“Is the rest of the island too rocky?”
“Och, Innisbraw was once heavily forested. Most of the trees were cut down for boat building by the Norlanders who conquered our Western Islands long ago. Also, in the spring of nineteen and twenty-one, a fierce gale uprooted more. With the harsh winds stripping the soil away every winter, much of the island is now too rocky to support strong, healthy tree roots.”
“How do the crofters get by then? If the soil’s so bad is there enough girse for their sheep? And I’m told there are quite a few coos on the island as well.”
“Indeed there are. Coos are no’ a problem. They don’t eat the girse down to the soil but sheep crop it too close and the soil erodes. The crofters are having a rough time, though I must say, they are a hard-working, optimistic lot.”
***
Rob eyed the minister. He sounded kind and seemed sincere. “So, how long have you been here on Innisbraw?”
“Almost twenty-five years. This was my first kirk, and if our Lord is gracious enough to grant my fondest desire, ’twill be my last. The guid folk of Innisbraw are unique. Have you met many of them?”
“Only some of the MacPhee family, and Alec and Morag MacDonald, and Elspeth, of course.”
“The other folk are most likely wanting to protect your privacy. I know everyone’s been most curious about our newest resident.” Again, the impish smile. “So you met Alec and Morag. ’Tis folk like them that are the backbone of this island. Did they tell you they are both members of the Innisbraw Island Council?”
“Nobody’s said anything about that.”
“I only mentioned it because it shows how dedicated they are in trying to save our dying island, which is the focus of the Council right now. But tell me, what do you think of our Elspeth who chairs the Council?”
“I’m becoming verra fond of her. She’s one of the most comfortable—yet stimulating—folk I’ve ever been around.”
“She’s also the prayer warrior who has held the folk of Innisbraw up before the Lord most of her life.”
Maggie appeared, carrying a laden tray.
“Och, Maggie, lass, is that coffee I smell?” Hugh patted his belly. “And scones. How could you know I missed my dinner?”
“I didn’t.” She placed the tray on the bench next to him. “But Rob is always starving about now. He never makes it from dinner to supper without a bite of something he calls a ‘snack.’”
“A man after my own heart.”
She handed Rob his mug and a scone. “Don’t eat too much. Sim brought us some partans. I’m making partan bree for supper.”
Thank God for the Scots lessons. Partan was what the Scots called crab. Crab soup. Sounded delicious. He bit into his buttered scone and took a swig of coffee. “Maggie’s a grand cook. If I’m no’ careful, I’ll outgrow my verra limited wardrobe.”
“Och, you look like you could stand to gain at least twa stone.”
“A stone is fourteen pounds,” Maggie said.
“I know. That was one of those obscure facts I learned in school.”
They ate in companionable silence. Hugh MacEwan was unlike any minister Rob had ever met. Not once had he approached, either obliquely or head-on, the state of Rob’s immortal soul. “So, how large is your congregation?”
“Everyone on Innisbraw is a member, though we’ve lost most of our young folk either to the war itself or war-related turns. We only kept our young fishermen because they’re considered a part of the Merchant Service, sworn to use their trawlers and creelers for rescue work, and their catches provide much needed meat. The lack of guid turns has caused a large problem we’re going to have to solve before this war ends, or we’re going to go the way of the other Western Isles.”
“From your tone of voice, I take that as a negative. What do you mean?”
The minister fidgeted, brushing crumbs from his knees and tapping his fingertips on his empty mug.
Rob prepared to plead fatigue to give Hugh an out.
“Och, the folk of the Outer Hebrides, I’m ashamed to say, have been slowly losing their moral fibre. The war has helped halt it to a degree, taking the young lads from the street corners where they used to congregate every evening, swilling whisky before moving out into their villages, causing damage and mayhem with never a thought to anything but their own dark pleasures.”
Rob glanced at Maggie.
Her teacup shook as she raised it to her lips.
“Maggie’s never mentioned a problem with drunkenness and law-breaking here.”
