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Authors: Liz Macrae Shaw
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at plumes of grey smoke to the south.
‘Ah. There you are Màiri. You must help me load food and blankets onto my husband’s horse.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Hurry up girl, there’s no time to explain.’
What disaster has happened? She wondered. There must be a fire but she was too unfamiliar with this western part of Skye to know where it might be. The minister was as tight lipped and urgent as his wife so she concentrated on helping him lift the provisions onto the horse.
‘If only I could carry more,’ he muttered.
‘Excuse me Sir, have you any more beasts?’
‘I could get hold of another one or two but what use is that when there is only one of me?’
‘I was just wondering, you see. I learnt to ride as a child. I don’t know what disaster has happened but if we both rode we could lead another pack horse and carry much more.’ She spoke softly and looked down when she had finished.
He frowned. ‘I don’t know what to expect when we arrive. It might be dangerous.’
‘I understand, but if there are women and children in difficulties, a second pair of hands might be useful.’ Again the modest downcast look.
He stared at her and nodded. ‘Very well. Needs must when the Devil drives.’ Who was the Devil here, she wondered.
They set off, each on a sturdy garron with Màiri leading a smaller pony behind them. She noticed with amusement that the Reverend rode stiffly, his knuckles clenched white on the reins.
‘We follow the Carbost Burn and then the Eynort River south. Then we climb over the ridge through
Bealach na Croiche
.’
‘And where is it we are headed to, Sir?’
‘Tuasdale, a settlement of twelve families. I’ve been worried for some time about them. The land is divided between two landlords, neither of whom has any care for his tenants. I fear we are too late to stop them.’
‘But the smoke seems to have died down.’
He fell into a gloomy silence. Despite the circumstances of their journey she couldn’t help feeling a surge of pleasure at being out on the moor on an early autumn day after being confined to the house. She felt her horse’s swaying gait beneath her, the sea borne wind snatching at her hair and the salty taste on her lips. Far above their heads an eagle circled, rising to become a tiny dot. They breasted the ridge and the way ahead opened like an unclenching fist. It was a wide, green valley leading to a meeting of two streams.
‘It’s beautiful here, and fertile.’
‘That’s part of the problem,’ he replied.
Everything looked as it should; houses sprouting out of the earth, the slopes on each side carved into lazybeds for potatoes, the hill pastures still green, but there were no people or animals to be seen. The village seemed to be under an evil enchantment.
‘It’s so silent,’ she hardly dared to whisper, ‘Look up the hill there, Sir. It’s still smouldering. What a terrible smell. What on earth were they burning?’
They dismounted and climbed up to the cottage standing on its own. The thatch had been set alight and was still smouldering in sullen blackness. Sticky, treacly streams slithered down the walls and oozed onto the ground.
He prodded some of it with his shoe. ‘I think it’s the stored cheese and butter.’
‘And what are you doing trespassing here?’ They both jumped at the snarling voice. A group of men had appeared from behind the house with mastiffs trotting beside them, teeth bared. The man who had spoken was broad shouldered, with his cap pulled well down over his eyes. All three of them carried thick sticks.
‘I’m the Reverend Carmichael, come to check on the welfare of my parishioners.’ Màiri admired his courage as the slight man held himself tall and spoke out in ringing pulpit tones.
‘Well, you don’t need to worry about them, they’re gone,’ the first man barked. He turned to smirk at his companions.
‘What do you mean, gone?’
‘Just what I said.’
Carmichael held his ground, staring
‘Ah. There you are Màiri. You must help me load food and blankets onto my husband’s horse.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Hurry up girl, there’s no time to explain.’
What disaster has happened? She wondered. There must be a fire but she was too unfamiliar with this western part of Skye to know where it might be. The minister was as tight lipped and urgent as his wife so she concentrated on helping him lift the provisions onto the horse.
‘If only I could carry more,’ he muttered.
‘Excuse me Sir, have you any more beasts?’
‘I could get hold of another one or two but what use is that when there is only one of me?’
‘I was just wondering, you see. I learnt to ride as a child. I don’t know what disaster has happened but if we both rode we could lead another pack horse and carry much more.’ She spoke softly and looked down when she had finished.
He frowned. ‘I don’t know what to expect when we arrive. It might be dangerous.’
‘I understand, but if there are women and children in difficulties, a second pair of hands might be useful.’ Again the modest downcast look.
He stared at her and nodded. ‘Very well. Needs must when the Devil drives.’ Who was the Devil here, she wondered.
They set off, each on a sturdy garron with Màiri leading a smaller pony behind them. She noticed with amusement that the Reverend rode stiffly, his knuckles clenched white on the reins.
‘We follow the Carbost Burn and then the Eynort River south. Then we climb over the ridge through
Bealach na Croiche
.’
‘And where is it we are headed to, Sir?’
‘Tuasdale, a settlement of twelve families. I’ve been worried for some time about them. The land is divided between two landlords, neither of whom has any care for his tenants. I fear we are too late to stop them.’
‘But the smoke seems to have died down.’
He fell into a gloomy silence. Despite the circumstances of their journey she couldn’t help feeling a surge of pleasure at being out on the moor on an early autumn day after being confined to the house. She felt her horse’s swaying gait beneath her, the sea borne wind snatching at her hair and the salty taste on her lips. Far above their heads an eagle circled, rising to become a tiny dot. They breasted the ridge and the way ahead opened like an unclenching fist. It was a wide, green valley leading to a meeting of two streams.
‘It’s beautiful here, and fertile.’
‘That’s part of the problem,’ he replied.
Everything looked as it should; houses sprouting out of the earth, the slopes on each side carved into lazybeds for potatoes, the hill pastures still green, but there were no people or animals to be seen. The village seemed to be under an evil enchantment.
‘It’s so silent,’ she hardly dared to whisper, ‘Look up the hill there, Sir. It’s still smouldering. What a terrible smell. What on earth were they burning?’
They dismounted and climbed up to the cottage standing on its own. The thatch had been set alight and was still smouldering in sullen blackness. Sticky, treacly streams slithered down the walls and oozed onto the ground.
He prodded some of it with his shoe. ‘I think it’s the stored cheese and butter.’
‘And what are you doing trespassing here?’ They both jumped at the snarling voice. A group of men had appeared from behind the house with mastiffs trotting beside them, teeth bared. The man who had spoken was broad shouldered, with his cap pulled well down over his eyes. All three of them carried thick sticks.
‘I’m the Reverend Carmichael, come to check on the welfare of my parishioners.’ Màiri admired his courage as the slight man held himself tall and spoke out in ringing pulpit tones.
‘Well, you don’t need to worry about them, they’re gone,’ the first man barked. He turned to smirk at his companions.
‘What do you mean, gone?’
‘Just what I said.’
Carmichael held his ground, staring
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