Chapter Fourteen #2
The climb was a straight path worn in the grass, but so steep that Catriona felt the burn of effort in her legs—and she was used to walking inclines. She reached out to take Morag’s arm to assist the older woman, only to be waved away.
When they reached the cottage, both goats blinked at the visitors. A cat slipped around the corner and climbed from the turf block to the thatched roof, tail curling.
Morag knocked on the worn wooden door. No answer came. “I know you’re in there, Flora MacLeod!” she called.
Finally the door creaked open, and a tiny old woman peered out at them.
She was bent and fragile, her face a delicate mesh of lines, her eyes a bright aqua blue, young eyes in an ancient face.
Her hair was snowy and thin under a pleated mutch, and her brown dress was nearly a rag, its hem shredding about her feet, which were covered in patched leather shoes.
She clutched a faded plaid around her shoulders.
“Ach! Morag MacLeod, what do you want?”
“I brought you fresh vegetables.” Morag lifted the basket she carried. “And a visitor. Let us in out of the wind, Mother Flora. We’ve had a hard climb up here to see you.”
“It’s a fine day and the climb will do you good, Morag MacLeod. You’re fat as a pig.”
“Mother Flora,” Morag said, sounding resigned, “this is Catriona Mhòr.”
The older woman scrutinized Catriona. “I knew your mother. How tall are you, girl? Huh! Your father is tall, isn’t he, the reverend.
I will not go to his kirk, not me. And your brother is a big one too.
You have your mother’s red hair. Bonny like her too, but taller than she was.
Are you taller than your man? Do you have a man yet? ”
“Flora,” Morag groaned. “Are you going to let us in or not?”
“Did you bring me turnips?” Flora asked, peering at the basket Morag carried. “I like turnips. What else did you bring?”
“Would you like new socks? These will be very warm,” Catriona said. Reaching into the basket she held containing some knitted things she and Morag had collected, she drew out a pair of knee stockings in a pattern of red and black.
Snatching them with knobby fingers, Flora nodded. “Mine! Come in. Watch your head, tall girl.”
Ducking her head under the lintel as she followed the older women inside, Catriona was pleasantly surprised to find a cozy interior, dim with smoke and scant light, but neatly arranged with a few good furnishings, including a bed covered with a thick blanket and a fat pillow.
The floor, part slate and part earth, crunched underfoot with scraps and scatterings, and the house smelled suspiciously like a byre.
“She lives like a goat,” Morag told Catriona. “Well, goats and a cow share the byre attached to the house. She does not see well, so I sweep up for her when I come here.”
“Sit down,” Flora instructed. While Catriona and Morag sat on a bench beside the peat fire, Flora settled in a wooden chair with a threadbare cushion.
“What else is in your basket?” Flora asked Catriona, reaching over to poke her hand inside. She pulled out a green knitted scarf. “I need one of these.”
Morag snatched it back. “Teach the lass your fairy songs and you shall have this.”
“Bah.” Flora scowled at Catriona. “Why do you want to learn my fairy songs?”
“My mother collected them, and I want to continue her work. So I’ve been learning the old songs and writing down the verses and melodies.”
Flora waved her hand. “The songs need to be sung, not scratched in a book.”
“Catriona Mhòr is saving them for future generations,” Morag said. “Years from now, people may not know the old Gaelic songs.”
“If they do not know the old songs, why would they want to sing them? Are you married, girl?”
Catriona blinked at the sudden question. “I am,” she said carefully.
“Does your man let his bonny young wife go around singing when he should be putting babies in her belly? You will have many healthy babies, with those fine hips and such a good bosom,” Flora observed. Catriona blushed, speechless.
“She was married just yesterday,” Morag said. “Give her some time.”
Flora grinned, gap-toothed and elvish. “Yesterday! What are you doing here? Who is he? There are not many handsome young men left in Glen Shee. I hope it is not that sour doctor from Kilmallie who came to see me for my health. I do not like him. He does not know nearly as much as I do. So, who is it?”
“Mackenzie of Kildonan,” Catriona said, lifting her chin.
Flora narrowed her eyes. “The young earl? You’re Countess of Kildonan?”
“I am.”
“I will not share my songs with the wife of Kildonan,” Flora announced. She pointed toward the door. “Out!”
“But, Mother—” Morag began.
“Hush, Morag.” Catriona picked up the basket and stood, though tears stung her eyes. She had feared that her new status might drive a wedge between her and the people and culture she loved. “I am sorry you are disappointed, Mother Flora. I’ll go.”
“They took my kin and friends, and I will not lose my old songs too. They are all I have. That and the cat and the goats.”
“Catriona would not take them. She will save them,” Morag said.
“She is countess now, and that earl and his father sent our kin away on that day of sadness years ago. I saw him there with his father as the people walked out of the glen!”
“That’s so,” Morag murmured to Catriona. “He was there. We all saw him.”
“I will not let the son take my songs as his father took my kin,” Flora said.
Catriona had seen Evan that day, riding with the despised earl. She remembered that they seemed to argue. Odd that she had not thought much of that until Flora mentioned it. And now she was Evan’s wife, regardless of the state of the marriage.
“The old earl sent away five of my grown children and eight grandchildren.” Flora stood to usher both women to the door. “I was left alone here, with few of my own left to care for me. Not the best ones either,” she added, darting a glance at Morag.
“Your son John, my man, has always been good to you, Mother Flora!” Morag said.
While they bickered, Catriona went to the door, ducking her head as she stepped out, and turned.
“Flora MacLeod, I am sorry for the past,” she said.
“I, too, grieved that day for kinfolk and friends who left the glen. But my husband did not cause that tragedy. And I hope one day those who left will be able to return to the glen they loved.”
She walked away, her skirt and plaid blown by the wind, tears blurring her vision. Morag, grumbling to Flora, followed. Grief sank through her as she feared the old songs would slip away from her, no matter how hard she tried to capture and protect them.
Behind her, she heard Flora begin to sing in a raspy voice. Stopping, she turned to see the old woman standing in the doorway. Catriona recognized it immediately as a song of mourning that she knew well.
Hiri uam, hiri uam,
Where shall we go to make our plea when we are hungry in the hills?
Hiri uam, hiri uam—
On the day the people left Glen Shee, Catriona had sung that same tuireadh, a lament that came to her as she stood on a hillside overlooking the road. To one side, the people filed out of the glen. To the other side that day, Evan Mackenzie argued with his father.
Suddenly, the memory of that seemed to shift as she saw it differently. He argued with his father. He did not agree. He did not approve of what was happening that day. With that realization, her heart felt a little lighter.
Lifting her head to draw breath, Catriona joined the song. Her voice was strong and pure, covering the old woman’s quavering in a haunting harmony.
Hiri uam, hiri uam,
Where shall we go to warm ourselves when we are chilled with cold?
Where shall we go for shelter when my love’s hearth is dark?
Hiri uam, hiri uam….
As the song ended, it echoed out to the mountains. Flora walked toward Catriona to fix her with a watery yet intense blue gaze. “You! You were the one who sang the tuireadh for the people that day.”
Catriona nodded in silence.
Flora looked at Morag. “Did you hear her that day? Why did you not tell me it was the MacConn lass? Come here, tall girl.” Flora grabbed Catriona’s arm to drag her back toward the house. “I will teach you my songs.”