“No’ on Innisbraw as much as the other islands, though it was quickly heading in that direction when I first came here.”
Maggie refilled his mug.
The minister took several sips before continuing. “When the government set up the dole, the crofters began turning more and more of their labour over to their womenfolk while they drowned themselves in whisky they bought with the silver they were given for doing nowt.”
“How could one man stop all the men from doing the same thing?”
“It was the Lord, no’ me,” Hugh said. “The Lord, with the help of all of the women on this island who were hearing the truth from the pulpit every Sabbath. They refused to do all the work and the men faced three choices.” He ticked off his raised fingers. “They could beat their wives into submission, which would have dire repercussions, do the work themselves, or lose their crofts because they weren’t being productive.”
Rob sat back with a frown. “I’m confused. Maggie told me that the Laird of Innisbraw, Donald somebody, gave the crofts to the folk a long time ago, doing away with the need to pay rent. Who could take their crofts away?”
“The Donald also set up an Island Council to govern the island,” Maggie said, “and when the folk on the Council saw things going awry, they got verra strict. If a crofter was unwilling to try to make a living, his land and cottage were taken away from him and given to another”
“And this actually worked?”
“Over time,” Hugh said. “Remember, Innisbraw was never in such dire straits as the other islands. Over the past years, the men of Innisbraw have regained their sense of duty, refusing the dole, working hard, and no’ abusing their womenfolk.” He dabbed at his forehead with his napkin. “But I suppose we’ll always have the problem of no’ enough work for those lads about to graduate from school.”
It never occurred to Rob such conditions existed far from the large cities in Scotland. “So you’re afraid that when the war ends your young lads will either no’ come back or those who do will begin drinking and carousing because they have no work to do?”
“Aye. ’Tis most unfortunate there isn’t any industry to keep our young folk here and occupied with skills they can be proud of.”
“Has anybody looked into starting something?”
Maggie set her empty teacup on the tray. “I don’t know what it could be. The soil is too poor and rocky to support more than coos and sheep and a few goats or cuddies, and the fishing is too difficult to bring in much silver.”
“How about boatbuilding?” Rob turned his chair. “What’s that large shed down by the pier used for?” he asked, pointing to a structure at the east of the pier.
“Nowt now,” Hugh said. “It’s stood empty for as long as I’ve been here. Maggie, lass, did John ever tell you why it was built?”
“I remember him mentioning it was a herring-processing plant before they built so many on Barra.”
Rob continued to study the shed, his mind churning with ideas. “With some fixing-up, it looks big enough to house a boatbuilding business—and the first boat built would have to be a rescue boat for Innisbraw.”
“But who would we find to run such a business?” Hugh asked. “There isn’t a boat-builder amongst us. Or, are you planning such an enterprise once the war is over?”
“What I know about boats, you could put in a thimble, but surely there are some old-timers around here with a wee bit of experience.”
“Perha
ps there are, but there is no silver for such a venture.”
What right did he have to interfere in other’s lives? “Leave it to an incomer to appear on their shores and tell the folk how to improve their lot.”
“Och, ’tis never presumptive to offer ideas,” Hugh countered. “We will have to give it some thought.” He grasped Rob’s hand. “I hope I haven’t given you the wrong impression of our island. The vast majority of our islanders are guid, God-fearing folk.” He didn’t wait for a reply but got to his feet. “I’d best be off for I’ve a lesson to work on, but before I go I would like to offer a prayer.” He continued to hold Rob’s hand as they bowed their heads.
“Our gracious Heavenly Faither, we thank You for this bonnie weather and I thank You for guiding my steps this way the day, for it has been a joy and a pleasure to meet our Maggie’s Rob.” His fingers tightened. “Give this lad Your strength as he works to regain the use of his legs, for we are reminded by Your Word that where twa or more are gathered together, You will be in their midst, to listen, to council and to give help in time of need. We also ask that You give Maggie guidance as she ministers to Rob. We pray this in the name of Your Son, who gave His life for us on the cross. Amen.”
