Lerwick! John was going to Lerwick! A full day's walk on the other side of the island, the busiest port in Shetland. Crowded with ships from around the world, thieves, pickpockets, and a maze of streets and shops me mind could hardly fathom. Being only a short journey across the North Sea from Rotterdam and Bergen, it had, for as long as anyone could remember, been a stopover on the way to the rich fishing grounds of Greenland and Iceland. It was the home of Sheriff Nicolson. And of the island's prison, with its high stone walls overlooking the harbor. And the home of Wallace Marwick, whose empire of shipbuilders, coopers, chandlers, and seamen was a sight to behold.
The sounds of Skeld faded quickly as I raced past several crofts on the outskirts of the village of Reawick and then north. As I anxiously glanced over me shoulder for signs of Knut Blackbeard, I didn't notice that nearly all the sloops and smacks were sitting empty in the waves. And as I walked, me mind drifted to last September.
It had been an entire month with no smuggling. "Knut and I are off to meet with Mr. Marwick," Daa had announced. "Private meetin'."
"Then you'll be needin' me to carry your kishie," John said hopefully. And since the hull of Gutcher's fourareen was leaking and there was no money to repair it, they set out on foot.
For years John had begged to see Lerwick for himself, which is why Daa and Knut agreed to take him along. It was from his stories of that journey that I first learned of the place.
"There are rows and rows of real houses-some two and three stories tall!" he explained when he returned several days later, his rivlins worn clear to his socks. "With corners so square you could cut yourself on the edge and slate roofs the color of the sky!"
He described beautifully carved doors, and streets where the homes were set so close together you could see your neighbor through the window next door.
"And the people! Some with skin as dark as night, and many so well fed they had belts as long as the reins on a harness. All speaking different languages-I couldna' understand a word!" He told of mariners filled with fire whiskey, carousing in the streets at night. Of people bustling from shop to shop during the day buying everything imaginable. "Cakes, cheese, bread, books-even ready-made jackets and breeks! Why, you could buy jars of red and green paint!" His description of the lasses were hardest to believe. "No sallow faces or rough, worn hands-all plump, rosy-cheeked, and full of laughter and smiles," he said, confessing that, when it was time for him to take a wife, it was there he would return.
But it was the tale of the shipwrecked American spy that most piqued me interest. How he'd been blown off course to an island just beyond the harbor during the war with the rebellious American Colonists, a trunk of gold ducats aboard his ship.
"It's been nearly sixty years," I said. "Surely someone's found the treasure."
"Don't think they haven't tried," John said, eyes gleaming as he looked off into the distance. "Daa knows of a man who's been digging for it nearly all his life."
As I staggered along, me empty stomach churned and me head began to grow dizzy. Fill up with water, I remembered Midder urging in those dark times when there had been no more food. It will ease the hunger. But as I veered from the path in search of a spring, a familiar voice made me nearly jump out of me skin.
"Peace be with thee, Christopher Robertson."
There, slumped awkwardly on a rock by the path, was the Reverend Frederick Sill, the minister of our parish and a man despised by me family more than nearly any other on the island.
"You're a long way from Culswick, are you not?" His crackling voice boomed so loudly I stood frozen in place.
He was Shetland born, the son of a powerful Lerwick minister, and had been educated in Edinburgh and had taken over our parish at the request of the Earl of Cummingsburgh himself. For nearly fifty years he had led with an iron fist, preaching sermons each week that droned on and on for three hours a sitting, sometimes even longer.
According to Gutcher, the reverend had at one time been a man of great stature, but for as long as I'd been alive his ancient body seemed as weathered and crooked as the driftwood stauf he grasped. His skin was gray and lifeless, as if it hadn't seen much sun of late, and the white around his green eyes was bloodshot with a yellow tinge and deeply set under lids of flaking, wrinkled skin. Wild strands of hair crawled from his nostrils and rough, scaly ears, and his hair and beard were pure white except for the yellow pipe stains above and below his lips.
He groaned as he stood and then steadied himself on his stauf. "Should you not be back with your Godless family tending to the destruction from the Lord Almighty's fierce gale?"
Panicked, I attempted to dart back to the path, only to feel his clawlike fingers grab fast to me arm. As leader of the Kirk, Reverend Sill was also the person responsible for what he called "all matters of morality and discipline."
