The Runaway's Gold (9 page)

“Aye!” His eyes narrowed. “And it has been two years now I've been owed! Even a man as mighty as Lord Cummingsburgh need be warned—for it is the vengeance of Heaven that will not be avoided as one prepares for his unchangeable state.”

Then he stopped suddenly, as if recovering from a trance. “Tell me, lad, have you had anything to eat of late?”

I hesitated, belly growling, me breeks hanging loosely at me hips, held up only by a piece of twine. “No, sir.”

“Then you'll join me in breaking your fast.”

I watched in amazement as he reached inside his kishie and produced an oval bentwood box, from which he pulled a loaf of
bread and pouch of dried herring. “The good Mrs. Sill packed provisions for the journey, and you'll do me a favor by lightening this load.”

I stared, dumbfounded. With me Daa's outspoken criticism of the Kirk and me Midder's past transgression, surely we Robertsons were a disgrace in his eyes. And yet, so hungry was I that when he handed me a chunk of bread and piece of dried herring, no amount of pride could keep me from accepting them.

Don't gobble like the swine and sheep
, I told meself—me Midder's words coming back to me, and thoughts of John, for a moment, disappearing. I didn't think I could chew fast enough to get the food into the dark, empty parts of me body. But when I finished and looked over, Reverend Sill's eyes were closed, face tilted to the morning sun, his hands clasped tightly in prayer. And his food lay untouched on a cloth before him.

“May the Good Lord cast a warm light on this journey,” he prayed, a wide smile pulling at the edges of his loose, wrinkled face. “For only He knows the limits of this tired, worn body, and the sacrifice I am willing to make to set things right.”

Then he slowly leaned back against the rock, carefully chewing his bread and fish before taking a long swig from a small clay jug. “You'll not be wanting any of this to quench your thirst, lad,” he said, grimacing as he swallowed. “There's a spring just over there.”

I knelt down to the trickle bubbling up from a stone and drank the cool, refreshing water. Then, seeing him packing the
remaining food and jug back into the kishie, I dashed to the path before he could start another lecture. “Best wishes for a safe journey,” I called over me shoulder. “I thank you!”

But I was only a few strides on me way when I heard a moan so deep and pitiful I was sure his heart had given way.

Don't look back! Keep moving
, I told meself, determined to not allow this one act of kindness to wipe away the memory of shame and humiliation in me Midder's eyes. But as the reverend's moans grew louder, it was me Gutcher's face that came to me—how he struggled each day, so plagued with the rheumatism, that it took both me and Catherine to pull him out of bed.

Don't think about that!
I told meself.
You've no time to help. Remember what he did to Midder!
But when I stupidly glanced over me shoulder, the pathetic sight of such a frail man struggling to pull the kishie onto his back was more than I could bear.

“Wait, Reverend. I'll carry it.” The words slipped out before I could bring meself to me senses.

He looked up, stunned at first, eyeing me skeptically. “Thank ye, lad. But it's beyond your ability, I'm afraid.”

“I may be small, but me Gutcher tells me I'm the best in the family for carrying the peats.”

But as I hoisted the kishie over me shoulders, I immediately regretted me boasting. How could bread, fish, and a jug of water possibly weigh so much? I staggered to get me balance and knew instantly it would be nearly impossible to catch up with John carrying a load such as this.

The moment Reverend Sill was satisfied that I wouldn't collapse, he opened his arms wide to the sky and leaned back his head. “The Lord has condescended to take mercy on me!” he proclaimed, the morning sun bathing his wrinkled face. “Providence has brought us together, and I am forever in your debt!”

“Aye,” I muttered. It was too late to retract me offer.

His eyes watered as we set off, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the wicks of his chapped lips, as he urged me up the path. “For these past few months I have been suffering from the sciatica—a wrenching pain shooting from me buttocks down the side of me left leg. When I bear the weight of me kishie, it seizes me in such a violent manner I think of the evil souls frying in Hell and wonder if their pain for eternity can match the aching throb I have come to endure!”

I sighed, thinking of the entire day's journey in his company, the endless drone of his voice. But for the moment, at least, it kept me from the agony of thinking of John. “Is there nothing you can do? No herb or tonic?”

“I have tried it all, as you can imagine.” He went on and on as we walked. “Lignum's Anti-Scorbutic Drops, Brodum's Restorative Nervous Cordial. Alas, none have shown the desired results. When I heard of a man-o'-war docked at Lerwick in January, I sent for its surgeon, hoping he might know of some new remedy or tonic that might help me in this pathetic state, but, alas, he knew only of severing limbs and treating the scurvy. Only Miss Bonnie Goudie, a young lass from Gruting, who often assists Mrs. Sill, is able to give temporary relief by
clapping a hot bath of earth in the place affected. But it seems to rid me, at least temporarily, of the pain. And so, here I am—knowing only that it must please God to circumcise my carnal heart of things past for which I must repent.”

I puzzled at how God might need to purify a man who preached the gospel and spent his life battling the wicked, whom people called the most Godly of us all. But as we crested the first of Shetland's many hills, it was as if Reverend Sill suddenly found a burst of new life. He quickly overtook me, setting a surprisingly energetic pace that, at times, I admit, was hard to keep up with. He peppered me with lectures on his battles for redemption, the curses of blasphemy, and Satan's increasing stranglehold on the island, as me thoughts strayed back to Culswick. To me fingers clamping down on that ewe. To John, and how I had trusted him. To how his smile and simple arm around me shoulder had made me feel I wasn't alone. Especially after William was lost to us. Especially when Midder was no more.

