CHAPTER ONE
SORCHA

 

 

Whitsunday, 24 May 1801; Srath Ghlais (Strathglass), Scotland

A cry of alarm drifted faintly to Sorcha Chisholm’s ears as she pushed to her feet and slapped the cow’s rump to move her along after milking. But, when she looked down at the village in the strath, she saw nothing amiss.

She told herself it was only children playing, running off their energy before being expected to sit quietly through the Sunday sermon. Sorcha glanced toward the kirk a short distance away. The service would begin soon, but first she needed to carry the milk home, slip into her good church shoes, and collect her son. She hoped he’d remembered to dress in his best trousers and jacket or she’d have to wait while he changed. If they had time, they’d gather wild daisies on the way to the kirk to leave on her other children’s graves.

She left the pail on the ground and leaned backward to stretch her aching muscles as she wiped her hands on her apron. Then, indulging in one quiet moment more before facing the day, she pulled her wool plaide tighter around her body and let her gaze drift over the greening fields below and the thatched stone cottages that were the homes of her dear friends and neighbors. The gray sky above silvered the Abhainn Ghlais river as it meandered across the wide valley bottom on its way to the North Sea. Her heart felt heavy with love for this place she’d called home since her wedding day twenty-five years past.

When her husband, her sweet Tàm, had brought her to this strath so many years ago, the community had welcomed her as one of their own. Even with Tàm gone now, she never wanted to leave. The valley, its people—even the firs, bracken, heather, and stones—were as much a part of her as her bones and flesh.

A promising ray of sunshine burned through the early-morning cloud cover and warmed the white mutch she wore over her hair. She lifted her face to the sky and let come the memories that were never far but only indulged in during quiet moments such as this. In her mind’s eye, she could see Tàm swinging one of their babies high in the air, the babe’s squeals underscored by his deep laughter. She saw Tàm and their two boys working side by side, threshing bere in August or telling stories as they cut peat in May. She saw Tàm and their oldest, Dòmhnall, marching off with the Inverness-shire Fencibles to fight in Ireland, neither of them to return but both looking so strong and proud that all she could do was smile.

Another cry of alarm—louder this time, and so unexpected on this blessed morning—caused her eyes to fly open and her breath to catch in her throat.

In the valley below, to the north, a knot of men on horseback was making its way toward a cluster of cottages, including her own, causing an oily coldness to wash over her. She squinted to see them better.

One man, dressed all in black from the rounded hat on the top of his head down to his boots, led the pack of what must be a dozen others. He held the reins in his left hand and carried a club in his right. Why would he have a club?

She took a step forward down the hill and turned her gaze upon the other men in the pack. She stopped breathing. They all carried clubs.

A flash of light snapped her attention back to the leader. That was a pistol at his hip, glinting in the sun. Fear slammed through her body like a blow.

And then she saw the smoke.

Every single cottage in the valley behind the men was on fire.

Her own cottage lay directly in their path, and inside was her only living child, her only remaining family.

“Aonghas!” She shouted his name, although he couldn’t possibly hear her from this distance, and started to run, not caring if she drew the men’s attention to her. She would welcome their attention if it saved her boy from harm. She focused singularly on her cottage, searching for Aonghas, hoping he’d snuck off with his friends somewhere even though he was supposed to be doing chores.

Running as quickly as the terrain and her bare feet allowed, she flew down the hillside, her gaze searching for him. Please don’t be in the house!

Pain shot through her foot and up her leg as her bare toes caught on a rock, tripping her. Her legs tangled in her long skirt, and before she knew it, she was on her hands and knees, her palms scraped and bloody.

Cursing her clumsiness, she ignored the pain and raced onward.

There! There was Aonghas, coming from their kale yard at the back of the cottage. He disappeared through the open cottage door and didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He must not yet have seen the men who were now in the process of carrying her neighbor Màiri’s rocking chair from her cottage and throwing it in her yard as her husband hurried behind, carrying a large chest. Màiri huddled in the yard, holding her children tightly to her side as she screamed at the men to leave them be. The closer Sorcha ran, the more smoke she could smell and the more cries she could hear coming from other homes. She could even taste the burning thatch now, its acrid flavor mixing with the terror already on her tongue.

No matter how fast she ran across the bere and oat fields, it wasn’t fast enough. She shouldn’t have dawdled on the hillside. She should have finished milking the cow and returned straight home, where she would have been with Aonghas long before the men showed up. She would be there now, keeping him safe.

Keeping Aonghas safe was her reason for living. She would do anything she had to do to see her only remaining child grow to adulthood. His need of her was the only thing that had pulled her from her bed after his brother Dòmhnall’s death. It was the only thing that still got her up every morning. She would not fail him.

