Under the Same Sky (22 page)

“Ye look a fright. I’ll fix that. Sit still a mite, aye?” She picked up the shears and trimmed his hair, adding to the pile on the floor. When she was finished, she sat back and eyed him critically. His dark locks fell to just above his shoulders, flicking into lazy curls at
the ends. She was pleased they no longer covered his eyes. She nodded, satisfied.

“Done,” she said.

“Your turn, lass.” He smiled at her wide eyed expression. “Ye’ll feel better once it’s washed.”

“If ye insist,” she said.

She leaned back against the pot and looked up at the ceiling. Andrew gathered the thick length of her hair, knotted from weeks of walking, and let it tumble and darken in the suds. She closed her eyes as he poured the water over her, feeling the water trickle over her forehead and down her hair. Andrew was gentle but firm as he rubbed the soap through her hair, then rinsed it clean.

“I never thought I’d feel clean again,” she said with a sigh. “Thank you.”

He passed her his towel and she rubbed her hair, squeezing it between her fingers. She sat by the fire while she combed it out.

Using water from the same bucket, Iain sponged the filth off his face. Janet offered her assistance with the shears, but he waved her away. He clipped halfheartedly at his beard and scrubbed his hair, but didn’t bother with a trim. Instead, he pulled it back into a tail and tied it with a leather thong from his sporran.

Now that the travelers were clean, warm, and dry, the mood was almost festive. Janet gave Andrew the plaid she had discovered in the chest. He gathered the material into pleats around his waist, then flung the end over his left shoulder and anchored it with a silver brooch on his chest.

The smell of dinner permeated the cottage. Janet took an experimental taste of the soup, then turned toward Iain, who waited for a sip. She raised the spoon to his lips, and he closed his eyes when he swallowed. A look of satisfaction settled over his face.

“Mmmm,” he purred. “Thank ye, lass.”

“I’m pleased ye approve, Iain,” she replied. “Only a few minutes more. Then there’ll be biscuits to go alongside.”

They left the meal to simmer and went to sit with the children. Flora sidled up and leaned her soft weight against Janet’s arm.

“I’ve a wee gift for ye, Flora,” Janet said.

Flora looked up, her eyes even wider than usual. “For me? But it’s no’ my birthday,” she said.

Janet smoothed Flora’s damp hair. “Never mind that,” she said. She tapped the little girl’s nose with one finger. “A gift can come at other times as well. This one was waitin’ here for ye.”

Janet reached into the apron of her gown and pulled out the rag doll, then laid it in Flora’s arms. The little girl’s lips curled into a perfect circle, and a soft sound of pleasure escaped them as she stared at the gift. She caressed the woolen strands of hair as if they were silk.

“I’ll call her Janet,” Flora said, smiling into the doll’s face.

“Come on,” said her brother. “Bring her here. She can ride the pony.”

He held up the carving Iain had made, and the children went off to the corner of the room with their toys.

Janet smiled. “Ye can play wi’ yer toys after supper, aye? Come now and we’ll eat,” she said.

Supper was served and devoured. Afterwards, Janet poured oatmeal into the big cauldron, added stream water that Andrew fetched for her, then stirred it with the wooden spirtle as it boiled. When it thickened enough, she would let it cool. Then she would cut the hardened oatmeal into slices, and they would each carry some as their journey continued.

When their bellies were filled, the soothing rhythm of rain on the roof lulled the group into a peaceful quiet. Iain and Andrew dozed by the fire, comfortable among the folds of their plaids. Janet
took the children into the bedroom, where Flora and Peter curled up on one of the mattresses and Janet took the other. Andrew could hear Janet singing to them, a lullaby he remembered in his own mother’s voice. The little rag doll, mounted on the noble wooden pony, stood sentry beside the beds.

November held fewer daylight hours and very little in the way of sunshine or warmth. The voyage took the group across a hopscotch of lakes and valleys, crossed by vast expanses of nothingness where ragged trees were the only sign of life.