Rob shook Hugh’s hand again. “I’m happy to have finally met you.”
“And I’m most happy to have met you. I must say, for an American who’s only been here a few weeks, your Scots is remarkable.”
“Thanks to Elspeth’s lessons.”
“Then, knowing our Elspeth, I expect you’ll be learning the Gaelic next.”
“She’s mentioned it but I don’t think I’ll have time before I report back to duty.”
“Och, you’ll be back here once this terrible war is over.”
Again, that simple statement, first Elspeth and now Hugh. Perhaps their prayers didn’t concern only his recovery.
***
“So what do you think of our Hugh?” Maggie asked as the minister made his way out to the path.
“I like him. He’s no’ like any minister I’ve ever met.”
“Since he’s the only one I’ve ever had, there’s nobody I can compare him to, but I am glad you like him. He’s the glue that holds us together. Hugh just teaches the Word of God. He’s no’ consumed by kirk rules.”
“He didn’t mention religion much.”
“He won’t, unless you bring it up. And, as far as religion is concerned, I know what you mean, but our Hugh always says Christianity is no’ a religion, but a relationship between folk and their Lord. His teaching from the Word every Sabbath is his greatest gift.”
***
Rob mulled the afternoon over while trying to get to sleep. The problems plaguing the other islands had been news to him.
His thoughts returned to the business solution he had presented. A boatbuilding enterprise intrigued him. It would surely help with the problem of unemployed lads after the war. He knew nothing about boats, but he could learn. He was certain the shed would be ideal, and as he had said, the first boat built would have to be a rescue vessel for Innisbraw.
But what about this talk about him coming back to the island after the war? Even if things worked out between him and Maggie, how could he return if it meant giving up flying? And despite what he’d told Maggie, there was a good chance once he reported back to duty, he would be killed. With all the sorties and missions he’d flown since the beginning of the war, the odds were stacked against him. Only the Lord having a plan for him to fulfill here on Innisbraw would change those odds. Could that be possible?
CHAPTER 20
Una Hunter swept the last of the sandy soil from her stone flags and eyed Susan and Mark Ferguson’s cottage across the path, hoping to see Susan bring her spinning wheel out into her yard. Her thin lips curled in a semblance of a smile when she recalled her luck at cornering Flora MacPhee after kirk last week. Thank the gods Flora liked to talk.
Flora had mentioned one succulent morsel Una had been passing on for days. This was the information she had been waiting for since that Yank appeared on Innisbraw and the folk greeted him with open arms. But she needed to tell some of the younger lasses closer in age to Maggie McGrath if she hoped to stop that lass from making the biggest mistake of her life.
“Fools,” she muttered aloud. “Don’t they know Americans are liars who spin such a beguiling tale of love and commitment even the ‘wee folk’ in Scots lore would hide in shame in their small, dark caves at being so outdone?”
She sat on a stool, plucking aimlessly at a small hole near the hem of her apron, thoughts reeling with mind-pictures of betrayal and heartbreak. She had been about Maggie’s age when she met him. “Edmond,” she whispered. Oh, no. She had promised herself years ago never to think his name again, let alone speak it.
Repressed spectral shadows coalesced into burning images.
Young, tall, handsome.
Brown hair and hazel eyes beneath heavy eyebrows.
Wealthy enough to afford a holiday on the Isle of Skye.
He swept her off her feet at a ceilidh in the village of Portree where she and her mother were visiting her mother’s family. She lied to her mother, pretending to be out with cousins and their friends when she met him every day on a hidden grassy hillock behind the village. They walked and talked for hours, holding hands, the spark of attraction so palpable she could scarcely breathe. Their first kiss chaste, barely the meeting of lips. But to a lass who had never been kissed, it filled her soul with ecstasy. She returned his next kiss with abandon, tears flooding her eyes.
They met every day for over a week. His promises of undying love soon broke her weak protestations. They found a secluded glen where they lay on the soft grass, expressing their love.