She was still a full field away when she saw one of the men enter her cottage. Hot tears dripped down her face, but she didn’t bother to wipe them away. She lifted her skirt higher so she could run faster.

“Aonghas!” Desperation ripped his name from her throat.

Finally, finally she reached her cottage and rushed inside through the attached byre, calling her son’s name yet again.

The sudden darkness of the interior blinded her, and it took a moment before she saw the scene in front of her. Another moment to understand it.

Aonghas stood near the fire, which always burned on the earthen floor in the center of their one-room home. His head was bent down as he stared at the man lying on the ground, unmoving, unconscious, a pool of dark-red blood under his head, his skin gray and waxy.

“Aonghas?”

Her boy lifted his tearstained face to her, and at the expression of horror and guilt she saw there, she decided not to ask him any questions about what had happened. What mattered now was gathering what they could carry and then leaving before the rest of the men arrived.

It was probably best if she didn’t know, anyway.

A shout came from the yard outside, and they both jerked as though struck. As Sorcha and her son stared at each other in horror, a voice called out in her native Gaelic, “Cummings, if you’re still in there, get out! We’re lighting it up!”

And then, to her further horror, Sorcha heard the crackling sound of dry grasses bursting into flame over her head. She tore her gaze away from Aonghas to the pitched ceiling above, where sparks were already drifting down through the thatching and roof timbers. Hens roosting in the rafters squawked in panic and beat their wings frantically as they escaped to the ground, trailing feathers and straw after them.

She didn’t spare another glance at the man lying on the floor. “Go!” she yelled to Aonghas. “I’ll be right behind you.”Without waiting to see if he obeyed, Sorcha jumped over the man’s prone legs and dashed to the box bed in the corner of the room, where she kept her most prized possessions. She wouldn’t have time to gather any food, but she wasn’t going to leave here without her coin purse. She had a feeling they were going to need every last pence.

With purse in hand, she turned toward the door and found, to her admiration and horror, Aonghas struggling to drag the man’s body out. Sparks were falling now, singeing hair and clothing. “Aonghas, go!”

Just then, a loud groan sounded overhead. She looked up in time to see fire race along the roof beams. Every twig of thatching seemed to be aglow. “Run!”
She jumped over the man’s body and pushed Aonghas toward the rectangle of light that was the door.

They made it out just as the roof fell with the loudest noise Sorcha had ever heard. Her throat, nose, and eyes burning, and with tears running down her face, she fell to her knees in the yard, coughing. Aonghas dropped beside her.

For several long moments all she could do was cough and fight to draw breath into her smoke-burnt lungs. But then she heard the screams of children. The anguished howls of women. The furious shouts of men. The terror-filled bleats and bellows of goats, sheep, and cows.

Blinking to clear her streaming eyes, she brought into focus her surroundings and wondered if she’d died and gone to hell.
Fire engulfed every house in the strath. Dark-gray smoke rolled into dark-gray clouds, indistinguishable from one another. People and animals rushed about in panic as men on horseback rode past, laughing.

She was unable to move as she took it all in: Her next-door neighbor sitting expressionless and stunned amid a meager pile of belongings; her infant daughter flailing on her lap; her older children clinging to her, crying. Another neighbor gesturing wildly and shouting at Alasdair Macrath, the chief’s factor. Factor Macrath resting a hand on the butt of his pistol and sneering back with contempt.

Sorcha blindly reached for Aonghas and pulled him against her side as she watched a man laugh as he slit a goat’s throat and left it to bleed out in the mud before spitting insults at the distraught woman who owned the animal. Yet another neighbor clenched her cow’s lead tightly and begged the man pulling it away to give it back. “You cannot take our beast! We’ll starve without her!”

Starve. The word hit Sorcha like a blade in the chest. It was the truth. They were going to starve without their cows or access to their kale yards, or to the grain growing in the runrig fields. It had been six months since Factor Macrath had served Sorcha and all the villagers a Summons of Removal, signed by their clan chief, An Siosal—the Chisholm. None had believed it would come to this. Their rents were not in arrears. They had the hereditary right to live on this land that they and their ancestors had worked for generations to make productive. The people had nowhere else to go. No money to start over elsewhere. No family in other parts of the country with room or provisions enough to take them in. No industrious skills other than farming.

Sorcha and her neighbors had convinced themselves that An Siosal would never allow matters to come to this. They had believed that dùthchas—the hereditary right of occupation rooted by ancient lineage to a particular place that is held by all the people of the clan—would stay An Siosal’s hand in his eviction threats. The land belonged to all the people equally, not to An Siosal or his family. They’d thought the chief understood this.