By noon we had already conquered the long stretch of water that Reverend Sill explained was Effirth Voe and were through the wee village of Tresta. And then it was around Weisdale Voe, that thin finger of sea cutting nearly four miles inland, its waters sparkling like jewels below us. It was already late afternoon when we ascended the treeless Cliff Hills beyond Tingwall and caught the first view of Dales Voe glistening in the sun.

But, alas, Reverend Sill's energy wasn't to last. The vast,
steep terrain began to prove taxing, and as he slowed, what little hope I had had of catching John before nightfall quickly waned. When we ascended the massive Hill of Dale, where a herd of Shetland ponies grazed happily on the glorious heather with nary a cloud above, his steps grew careless and uneven. Then he stumbled to the ground several times, once cutting his chin, and another bruising his forearm. He looked over at me, relieved, when I finally suggested we rest.

I was leaning against a large outcropping of stone, massaging me chest, now rubbed raw from the kishie's braided rope straps, as he took another long swig from his jug. But when he tried to put the jug down he lost his grip, and a strange black liquid splattered on me rivlins.

“Solus Christus!” he cried, trying to right the jug before all was lost. “Only Satan would keep me from this tonic!”

I crinkled me nose. “What is it?” Then I dipped me finger into the foul-smelling stuff.

“Go ahead,” he said, his voice breaking. “Taste it.”

I hesitated at first, touching me finger to me tongue, and then spat violently. “You've been drinking
this
?”

“Every day since December 29.”

“But why?”

“Tuts, lad! For the sciatica, of course! The late Bishop Barclay suggested such a potion in his remaining papers, which I am privileged to hold in my possession. Tar and water it is. And I ask you, lad, what else but Divine Providence could direct him to suggest such a mixture as this?”

“Tar?”

“Not just any tar! Norwegian tar!” He quickly cleared his throat. “And I must say, I
have
been feeling a slight improvement of late.”

It was when I turned back to the path to hide me laughter that I nearly choked. There, in the distance, but no less than a half mile behind us, trudged the unmistakable hulking frame of Knut Blackbeard. And the moment I saw him, Reverend Sill saw him too.

Mary Canfield

s that . . . ?” Reverend Sill started to ask.

“No idea,” I lied, heart pounding. “We've lost track of time. The sun will soon be setting!” I flung the kishie over me shoulders, grabbed his frail hand, and beckoned him back to the path. “We best get moving or it will be nightfall before we see Lerwick.”

“Why, that's Knut Blackbeard—your Daa's companion,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “I'm sure of it. We must wait and ask him to join us on our journey.”

“Wait? No!” I tried desperately to calm the panic in me voice. “We've no lantern. Only an hour at most before the path will be impossible to follow!”

“Mr. Blackbeard is of my flock,” the old man scolded. He yanked his hand from me grip so fiercely I nearly toppled backward. “A wayward sheep, there is no doubt, but one of my flock nonetheless. I'll not avoid his company.”

“But—your meeting! And your charges against that evil Murdoch Bairnstrom! And what of your missing stipend?”

As I prattled on, the old man lowered his forehead, his chin jutting forward like a ram making ready to charge. “Christopher Robertson,” he bellowed, his voice dropping several octaves, “is Satan putting you between me and Mr. Blackbeard?”

“Satan? No, sir!”

“Then why, may I ask, are you shunning a neighbor on a journey such as this?”

Me heart banged into me chest as I stared down at me worn rivlins. “Please, sir, I can't say.”

“Hoot, lad! We are nothing without the truth!” He snapped his hands to his hips. “The Lord cannot help you, and nor can I, if the truth is not shared!”

And, oh, how I wanted to tell him everything about the night before! Of the shameful thing I had done to Mr. Peterson's ewe and of the terrible wrongs that had been done to me. But I couldn't—I wouldn't. Not until I got that pouch of coins back from John. I knew it was Reverend Sill's duty, as head of the church, to keep in order the moral behavior of the parish. If I told him, he would have no choice but to turn me over to Sheriff Nicolson.

I glanced over me shoulder at the outline of Knut Blackbeard, fast cresting the hill we had crested just half an hour before, and to this day I do not know why it is I didn't simply turn and run. Instead, I looked directly in the reverend's ancient, watery eyes—the eyes me family hated—and from somewhere deep inside me, found the courage to speak.

“I have been wronged, sir,” I stammered. “Badly wronged. And I fear if Knut finds me before I find me brother, John, I will lose the chance to set things right.”

For a moment the old man held me in his stare.

“Can you believe me?” I pleaded. “Please—I speak the truth!”

“And will you not tell me why it is you must catch up to your brother?”

“No,” I said, slowly exhaling. “I cannot.”

He continued to stare, his eyes searching mine.

“I do not see Satan in you, lad, but I feel his presence close at hand. Are you certain there is nothing more about this you can tell me?”

I glanced away, willing back me tears. “Only that if I can't get back what John has taken, me family will not be long for the quartering.”

I thought again of the humiliation of Gutcher, Aunt Alice, Catherine, and wee Victoria being added to the church's list of paupers—passed from the quarters of one family to the next for their food and shelter.