The Betrayal of Maggie Blair (2 page)

It wasn't an apology exactly, but it was all I'd get. I could see that she was sorry for what she'd said by the way she set a stool and told me to sit down by the fire of peat that was smoldering on the hearthstone in the middle of the room. I was feeling chilled now and was shivering. I crouched low over the weak flames, never minding the thick smoke that curled up into my face, grateful for Sheba, who jumped up into my lap and let me warm my hands in her soft black fur.

The days are short in December. It was soon time to fetch Blackie in for the night and shut her into her byre, which was no more than a room beside the kitchen. For once, Granny went out to find her herself and to milk her too. As she came back toward the cottage, I could hear her talking to someone and laughing. There was only one person who could draw such a happy sound from her.

Tam,
I thought, jumping up with delight.

Blackie's hooves clopped on the stone threshold of her byre, and then came a thud against the thin wooden partition at the end of the kitchen as she butted her manger with her head. The kitchen door opened, and Granny and Tam came in.

Tam's shirt was dark with sweat, his short breeks were ragged at the ankles and torn at the knees, and the plaid he wore wrapped around himself was so dirty and stained that the wool's once-bright colors had gone for good. But that meant nothing to me. His front teeth were gone, his face was pitted and scarred with the smallpox, his long, tall body was as thin as a stick, and the hair under his blue bonnet had mostly fallen out, but there was no one who cared for me as Tam did, and no one else that I loved.

"Look at the girl now," he said, setting a black bottle down on the table. "She summons monsters from the sea with the power of her beautiful eyes. It was you who sang to the poor whale, was it, Maidie, and lured it up to its death on the beach?"

"I did
not.
"

For once, I didn't like Tam's teasing. The whale had been too grand and strange for jokes.

Granny had gone outside again to fetch water from the burn.

"Why do you always call me Maidie?" I asked Tam. I'd meant to ask him often but never dared while Granny was around.

He looked over his shoulder, but Granny was still filling the bucket.

"You know why, my pretty one." He pinched my chin. "It was what I always called your mother. Mary, her name was to everyone else, but Maidie she was to me. And you are just like her. Even prettier, maybe."

"But she had the gift, didn't she? Granny said so. The second sight."

"Oh, that." He shook his head. "You shouldn't mind your granny, Maidie. She speaks sharply, and who wouldn't, with the troubles life has brought her? She loves you in her heart."

I shook my head and looked away from him, down into the red caves the fire had made in the burning peat.

"Anyway, be thankful that your mother didn't pass the gift on to you. It's not a comfortable thing, to foresee the future and know beforehand the manner of a person's death."

Granny came back then, a heavy bucket in each hand, and Tam set about fetching down the beakers and pouring out the whiskey, a good long slug for the two of them and a little drop for me. Then he put his hand inside his shirt, and with a flourish he pulled out a duck, holding it up by its webbed feet so that its bright feathered head hung down, its eyes dead and glazed.

"Will you look at this. A king's feast, that's what we'll have tonight. You'll want to save the feathers, Elspeth. Where shall I pluck the wee fellow?"

***

Oh, it was good that night. The duck's feathers flew and the pot simmered and the whiskey sank in the bottle. And Tam, as he always did, started on the old stories. They were stories of the sea, put into his head by the whale. He told my favorite, the one about the seal who shed her skin and became a beautiful woman who married a fisherman. Her children were as pretty as she was, and she loved them, I suppose, but one night she found her old sealskin and put it on, and a longing for the sea overcame her. Back she went under the waves, a seal once more, and her children never saw her again.

Like I never saw my mam again,
I thought.

Tam went on to tell tales of mermaids and sea horses and a monster that lived in a loch along with the hero who killed it. But what with the purring of Sheba on my lap, the good food in my stomach, the peat smoke in my eyes, the whiskey in my head, and the tiredness in my arms and legs, I couldn't stay awake.

"No, no, Elspeth," I heard Tam say. "It was Canola who invented the harp. She heard the wind blow through the sinews that clung to the ribs of a rotting dead whale, and it gave her the idea."

Whales again,
I thought. I was so sleepy I almost fell off my stool. Tam saw me nod and laughed.

