman. A few minutes later, I was standing with the others on the shore of Cowal, and the boatman, who seemed not to have noticed anything strange about me, was already pushing an oar against the rocks to set himself afloat for the journey back to Rothesay.

I hadn't had a chance until that moment to give any thought to the journey ahead or the men I would be traveling with, but now I felt self-conscious and unsure of what was expected of me. Mr. Lithgow and Peter Boag had quietly loaded their sack of oatmeal along with my bundle onto Samson's back, and they were sending the dogs with shrill whistles of command to fetch back the straying cows.

I watched them, unobserved. They were both stocky, bearded men, their hair shaggy, and they wore their bulky plaids belted around their waists like Highland men. I could see how strongly muscled their legs were and how the soles of their bare feet were as hard as leather. Mr. Lithgow was taller than Peter Boag. He was a great bull of a man. They worked quietly, their voices low, their whistles sure, their movements calm and slow to reassure the cattle. Neither of them looked as if they ever spoke much or gave away their thoughts.

At least the sun was shining. I wrung as much water out of my shirt as I could, hoping it would soon dry off. My dull brown hair, always fine and wispy and now cropped close to my head, was drying already.

Mr. Lithgow spoke to me at last.

"We'll stay here for an hour or so. Give the beasts time to rest and recover."

We sat together, the three of us, on a low stone wall that edged the grazing place, while the cattle, their red backs steaming in the warmth, stood up to their hocks in the boggy green grass. The dogs lay quietly under a nearby tree, their tongues out, watching Mr. Lithgow and waiting for their orders.

At last, after a long silence, Mr. Lithgow cleared his throat.

"So old Tam got you away, then, Maggie. I thought he was nothing but a daft old drunkard, but he turned out cleverer than all those ministers and elders and sheriff's men."

"I'd like to have seen Donnie Brown's face when he woke up in the morning and found you gone," Peter Boag put in, as if he'd been waiting for permission to speak.

A rumble of laughter rose from Mr. Lithgow's chest and erupted in a guffaw.

"From what I heard, old Elspeth put it about that it was the Devil himself who got you out, flying away with you over the rooftops." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter shiver and draw his plaid around himself.

"Did you see him—the Devil?" he asked, leaning forward. "What did he look like?"

I stared at him, shocked.

"No, Mr. Boag. Of course I didn't! I'm not—it was all lies. Everything they said about me and Granny was lies!"

"Well, about you, but I heard that your grandmother, she could—"

"That's enough, Peter, you loon," Mr. Lithgow broke in. "You're as bad as the rest of those superstitious fools. I told you, I knew Elspeth Wylie. Danny Blair was her son-in-law, and he was the best drover in the west of Scotland. A great man. 'If you have to have a mother-in-law, Archie,' he said to me once, 'don't pick one like Elspeth Wylie. She's a cantankerous, sour, bitter old body, with a liking for stirring up mischief wherever she goes. But her heart's in the right place, when it comes down to it.' Danny would have sniffed out anything wrong in her. He was a shrewd man. And this is his daughter, Peter—don't you forget it. His flesh and blood. So mind your tongue before you throw around talk of witches and sorcery and the like."

Peter Boag dropped his eyes, but I could tell he wasn't convinced. Mr. Lithgow frowned as he thought of something else.

"That Annie girl," he said to me. "What made her do such a terrible thing to you both? The lies she told! What made her hate you?"

I told him about Mr. Macbean, and how he'd forced Annie to give evidence and the baby she was expecting. They stared at me, shocked.

"Such wickedness," Mr. Lithgow said at last. "I can hardly believe it. I know Macbean's a mean man, slow to settle his debts, but he's an elder of the kirk! To commit adultery in his own house, with his own servant! And to condemn a woman and girl to death for the sake of a wee tumbledown cottage and a field! The Lord will punish the lot of them, Maggie. God is not mocked."

He stood up, and the dogs were at his heels at once, their ears cocked, waiting.

"You go ahead at the front, Peter," Mr. Lithgow said. "Follow the track along the water's edge. I'll take the rear. Maggie, you'll walk with me. Watch the way we do it. Steadiness and quietness on the drove—that's how it should be. Nothing loud or sudden to alarm the cattle. We're not likely to pass anyone between now and our resting place tonight, but if we do, just leave all the talking to me."

***

It was quiet and peaceful walking along the water's edge, behind the strolling cattle headed by Peter Boag, who was leading Samson. I went alongside Mr. Lithgow, who didn't seem inclined to speak. His eyes were constantly on the beasts, watching all the time to see if a frisky calf or an obstinate cow took it into its head to stray. When one did, his lips rounded in a whistle and one of the dogs slipped off, a silent black shadow, to bring the straggler back.

As he walked, he knitted a stocking that fell in a long curve from his needles. The ball of wool was tucked inside his plaid. The clicking rhythm soothed me even more, and I fell into a kind of mindless trance, while the terror and strain of the past dreadful days began to leach away.