They passed between sheer rock walls alongside Loch Hourn, the “Lake of Hell,” where stubborn pine trees somehow kept a precarious footing. Loch Quoich lay silent to their west, harbouring small islands that rose through the surface in a line, like the knobbed back of an ancient beast.

The path turned to the southeast, but when Andrew and his group reached the Campbell lands and the outskirts of Fort William, they turned off, keeping a wary distance. By midday they had ventured into the eastern end of Rannoch Moor, where the desolation transformed itself into a thing of beauty. Rounded slopes rose from the shining loch, swaying with grass, peppered by heather. Across the moor the mountains faded into the distance: gray, black, and
gray again, the taller peaks cloaked by snow. The water’s flat surface gleamed on the moor, broken only by an occasional splash, hinting at the rich store of trout beneath.

Their midday meal was light, consisting of oatcakes and honey from the cottage.

Though he would never complain, Iain was as happy as the others to sit for a while, to soak up the sun without having to pound through its shadows step by heavy step. His fingers itched at the thought of fishing in this loch. He had done so once, as a boy, and had never forgotten the way the huge brown trout had risen so greedily to his bait. Neither had he forgotten the way their delicate flesh melted on his tongue. Later in the day, he told himself, he would take a hook from his sporran and drop a line into the cold, dark water.

For now it sufficed to watch the loch’s feathered inhabitants as they floated across the water, paddling in haphazard circles. A pair of large goosanders drifted by, as calm as the surface that held them afloat. The dark green male’s mate paddled beside him, bobbing her copper head under the water at intervals, trolling for a meal. A larger duck with eerie red eyes swam a bit farther out, preening its glossy black body. Something startled the bird and it exploded from the water, its plum-coloured neck stretched forward, feet streamlined behind him.

Andrew stood beside Iain, hands on his hips, gazing out at the ducks.

Janet ran in the near distance with the children, laughing and squealing as they chased her along the shore. “Ye’ll never catch me!” she called, then turned and yelled, “Now I’m comin’ for ye! Ye’d best run!”

“Right. Time for a swim,” Andrew said. He unwrapped his plaid and dropped it to the ground, so he stood in nothing but his knee-
length tunic. Then he took a deep breath, grinned like a madman, and tore off his last remnant of clothing, whooping as he ran into the freezing water. He dove under the water, barely causing a ripple, and bobbed back to the surface only to dive again moments later. He eventually emerged, still grinning, shaking the water from his head as if he were a dog. Then he grabbed his plaid and wrapped it around him like a towel.

“Now that,” he told Iain, while scrubbing the end of the plaid against his hair, “felt good.”

Iain grunted. “Bloody selkie. There’s more ice than water in yer blood.”

Andrew threw his clothes on again, then sat and wrapped his arms around his knees, observing the lines of the beach and the grassy expanses beyond Rannoch Moor. The distant landscape rolled with weather-softened mountains, but the terrain where he and Iain sat was level. Clusters of ancient gray boulders, their edges worn smooth by centuries, lay scattered among bursts of grass and shrubs.

All but one. An oddly shaped rock, as tall as a man’s waist, stood alone, twenty feet from Andrew. It was darker than the others, and its sharp edges protruded from the earth at an angle which seemed to point accusation at the heavens.

Iain noticed Andrew’s curious gaze.
“Clach na Boile,”
Iain said, though Andrew hadn’t asked. “Stone of Fury. Have ye ne’er seen the wee stones?”

Andrew shook his head.

Iain squinted toward the stone. “There’s magic in them, some say. Stones like that one are all over this land. Legend has it they communicate between themselves.”

“What?” Andrew asked, frowning. “The stones talk?”

“So they say.”

“Oh, aye?” Andrew said, rising to his feet. “And what is it they say to one another?”

Iain shrugged and reached into Janet’s bundle of provisions, pulling out a handful of bannock and cheese. He bit into the bannock and spoke while he chewed.