They’d been so wrong.

She must have made a noise, because, suddenly, one of the factor’s men stopped in front of her and Aonghas. Sorcha’s eyes were drawn to the wooden club he tapped against his leg, and she tasted blood. Dozens of iron nails protruded from the club, and snagged on one was a clump of human hair. “You can remove yourselves from An Siosal’s land this minute or I can remove you for him. Your choice.”

Sorcha heard more than felt the moan that slipped from her lips. Keeping her eyes on the club, she dragged Aonghas to his feet with her and backed away from the man.
Then, holding tightly to Aonghas’s hand, she turned and ran.

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO
KEAKA

 

 

Present day; Glasgow, Scotland

The hardest part of being a parent is letting go. For the past two days my son and I have ticked items off his to-do list to settle him in his new university, city, and country. Each tick has turned the vise squeezing my heart a little bit tighter. Colin is starting his exciting adult life, and it’s going to be half a world away from me. Getting on that airplane and flying home to Oregon without him seems absolutely impossible right now.

At least we have our hike together first.

Our only commitment today is Colin’s meeting with his adviser at the university later this afternoon. Until then, he’s dragging me all over the city, playing tourist, and we’re both loving it. Even though he’s not a Glasgow resident quite yet, he’s loved Scotland from a young age, compliments of his father, and is well versed in the country and her people.

We’re strolling along the south bank of the River Clyde when Colin announces, “We should pop into the train station and buy our tickets for the morning. I don’t know how busy the early trains will be, and I don’t want to risk having a late start to our hike.”

We take the next bridge across the river, but just as we’re halfway across, I spot a carving in the stone side rail, down low near the sidewalk. It’s crudely done, but something about it intrigues me and I must stop to run my fingers over the four-petaled flower and the looping four-cornered knot carved behind it.

The moment my fingers touch the rough stone, I feel an intense surge of emotion, and suddenly I’m crying, which I hide from Colin.

But then I feel him looming over me, so I snatch my hand away and force a laugh. “Don’t mind me, I’m just being silly.” My voice catches in my throat, and it cracks open a truth I didn’t plan to say aloud: “I cannot let you go!”

I stand to pull Colin in for a hug, but in doing so, I awkwardly bump into a woman passing on the sidewalk. A wave of dizziness tilts my vision, catching me off guard, and I blindly grab for Colin to steady myself.

“Gabhaibh mo leisgeul!” I call to the woman’s back as she walks away, though I catch only a glimpse of a dingy gray cap, dark-colored tartan shawl, and long blue skirt swishing with each step before it disappears behind a couple of kids on scooters.

I finally get Colin into my arms for a hug and he allows it, which I’m grateful for, as it eases the confusing jumble of emotions inside me. With one final squeeze, I step back and wipe my eyes. “I promise I won’t be this ridiculous all week.”

Colin laughs and we resume our walk. “What was that you said back there?”

I look at him to see if he’s making a joke. His face shows only mild curiosity. “To that woman? I said, ‘Excuse me.’”

He shakes his head. “No, you didn’t. You said something in Gaelic. It sounded like ‘Gavuhv moh leeshgul.’”

I can tell by his voice that he isn’t pulling my leg. “You must have heard me wrong, with all this road and train noise. All I said was ‘Excuse me.’”

He makes an exasperated sound in his throat. “I know what I heard, Mom.”

I don’t want to fight, so I say the only thing I can think of to smooth things over. “Well, then, I must have heard it somewhere. Or maybe Dad taught me the words and they’ve been floating around in my subconscious ever since.” My deceased husband, Adam, had taken a few Scottish Gaelic language classes, and so it’s plausible I’d picked it up from him years ago. Although, why I’d drag it out now is beyond me.

The mystery is soon forgotten as we buy our train tickets, have lunch, and make our way to the University of Glasgow for his meeting.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in and wait for you?” The building gives me gothic vibes with its multicolored stones in shades from black to beige and numerous arched and mullioned windows. I imagine shadows moving behind the glass.

“No, Mom. I’ve got this.” Colin grasps the strap of the bright-blue backpack hanging from one shoulder. “I expect my meeting to take an hour or so. Why don’t you go to the museum or something and I’ll call you when I’m done?”

He’s so eager to start his new life here that I think he would be fine if I flew home to Portland right now. “Okay, but text or call if you need me, and I’ll come right back.”

Colin lifts the cell phone we bought yesterday and checks the time. “I’ve got to go or I’ll be late.” He starts walking backward away from me. “Have fun exploring!”