After an hour or two, the track began to lead uphill, and as we gently climbed, I could look back and see the Isle of Bute lying there, between the kyles. But after the first quick glance, I didn't want to look again.

The morning had been sunny, but wisps of mist were curling over the heights above us, and soon we were walking through a strange white world. The dogs were busier than ever, and Mr. Lithgow put away his knitting and walked briskly from side to side, calling out to Peter Boag ahead, peering into the mist to look for wanderers. Once or twice a gap opened in the cloud, and I saw great sweeps of moorland stretching up and away. Frowning crags and huge slabs of wet gray rock rose above us. I had never known that such a desolate place existed.

What if the Devil comes on us here?
I thought.
What if he comes roaring down from the mountaintops with his eyes like burning coals and makes me be a witch and fly on a stick, and then drags me with him down to Hell?

"No! I won't go!" I must have said out loud, because Mr. Lithgow, who was walking beside me again, looked down at me curiously.

"What's that you said?"

"Nothing," I mumbled. But then there came a terrible wailing cry, piercing and despairing, from the crag that loomed up ahead of us. It was a damned soul, I was sure of it, and I said, all in a rush, "I'm scared of the Devil, Mr. Lithgow. What if he comes here and tries to make me his servant because I wouldn't be a witch?"

He didn't laugh.

"Oh, my lass," was all he said. "You've a head full of fancies."

"But that shriek! It sounded like a soul in torment!"

He did smile then.

"You must have heard an eagle before! That was him, calling to his missus."

"Oh." I only half believed him. "But..."

"It's not devils or dead souls or anything unearthly that worries me on the drove." He had turned and was scanning the ridge above us that had momentarily appeared through the mist. "It's men of flesh and blood. Highlanders. They don't often come raiding this far south, but if they caught us here, we'd be as good as dead."

He touched his belt, and for the first time I noticed the dagger that was stuck in it.

I caught my breath.

"Are they up there? Are they coming?"

I looked up toward the ridge too, but the mist had closed in again.

"No, no. The country's peaceful just now. We'll be safe enough if that dozy lad Peter Boag doesn't lead us all over a cliff."

The thought of savage clansmen screaming down on us from the north, their swords whirling around their heads, should have made me shiver, but in a strange way I was comforted. They had driven out the idea of Satan and his legions of demons, which was far, far more frightening.

A little later the mist thinned and turned golden, with the sun shining through it, and the whole world was bathed in glory. The vapor cleared quickly, and I looked out, astonished, at the vast new world we'd entered. Hillsides with white ribbons of water streaming down them swooped low into the valleys. Rocks in tumbled piles towered over us. There was nowhere so wild and solitary on the Isle of Bute.

When the last traces of mist had melted away, Mr. Lithgow brought out his knitting again and resumed his careful watching of the cows' swaying rumps as they plodded on in front of us.

There was something else I knew I had to say.

"Granny wasn't a witch, Mr. Lithgow—not an evil one—but she knew about bringing babies safely into the world. She knew what was unlucky, like the swifts and the swallows, and things like charming to find lost things, and how to protect from the fairies."
And curses,
I thought, but kept to myself.
She knew plenty of those.

"She knew all that, did she?"

It wasn't easy to tell what he was thinking, because the hair falling down over his forehead and the beard curling thickly around his mouth hid much of his face. His voice, though, sounded friendly enough.

"And she knew about healing, too, if you had a bad stomach or a headache."

"Did her cures work?"

"Oh! Yes, well, I think so."

It had never occurred to me that Granny's healing charms might not work. I had just assumed they did.

"But the church people thought all that was wicked," I persisted. "And what I want to know, Mr. Lithgow, is do you think Granny has gone to Hell? Is she going to burn in the pit of fire forever?"

He didn't answer straightaway, and glancing up at him, I saw a frown divide his brows.

"Well, now," he said at last. "There's a question you should ask a minister. An educated man." I said nothing, waiting for him to go on. "They talk of Hell, the preachers. And if it's in the Bible, I suppose it must be right. But look around you. Creation. Flowers. Birds. The sun." He coughed, as if embarrassed. "If God could make all this, why would he bother to make a Hell?"

He was looking down at something, and following his gaze, I saw a blue butterfly settle with a flutter of its wings on one of the tiny yellow flowers that shone like jewels among the bright green grass. Then he whistled to the dogs, unnecessarily I thought, and speeded up as if he wanted to get away from me.

I didn't mind. I knew I hadn't angered him. He just didn't like talking about such things.

What did he mean?
I thought.
Does he really not believe in Hell?
The idea that Hell might not be there after all was so daring that I stopped walking and stood, stuck to the ground. Then I caught in my nostrils a sudden strong honey scent of heather, which the warmth of the sun was bringing out, and I threw my head back to sniff at it luxuriously.