"Away to your bed, Maidie, and dream sweetly all night long."

I think I did have happy dreams that night, but they floated away like wisps of mist, and I couldn't remember what they were. My sleep wasn't long, anyway, because before dawn there came a battering on the door, startling me awake so suddenly that I shot up out of the straw like a hunted hare.

"Elspeth! You're to come quickly! My Jeanie's got her pains!"

It was Mr. Macbean, and I knew what he wanted. Granny was a famed midwife, and if his wife's time had come, he'd need her to bring the baby safely into the world.

It was pitch-dark in the house so I kicked at the peat. A little flame flared up, giving enough light for me to see Granny lying dead asleep on the floor, her empty beaker of whiskey by her hand. Tam had gone.

"Wait a minute, Mr. Macbean," I called out. "I'll wake her up."

"Is that you, Maggie?" The voice outside the door was hoarse with anxiety. "Get her up quick, for the Lord's sake. Jeanie's pains are bad."

Granny's snores were as loud as the snorts of Mr. Macbean's bull in a rage, and I had to shake and shake her before she'd stir. When she did wake, she only pushed me off and tried to roll over.

"No, Granny! You must get up. Mr. Macbean's here, and the baby's on its way."

She opened one eye and glared at me, and even by the dying flame I could see that the drink was still on her. My heart sank.

"Get up, Granny. You have to."

The hammering on the door started again.

Granny lurched to her feet, took a deep swallow of water from the pail of water, and splashed her face.

"My shawl, Maggie," she croaked, and staggered to the door.

She was in no fit state; I could see that. I fetched my own shawl, still damp from yesterday, and followed her outside. She'd need me to bring her safely home.

Mr. Macbean was the one man in Scalpsie Bay rich enough to own a horse, and he had ridden it to our cottage. There was only a faint glimmer of light outside from the quarter moon, but he could see how far gone Granny was.

"Look at the state of her. Drunk," he said with disgust. "Tonight of all nights."

Without waiting for a word from Granny, he picked her up and heaved her onto the horse, then set off at a smart run up the lane, with me trotting along behind.

The cold night air, the jolting ride, and the water she'd drunk seemed to sober up Granny, because she was looking sharper when we reached the Macbean farm. It was the biggest holding for miles around, standing proud on its own land. Mrs. Macbean's serving girl, Annie, was standing outside the farmhouse door, twisting her apron around in her hands.

"Oh, it's you, Maggie," she said, pursing her mouth in the irritating way she put on whenever she saw me. "I thought it was a wild animal creeping up like that."

There was a hiss from Granny, who had heard her, and Annie shriveled up like a leaf held to a flame. I couldn't help grinning. Annie was only a servant, but she gave herself more airs than the lady of Keames Castle herself.

Mr. Macbean had plucked Granny off the horse, and she was already at the farmhouse door.

"Where is she?" Granny demanded, and I heard with relief that her voice was firm and clear.

Mr. Macbean led the way into the farm kitchen and beyond it to the inner room. There was a lamp burning there, and looking in I saw a proper bedstead, with sheets of linen and all, and a ceiling hiding the rafters, and a chest of carved wood. I was so impressed I barely noticed Mrs. Macbean, who was lying with her back arched and her face red and wet with sweat.

Then Granny said, "Where's that Annie girl? Fetch water, can't you? And the rest of you, give a body room to breathe."

By that time, the three older Macbean children were crowding around the door beside me, along with the manservant and Mr. Macbean himself, but Granny shut the door in our faces, and we were left standing in the kitchen.

I don't remember how long we waited, listening to the poor woman crying out in pain. I do remember the faces of the little Macbeans huddling close together, their eyes round with fear. I liked to be with children. I didn't often get the chance. I felt sorry for them, anyway, so I knelt beside them and said, "Your mammie's going to be fine, you'll see. While we're waiting, why don't I tell you a story?"

They nodded, and the smallest one, Robbie, put his thumb in his mouth.

"A while ago, not far from here," I began, "there was a seal who came out of the sea and took off her skin and turned herself into a beautiful..."

Mr. Macbean came in from stabling the horse.