“ ’Tis said there are some folk who can hear them. No’ me, though.” Iain took a half bottle of whisky from Janet’s pack. “Will ye have a dram?” he asked, raising a fuzzy eyebrow in question.

Andrew shook his head. Instead, he turned and walked toward the mysterious stone.

As Andrew drew closer, he thought he heard a low hum in the air, like vibrations from a beehive. Strange. There should be no bees in November. Nevertheless, the sound continued, growing louder with every one of his steps. He examined the thistles for fuzzy yellow bodies, but there was no sign of anything beyond the occasional hardy butterfly visiting the blooms.

Andrew had seen a lot of strange things in his lifetime. If he hadn’t seen them for himself, he might never have believed them to be real. When he realised the humming was coming from the stone itself, he was more curious than shocked. He walked to the base of the stone and stared at it, looking for the cause of the sound. The breeze lifted his hair and bent the grass, so the long, pale blades appeared to point toward the stone. He hesitated for only a moment, then reached down and touched its cold surface.

The instant Andrew’s fingers touched the stone, a bolt flashed through his body, hot and swift as lightning. The strike was sudden, but not painful, and his heart pounded madly. The sensation solidified, binding him to the stone as if it were a rope. He yanked his hand away in reflex, and staggered back, staring hard at the stone. It stood benign, as ordinary as any other feature on the blowing grass. Except it still hummed. Louder than ever.

Andrew looked toward the beach where his companions sat, eating and talking as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Janet and the children had come back and were sitting by Iain, laughing at something Iain had said.

So, he thought. His friends didn’t hear the stone, and the land didn’t seem to feel it. Could this possibly be a magic stone, as Iain had suggested? If it was, would Andrew be able to hear what the stone said? Maybe he could, he thought. His mind worked in strange ways sometimes, telling him things he shouldn’t have known. He sat beside the slab and took a deep breath, then reached out and willed himself to touch the stone again.

The same heat shot through him, but this time he held on, riding the current as it raced through his body. He leaned against the stone while blurred images and thoughts bombarded his mind; none of which, he realised, were his own. His initial reaction was panic, but he forced his hand to stay pressed against the rock. As he grew more accustomed to the whirling sensation, he tried to relax and allow its energy to strike and bounce off him, to make an impact, yet leave no mark. He strained to pull the forces within him together, tried to focus them into a constant stream he could comprehend.

Then suddenly he knew the girl was there. He could
feel
her. He concentrated as hard as he could, harnessing his mind’s strength until he was able to visualise her. He focused on her eyes, which held his like magnets. In his mind he saw her soft lips and slightly turned-up nose with the sprinkling of freckles across its bridge. He pictured the waves of brown and gold that framed her face.

The vision grew from his thoughts, becoming so clear it seemed she stood in front of him. Her eyes were round with wonder. She looked as surprised as he felt. She reached out her hand, close enough to touch him. Andrew’s heart pounded and power streamed through
him, fueled by the chunk of gray stone. He used all his strength to channel it through his arms so finally, impossibly, he reached her hand and gripped it between his own. He could feel the softness of her fingers, the warmth of her skin. He could smell her clean, earthy scent. And then he heard her.

“You can do this!” she exclaimed, her voice ringing like bells in his ears. “
You
called
me
! I thought only I…”

He couldn’t help himself. He heard her voice and had to speak. “Sweet Jesus,” he cried. “Oh, lass! To touch ye like this—I ne’er thought…”

“Your hands!” she cried. “They’re so warm! I can’t believe…”

“Ah, but ye must.” He grinned, and squeezed the small hand he held. “Even if the entire world canna believe, you and I must.”

He let go with one hand so he could trace the delicate curve of her cheek with his fingers.

“I dinna understand it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “but I feel ye all the time. I always have.”

A smile lit her eyes, and two tiny dimples he’d never noticed materialised in her flushed cheeks. Just as he had, she raised her hand and touched his face, brushing the roughness of his sprouting beard. For a moment they stared at each other, neither knowing what to say. She broke the silence.