"It is no secret your father's views of the Kirk," he said, pulling me back toward a tall, woven reed basket we Shetlanders call a "kishie," which sat beside him. "Prefers the mighty bishops of the Church of England to any lowly gathering of the Presbytery, does he not? And yet he is regularly in attendance at services."
Me face grew hot as I tried to pull meself free.
"Aye-me Midder saw to it." And she had, knowing as we all did that in times of desperation the Kirk was the only source of charity.
"Hmmph," he grunted. "You would serve your Daa well to remind him that it is not Queen Victoria and her ways that we, the polluted worms of this earth, are to worship. Men are not as beasts! And when life as we know it comes to an end, it is the saints who will be taken from the sinners!"
I glared at him, unable to hold me tongue, remembering the shame and humiliation he had already cast upon me family.
"Me Midder was a Godly woman. Of that there is no doubt."
"She disgraced the parish!" His faced turned crimson as he slowly enunciated each word.
I clenched me teeth, recalling the anguish in her kind, beautiful face as she stood, doing penance, before the parish each Sunday for four months, our neighbors' unforgiving eyes tearing her reputation to shreds. An ancient punishment the likes of which no islander outside our parish had been asked to endure in decades. But so convinced was Reverend Sill that the Devil was lurking in our midst that he saw to it no curse went without the severest of punishments.
"Mrs. Peterson is a meddler and a gossip," I blurted, the memory of that day two years before flooding back to me.
Reverend Sill raised an eyebrow, cocking his head ever so slightly to the right. "Perhaps. Nevertheless, for your Midder to curse her was Satan's work. The charge of blasphemy could not-would not-go without punishment. On this I have always been clear."
I dropped me eyes, recalling how Midder lost her temper when Mrs. Peterson came nosing about, catching her planting on the Sabbath. How she knew she was late in sowing the cabbages, having spent the week weaving cloth to help cover the rent. Time was running out and she hadn't dared wait.
"I see what you're up to," Mrs. Peterson had shouted, strutting down the path.
Me Midder, she was a patient woman-as patient as any I'd known. But that day she didn't hold back.
"May the Devil take your meddlin' soul from our croft!" she cried.
And that was all Agnes Peterson needed to hear.
By sundown she'd reported Midder to Reverend Sill, with the punishment for blasphemy and breaking the Sabbath set by morning.
"She was protecting me family," I said, pulling free me arm and starting back to the path. "Seeing to it we had enough to eat! There's nothing un-Godly about that."
He stared at me and shook his head. "Your temper gets the better of you, Christopher Robertson. Now, before you take your leave, I'll need to know where it is you are going."
I hesitated, turning to catch his eye and wondering which would send me first to the land of Satan-lying to Reverend Sill or killing Mr. Peterson's ewe. "To Lerwick," I muttered, knowing full well I could outrun him if he came after me. "On an errand for the family."
The ancient man cocked his head, making a strange clicking noise with his tongue as he pondered me answer. "Most go by boat, round the heads," he said, referring to Fitful Head and Sumburgh Head, the southern points of the island. Then he rubbed his shoulders as he studied me through the thick white eyebrows that climbed wildly in all directions and snagged his eyelashes when he blinked. "They say it's fastest."
"Aye." I nodded, thinking quickly. "But me Gutcher's fourareen's in need of repair. So they've sent me by land."
He paused a moment, then cleared his throat again. "I, too, am headed to Lerwick."
"Surely you are not traveling all that way by land?"
"Ah, but the Lord leaves me no choice," he nearly shouted, face once again turning crimson. "Lad, have you not heard of my recent trip home from Edinburgh?"
"No, sir." I sighed, looking longingly back to the path and knowing full well his habit for long-winded responses. I was running out of time if I was ever to catch John before he boarded a ship for America, and by now Knut Blackbeard was surely on me trail.
The old man hammered his driftwood stauf into the ground. Then he stretched his arms wide to either side of his frail, cloaked frame, as I had seen him do so many times from the pulpit. "Just before Advent I crossed back from the Mainland, having, at eighty-four years of age, fulfilled my duties to the General Assembly of the Kirk in Edinburgh. Alas, the journey was on a ship full of sinful mariners and a captain whose language was so blasphemous that the Lord set about to teach them a lesson. We were but one day at sea when we were caught in crosswinds so wicked we were tossed about for three days, nearly to Foula Isle! I alone kneeled and prayed for redemption below deck, while four of those foul-languaged men were washed overboard! As the others grew close to despair and turned to me for solace, I reminded them that a man has no true loss until he loses his soul, and for that alone there is no reparation. That night God's will shook a rod over their heads and showed them his might!"