"No more of that," he said roughly. "If it's stories you want, read them true ones from the Good Book. I won't have their heads filled with fairies and magic and the works of the Devil."

He took a Bible down from a shelf and put it into my hands. It was so heavy I had to rest it on my knees. I'd never seen such a big Bible outside the kirk before. Granny couldn't read, and there were no books in our house.

"Open it," Mr. Macbean said unpleasantly. "Read a story."

"I—I can't read," I said, lifting it back up to him.

"No, Maggie, you can't, but it's time you learned. You should study the Scripture and follow the path of righteousness before that grandmother of yours leads you to Hell and destruction."

I didn't know what to say. Little Robbie had crept close and laid his head down on my lap. I knelt there, stroking his hair and staring up at Mr. Macbean.

"Well," he said, in a kinder tone, "you're a good lass, Maggie, after all. Mind now, that you don't take on the infection of wickedness from Elspeth. She..."

Then came the sounds from the next room we had been waiting for—a final loud cry from Mrs. Macbean and a thin wail from the new baby. Mr. Macbean's face cracked open in a great smile, and I saw a glimpse of something in him that could be good and loving. I'm glad I did, because later all that came from him toward us was hatred and cruelty.

The door of the next room opened, and Granny came out with the new baby in her arms. The children jumped up and ran to look, but she kicked out at them to shoo them away.

"Elspeth," came a weak voice from the bed behind her, "you're a good soul, whatever they say, and you've saved us both. I can never thank you..."

"The basket," Granny said. "The bread and cheese. It won't work without them."

She was looking at Annie, who was standing sulkily by the corner shelf—jealous, I think, of the way the children had taken to me. Annie picked up the basket beside her, putting into it a loaf and a round cheese from the shelf. Impatiently, Granny grabbed it from her, planted the baby on top of the food, and stamping across to the hearth in the middle of the room, she began to swing the basket around and around on the iron hook from which the cauldron usually hung. She was singing something under her breath. The peat fire had died down, and the only light came from a small flame guttering in the oil lamp by the door. It cast Granny's shadow so monstrously on the wall behind her that even I was frightened.

Mr. Macbean darted forward.

"Stop that! How dare you? I won't have devilish practices, not in my house!"

Granny stopped muttering and jerked the basket to a standstill. The baby inside it set up a wail again. I could see that Granny was tired and her head was aching, and the anger that always simmered inside her was ready to break out. Her eyes, red from the drink and lack of sleep, narrowed, and she thrust the basket into Mr. Macbean's hands.

"Take him, then. It was a favor I was doing you, to protect him from evil. You'd best christen him quickly, for by the look of him he'll not be here long."

Mr. Macbean put the basket gently down on the ground and bent to lift his son out of it. As he held him close to his chest, the three other children clustered around him. They looked afraid.

"John, what are you doing? Bring him back to me!" came Mrs. Macbean's weak voice from the next room. "Elspeth, are you still there?"

Ignoring her, Granny picked up her shawl and flung it over her wild gray hair.

"I wish you joy of him, while he lives," she spat out, and without a glance at me flung out of the house into the cold night.

It wasn't until we had stumbled halfway home and the moon, coming suddenly out from behind the clouds, shone a sliver of light over the water of Scalpsie Bay that I remembered the end of the seal story and was glad after all that Mr. Macbean had stopped me from finishing it. The seal mother goes away and never comes back. It would have been a hard thing for wee Robbie to hear just then.

Perhaps it was the Devil that put the story into my head, to torment those poor children,
I thought with a shudder. And to be on the safe side, I chanted to myself, "
Deliver us from evil, deliver us from evil,
" all the way home.

Dawn was on its way by then, and a gray wet dawn it was too. It didn't break, as the saying goes, but slithered up upon the land and sea in a misty, ghostly way.

I was ahead of Granny as we reached the cottage, and I jumped with fright because the door of Blackie's byre slowly swung open. Then Tam stumbled out. He was covered in wisps of straw, and clots of dried dung were stuck to his hair. Granny burst into a cackle of laughter.

"Old fool! Too blootered to find your way home, were you? You never slept the night in the byre with the cow?"