He would start his last year of university in New York. Next summer, he would return and take her to America, where they would be wed. He described his family’s huge, palatial home where they could have an entire wing all to themselves.
He left her in the glen, alone, heart afire with love.
Three months later, she knew she carried his child. Emotions vacillated from ecstatic happiness to dread that her mother would banish her from the cottage before Edmond returned. Somehow, she would have to hide her condition.
That fear never became a reality.
She awakened one night, clutching her abdomen in agony. She pleaded to God repeatedly for help as she crept from of the cottage and made her way through the darkness and cold, biting wind to the sheepfold where she collapsed, thighs sticky with blood.
She was so weak, it took hours to clean up the mess, both in the fold and on her body. Just before dawn, she sneaked back to her pallet, shivering from pain and the icy water she used from the burn. She curled into a tight ball beneath her thin bed-cover, grieving.
She had lost Edmond’s child.
No one would ever know, not even him.
“And I swore then I would never again pray to the Christian God who turned a deaf ear to my pleas,” she muttered aloud. Her favorite aunt spoke the truth. The Christian God was a myth. Only the ancient goddesses of the Celts would help her from now on, especially Scathach, the Dark Goddess, a warrior woman and prophetess who once lived on the Isle of Skye.
She clenched her fists. Day after day, hours at a time, she waited on the dock the following spring and summer, eagerly meeting each trawler that unloaded its fish in Oban, hoping Edmond had booked passage to Innisbraw on one of them.
“You never came, you liar,” she spat.
His vow of undying love, of marriage into a prestigious family—the flame that flared inside her so high for well over a year—was quenched to an ember by the first rains of autumn.
Every year it became more brittle until it hardened into a tiny kernel of black hatred, sharp and unforgiving.
***
Susan Ferguson spent a delightful hour at the shore, wading through the surf, the hem of her dress held high above her knees, face turned to the warm sun and brisk, salty breeze.
&nbs
p; Several gannets took off from a nearby rock, their nearly two-metre wingspans still amazing after all the years she had watched them. Her attention turned to the dark bed of kelp bobbing in the surf far offshore, and the white-crested breakers marching slowly over the shallow seabed toward the sandy strand. She breathed a prayer of gratitude she lived on such a bonnie island.
She held a bouquet of daisies, buttercups, and eyebrights picked from among the myriad of wildflowers to decorate the middle of the supper table when Mark came home from his three-day fishing trip this een.
She tingled at the thought of his braw, broad face breaking into that heart-stopping grin when he spied her waiting on the dock. He would toss back his unruly mop of red hair and run toward her, strong arms outstretched.
They did not have many worldly goods and their cottage, which had belonged to his long-buried parents, was small and auld, but they had each other and that was enough—aye, that was more than enough.
She crossed the main path and turned her bare feet toward home, glancing over her shoulder at the sun. There was still plenty of time to make a hearty skillet of skirlie and a batch of bannock to go with whatever fish he brought. Mark was always ravenous when he got home and it wasn’t only for food. Her cheeks flushed at the thought of the very thorough luving they would share this night.
Her happy thoughts were dashed when she spied Una Hunter crossing the small path. No’ now, when she was in such a guid mood. It was so difficult having a nosey neighbor always spying on them from between the lace curtains over her front window. The bent, greying spinster with her sunken cheeks and almost lipless mouth was the last person she wanted to see the day.
“Susan!” Una called out in the Gaelic with her high, irritating voice. “Why didn’t you ask me to join you on your walk?”
She brushed past the older woman and opened the door. “I’m in a hurry, Una. Mark will be home this evening and I have supper to start.”
“Isn’t that just like a man, staying away for days at a time, expecting you to drop everything when he decides to show up again?”
Susan’s irritation grew. “That’s not true. Mark works hard to fill his fish hold.”
***
Jealousy churned in Una’s belly as she eyed the comely young woman with eyes the colour of the sea and a thick black braid thrown carelessly over her shoulder. Stupid, lovesick girl. How did she know her husband spent all his time in Oban unloading and selling fish? After all, he was a man.