Steve McAllister's Blog

I finally got going again.  What follows is what I wrote last night on the final part of the Mairi’s Battle story.  First draft.  The only editing was done during the transcribing and that was very little.  It’s certainly not done.  I suspect it will be no less than twice this length when complete.  I welcome all comments.

24 September 1882 

It had been raining for over two weeks.  Not quite constantly, but very nearly.  What was normally a thin line of silver tumbling down the brae was now a ragged and thick ribbon of white torrent.  A temporary river had formed from water spilling off the road.  It gathered strength on its way to the sea loch so that by the time it reached Mairi’s cottage it was too wide to leap across as it passed by the front door.  The cottage floor stones were constantly damp and the only way to adequately dry her clothes and the clothes of Niall and Ailean was to hang them near to the peat fire.  Mairi was certain the acrid aroma was now permanently embedded in their clothes.

Mairi had no time to wish and wait for better weather.  She still had the bairns to look after . . . to feed and keep healthy.  The coo needed to let out to graze, brought back to milk and the cream churned into butter.  The corn from the storage barrel needed to be ground and the early crops tended, then harvested and taken to the village to be sold so she could pay her rent.  The Laird’s factor would not care if it were raining or sunny when it came time to collect rent.  Besides, it rained enough that the dampness was more common than dryness.  For Mairi and all the crofters, the rain wasn’t an inconvenience or a hindrance.  It was, instead, a fact of life.  As inhaling is as much a part of breathing as exhaling, so rain was as much a part of island living as was sunny weather.

Ever since Peter and the others had been taken away, the crofters had pulled together to ensure those families left without husbands were not left to their own devices.  Mairi was no exception.  When Niall had taken ill with fever and wasn’t able to help with daily chores, nearby crofters showed up to do the work while Mairi nursed Niall back to health. 

A rather constant presence for a period was young Allen MacRae.  He first arrived when she was plowing a field.  Mairi noticed him when she had bent over at the waist to move a stone from the path of her plow.  As she struggled to move the stone while keeping the borrowed horse from walking off, she saw his feet to her side.  Mairi twisted her head slightly to look over her shoulder to see Allen staring at her, though not at her face.  Her initial though was to be perturbed at this wonton display of maleness, but quickly realized that there could be profit to be made from the situation.  She slowly stood from being bent at the waist and slightly turned so Allen could see her profile.  Still no letting on that she knew Allen was there, Mairi threw back her head and her arms as though stretching out a stiffness.  The action thrusted her chest forward increasing the curvature of her profile, and when she acted surprised that Allen was there and returned to a straight posture, she caught him now looking at the most obvious curves of her profile.

“Allen, is there something wrong, Lad?  Is there something ye need?”

Allen stammered as though suddenly woken from a daydream.  “Em . . . em, nay Miss.  Nothing.  I’ve . . . em . . . come to see if I can help ye.”

“Help me?  Well, that’s very Christian of ye, Lad.”  Pointing to the stone she’d been rolling, Mairi said, “If ye could put yer back into movin this stone . . .”  Mairi then smiled at Allen.  Soon the stone was entirely out of the field and Allen was behind the plow guiding the blade while Mairi guided the draft horse.

Allen would come nearly every day for the next month.  Then one day while she was handing him some sod to repair a leak in the cottage roof, he took her hand and wouldn’t let go until she forcefully withdrew from his grasp. 

“Allen, what are ye doin?”

Allen stared at Mairi with a look of surprise.

“Lad, if yer thinkin what it appears yer thinkin, I fear yer mistaken.  Did ye think I might be a wee bit lonely with me husband in jail?  Is that what yer thinkin?  Did ye think that because I’d no been to confession recently that I’m now full of sin?  Well, . . . if I made ye believe that there is any more here than a fail widow in need of a wee bit of help, then aye, I have sinned indeed, though tellin the priest and saying Hail Marys won’t change that.  If God is lookin at me now, then let this be my confession.  If he’s not, then I’m no certain why I’m confessing.  Do ye understand me, Lad?”

Allen did not reply, but was now looking away as though he was uncomfortable with the entire situation.

Mairi continued.  “And aye, I am lonely.  I’m lonely for me husband, not for a lad who awakes hard in the morn and thinks himself a man.  Peter is me husband.  The man I swore to God that I would stay with until I die.  And I intend to keep that promise.  Not for ye, Lad, yer a fine boy, Allen, but yer no Peter.  And it’s Peter I’m wantin.  So I think it’s time for ye to go home.”

After that Allen did not return unless it was with his father.

On this cool, rainy morning, Mairi watched as Niall and Ailean ate their porridge before all three went to harvest potatoes.  As she watched, someone rapped on the cottage door.  The the visitor said loudly, “Mairi, it’s Mackinnon.  Let me in, Lass.”

“Aye, come in, come in, Angus,” she said as she opened the door.

Angus ducked stepping through the door and stamped his feet causing a small rain shower where he stood.  He then removed his cap and slapped it against his woolen pants.  With his free hand, he ran his fingers through his hair matting its dampness to his scalp.

“It will be hard pushing a barrow full in this soft soil,” said Mackinnon.

“Aye, but the lads and I can manage.”

“Perhaps ye can.  Perhaps not.  That why the good Lord sent me to ye with me nag and cart.”  Angus opened the door and gestured toward a glistening, steaming old horse that gave all the appearance of being tired of life.  Behind it, fastened to a harness around the horse’s body, was a two-wheeled cart, black from being wet.

Mairi smiled and nodded to Angus.  “I dinna know if it was the Lord that sent ye, but ye and yer nag are a welcome sight on this day.  Can I get ye some porridge or tea?”

“Nay, nay.  Well . . . do ye have any uisghe?  I could put a wee bit in me tea to keep the chill away.”

“Och no,” said Mairi looking down.  “Not in this home, I dare say.”

Angus smiled and said, “Ah then, just a tea.”