I watch him disappear into the old building, and I feel the same as I did the day he started kindergarten. The space around me feels too empty, too quiet. I hate it.

I shake my head and turn back to the main road heading toward the Kelvingrove Museum, which we’d passed on the way here. I don’t know what kinds of exhibits the museum holds, but it’s as good a way to kill the time as any. Plus, it will keep my mind off Colin’s new university life, or my nerves for the coming week.

We are about to set off on a journey that Colin had planned to do with his dad, but then, ten months ago, Adam died, and I had, in a moment of insanity, offered to take my husband’s place. I have no idea why I thought I was capable of walking nearly a hundred miles across the Scottish countryside, but in those weeks after Adam’s death, when Colin had been utterly gutted from the loss, I didn’t want him to also lose the hike that he and his dad had spent years planning and dreaming about. So I’d offered to join him. We start tomorrow morning, walking the West Highland Way from the Glasgow suburb of Milngavie northward. In seven days, we’ll arrive in Fort William, where we’ll hop on a train to return to Glasgow.

I might be dreading the hike, but it’s what comes afterward that I dread the most—when I will hug my boy goodbye and then leave him here. How the hell am I going to get through that if I’m already struggling to be parted from him as he meets with his adviser?

A black-and-white bird with a long tail hops across the paved walkway in front of me; its sudden appearance pulls me from my depressing thoughts. Just ahead I see the massive red sandstone building that is the Kelvingrove Museum, and I make my way inside.

I wander through the varied exhibits on the first floor, then climb the stairs to the second, where I turn into a room that seems to be devoted to Scottish paintings. Several landscapes are displayed on one wall, each looking moody and using a preponderance of brown and gray. I hope the actual Scottish landscape where we’ll be hiking in the coming days will be a little greener.

When I see a large painting showing a group of dejected-looking people standing around an old man on a white horse, I stop to inspect it. Both the man and the horse are downcast, their heads lowered and shoulders slumped. A girl standing beside the man has her face buried in her hands as though she’s crying. Several of the others have their hands pressed to their chests in obvious sorrow and pain. Their emotions match my own today.

Intrigued, I step closer to the information card on the wall beside the painting and read the title: THE LAST OF THE CLAN, 1865. The artist is Thomas Faed. The card goes on to explain that the painting depicts a family that is homeless and destitute, saying goodbye to family members departing overseas, after being forcibly evicted as part of the Highland Clearances. I snap a photo to show Colin later. He’ll be studying history at the university, and I know he’ll like this painting.

I move on to the next canvas and am struck by a sudden punch of desperation. The woman in the painting—brown hair streaked with silver peeking out from under a white cap that is tied under her chin, a brown-and-green wool blanket around her shoulders—is looking straight at me as though she’s about to step from the painting. Behind her, a building is on fire. Flames leap from the thatched roof high into the sky. To the sides of the small cottage, other homes are also on fire and people are racing about, pulling animals and children away from the flames, dragging heavy chests to safety, kneeling in the dirt, crying. But the woman. The woman captivates me entirely. She’s not moving. Her shoulders are drooped; her hands hang limp and empty at her sides. Unlike the dejected Highlanders in the last painting, this woman has her chin lifted as though readying for a fight. And yet the emotion pouring from her is of pain and loneliness. And total claw-at-your-throat desperation.

I can’t look away.

A voice speaking from right beside me makes me jump. “Sorcha Chisholm: Mother, Widow, Innocent.”

I turn to see a twentysomething man reading the information card posted on the wall. When he sees me looking at him, he smiles wide and points to the card. “That’s the name of this painting. Sorcha Chisholm: Mother, Widow, Innocent.” The way the Scot says her name, it sounds like sorduhkuh. He squints back at the canvas. “Do you think she started the fires?”

I look again at the woman and shake my head. “No, definitely not. She’s too sad to be the one who started it.”

“Then what is she innocent of?”

I stare at Sorcha Chisholm’s face. Her gray eyes, though full of emotion, don’t reveal any information. I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Well, whatever it is, whoever she is, this painting is fabulous.” The young man wanders away, and I stay for a moment longer, trying to discern the woman’s secrets.

A text notification buzzes, and I grab my phone from my pocket. It’s Colin, ready to meet me. I quickly reply and then, before I head to the exit, I snap a photo of the painting to show him.

An hour later, I’ve forgotten all about the painting as I follow Colin on a self-guided tour of the city’s murals. The incredibly detailed one of Saint Mungo may be the most famous, but I love the one titled Fellow Glasgow Residents the best. It depicts a multitude of animals and a pair of feet wearing hiking boots—the perfect emblem for our coming hike.

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