"Aye," I said, impatiently tapping me foot. Then I glanced nervously back down the path for signs of Knut. "You made it home. Soli Deo Gloria. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm a bit pressed for time." But as I turned back to the path, it was as if I hadn't spoken.
"Aye indeed!" Reverend Sill continued, his voice raised an octave, as if to emphasize the importance of what was to follow. "We anchored safely in Lerwick the very next day, Sola Fide! And when I touched land and kissed the beloved ground, I vowed never to step foot on another ship." Then he paused to massage his lower back and left buttock and glanced at his kishie. "I am expected in Lerwick by tomorrow for the monthly meeting of the Kirk elders. While I'm there, I intend to give charges of theft and blasphemy against Murdoch Bairnstrom, my patron Lord Cummingsburgh's agent. Instead of paying me his agreed-upon stipend, he has been seen in Lerwick spending the rents of his Lordship, carousing in the streets, and speaking foul language! This at a time when you, the pathetic sheep of a barren pasture, wait hungry in the fold!"
I laughed to meself that Reverend Sill, too, was in search of coins. "Doesn't the law require that Lord Cummingsburgh sees your stipend is paid?"
"Aye!" His eyes narrowed. "And it has been two years now I've been owed! Even a man as mighty as Lord Cummingsburgh need be warned-for it is the vengeance of Heaven that will not be avoided as one prepares for his unchangeable state."
Then he stopped suddenly, as if recovering from a trance. "Tell me, lad, have you had anything to eat of late?"
I hesitated, belly growling, me breeks hanging loosely at me hips, held up only by a piece of twine. "No, sir."
"Then you'll join me in breaking your fast."
I watched in amazement as he reached inside his kishie and produced an oval bentwood box, from which he pulled a loaf of bread and pouch of dried herring. "The good Mrs. Sill packed provisions for the journey, and you'll do me a favor by lightening this load."
I stared, dumbfounded. With me Daa's outspoken criticism of the Kirk and me Midder's past transgression, surely we Robertsons were a disgrace in his eyes. And yet, so hungry was I that when he handed me a chunk of bread and piece of dried herring, no amount of pride could keep me from accepting them.
Don't gobble like the swine and sheep, I told meself-me Midder's words coming back to me, and thoughts of John, for a moment, disappearing. I didn't think I could chew fast enough to get the food into the dark, empty parts of me body. But when I finished and looked over, Reverend Sill's eyes were closed, face tilted to the morning sun, his hands clasped tightly in prayer. And his food lay untouched on a cloth before him.
"May the Good Lord cast a warm light on this journey," he prayed, a wide smile pulling at the edges of his loose, wrinkled face. "For only He knows the limits of this tired, worn body, and the sacrifice I am willing to make to set things right."
Then he slowly leaned back against the rock, carefully chewing his bread and fish before taking a long swig from a small clay jug. "You'll not be wanting any of this to quench your thirst, lad," he said, grimacing as he swallowed. "There's a spring just over there."
I knelt down to the trickle bubbling up from a stone and drank the cool, refreshing water. Then, seeing him packing the remaining food and jug back into the kishie, I dashed to the path before he could start another lecture. "Best wishes for a safe journey," I called over me shoulder. "I thank you!"
But I was only a few strides on me way when I heard a moan so deep and pitiful I was sure his heart had given way.
Don't look back! Keep moving, I told meself, determined to not allow this one act of kindness to wipe away the memory of shame and humiliation in me Midder's eyes. But as the reverend's moans grew louder, it was me Gutcher's face that came to me-how he struggled each day, so plagued with the rheumatism, that it took both me and Catherine to pull him out of bed.
Don't think about that! I told meself. You've no time to help. Remember what he did to Midder! But when I stupidly glanced over me shoulder, the pathetic sight of such a frail man struggling to pull the kishie onto his back was more than I could bear.
"Wait, Reverend. I'll carry it." The words slipped out before I could bring meself to me senses.
He looked up, stunned at first, eyeing me skeptically. "Thank ye, lad. But it's beyond your ability, I'm afraid."
"I may be small, but me Gutcher tells me I'm the best in the family for carrying the peats."
But as I hoisted the kishie over me shoulders, I immediately regretted me boasting. How could bread, fish, and a jug of water possibly weigh so much? I staggered to get me balance and knew instantly it would be nearly impossible to catch up with John carrying a load such as this.
The moment Reverend Sill was satisfied that I wouldn't collapse, he opened his arms wide to the sky and leaned back his head. "The Lord has condescended to take mercy on me!" he proclaimed, the morning sun bathing his wrinkled face. "Providence has brought us together, and I am forever in your debt!"
"Aye," I muttered. It was too late to retract me offer.
His eyes watered as we set off, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the wicks of his chapped lips, as he urged me up the path. "For these past few months I have been suffering from the sciatica-a wrenching pain shooting from me buttocks down the side of me left leg. When I bear the weight of me kishie, it seizes me in such a violent manner I think of the evil souls frying in Hell and wonder if their pain for eternity can match the aching throb I have come to endure!"
I sighed, thinking of the entire day's journey in his company, the endless drone of his voice. But for the moment, at least, it kept me from the agony of thinking of John. "Is there nothing you can do? No herb or tonic?"
"I have tried it all, as you can imagine." He went on and on as we walked. "Lignum's Anti-Scorbutic Drops, Brodum's Restorative Nervous Cordial. Alas, none have shown the desired results. When I heard of a man-o'-war docked at Lerwick in January, I sent for its surgeon, hoping he might know of some new remedy or tonic that might help me in this pathetic state, but, alas, he knew only of severing limbs and treating the scurvy. Only Miss Bonnie Goudie, a young lass from Gruting, who often assists Mrs. Sill, is able to give temporary relief by clapping a hot bath of earth in the place affected. But it seems to rid me, at least temporarily, of the pain. And so, here I am-knowing only that it must please God to circumcise my carnal heart of things past for which I must repent."
I puzzled at how God might need to purify a man who preached the gospel and spent his life battling the wicked, whom people called the most Godly of us all. But as we crested the first of Shetland's many hills, it was as if Reverend Sill suddenly found a burst of new life. He quickly overtook me, setting a surprisingly energetic pace that, at times, I admit, was hard to keep up with. He peppered me with lectures on his battles for redemption, the curses of blasphemy, and Satan's increasing stranglehold on the island, as me thoughts strayed back to Culswick. To me fingers clamping down on that ewe. To John, and how I had trusted him. To how his smile and simple arm around me shoulder had made me feel I wasn't alone. Especially after William was lost to us. Especially when Midder was no more.
By noon we had already conquered the long stretch of water that Reverend Sill explained was Effirth Voe and were through the wee village of Tresta. And then it was around Weisdale Voe, that thin finger of sea cutting nearly four miles inland, its waters sparkling like jewels below us. It was already late afternoon when we ascended the treeless Cliff Hills beyond Tingwall and caught the first view of Dales Voe glistening in the sun.
But, alas, Reverend Sill's energy wasn't to last. The vast, steep terrain began to prove taxing, and as he slowed, what little hope I had had of catching John before nightfall quickly waned. When we ascended the massive Hill of Dale, where a herd of Shetland ponies grazed happily on the glorious heather with nary a cloud above, his steps grew careless and uneven. Then he stumbled to the ground several times, once cutting his chin, and another bruising his forearm. He looked over at me, relieved, when I finally suggested we rest.
I was leaning against a large outcropping of stone, massaging me chest, now rubbed raw from the kishie's braided rope straps, as he took another long swig from his jug. But when he tried to put the jug down he lost his grip, and a strange black liquid splattered on me rivlins.
"Solus Christus!" he cried, trying to right the jug before all was lost. "Only Satan would keep me from this tonic!"
I crinkled me nose. "What is it?" Then I dipped me finger into the foul-smelling stuff.
"Go ahead," he said, his voice breaking. "Taste it."
I hesitated at first, touching me finger to me tongue, and then spat violently. "You've been drinking this?"
"Every day since December 29."
"But why?"
"Tuts, lad! For the sciatica, of course! The late Bishop Barclay suggested such a potion in his remaining papers, which I am privileged to hold in my possession. Tar and water it is. And I ask you, lad, what else but Divine Providence could direct him to suggest such a mixture as this?"
"Tar?"
"Not just any tar! Norwegian tar!" He quickly cleared his throat. "And I must say, I have been feeling a slight improvement of late."
It was when I turned back to the path to hide me laughter that I nearly choked. There, in the distance, but no less than a half mile behind us, trudged the unmistakable hulking frame of Knut Blackbeard. And the moment I saw him, Reverend Sill saw him too.