Thomas Stevenson jerked awake to find himself swaying in the saddle. The horse’s steady plod and the coal black darkness had sent him to sleep. He stretched his back and shifted his legs to bring back some feeling to his muscles. Mrs. MacKenzie had sent him a letter, carried by a sea captain traveling to Edinburgh. She wrote that Louis was recovered from the fever, but she was keen that he should stay with her until November. She gave no reason for this request. Thomas though was eager to see Louis again. So he had scrawled a reply saying that he would come sooner, hoping that it would reach her in time. The men had urged him not to travel on such a dangerous night, but he had laughed at them. “Tam O’Shanter is only a story. I won’t meet any witches.” How could sensible men believe in such superstitious nonsense? He peered ahead in the darkness. It couldn’t be far now.
Suddenly, the horse stopped and whinnied. Despite himself he felt his heart lurch. He could see flames slashing across the sky ahead and hear a clamour of voices. Was the widow’s house on fire? He thumped his heels into the beast’s sides, urging him into a reluctant canter. As he drew closer he realized that there was no emergency. The flames came from a bonfire down on the shore and the shouts were of merriment, not distress.
As he slowed the foam-flecked horse down to a walk he could see figures, running and whooping, silhouetted against the fire. As he got closer, one of them turned toward him. He gulped as he saw the horned skull with its black pits for eyes. Was the Devil himself abroad? He resisted his urge to turn and gallop away. His hand fumbled for the Bible he kept in his coat pocket. He forced himself to stay still and look more closely at the shrieking creatures who seemed unaware of his presence. They were all dressed in outlandish garb, festooned with leaves, heather, and seaweed. In their hands were turnip lanterns. They swung as they walked so that the grinning faces spouted flames. How foolish he was to be scared. It was only a group of half-witted revellers acting like pagans. He prodded the horse forward into a trot. A small figure ahead of him turned at the sound of their approach and let out a piercing scream like a hare caught in a trap. Thomas hauled on the reins. The trembling beast halted and he flung himself from the saddle.
“What on earth is going on?” He seized the figure by the shoulders. The screams were turning into violent coughing. Thomas lifted off the skull mask and started to rub the child’s bent back. He looked up and both of them gasped.
“Louis! What are you doing?”
“Papa, I thought you were the bogey man on the horse.” Tears coursed down his face.
Thomas bent down and dabbed his son’s cheeks with a crumpled handkerchief. “Come on now, have a good blow. No wonder you were beside yourself, running around wailing like a savage.” He took the boy’s hand and looked toward the house.
“Is Mistress MacKenzie inside?”
“Aye, Papa but don’t be angry with her.”
Thomas strode to the house, towing his son behind him. He thumped on the door and the mistress of the house herself answered it. She stared at him as if he were an apparition, but then recovered herself enough to speak.
“Welcome to my home, sir. May I offer you refreshment after your journey?”
“No thank you, but I would like to speak to you privately.” His voice was chilly.
“Come this way then. I believe most of our guests are still outside. So we won’t be disturbed.” She turned to take Louis’s hand, “You come in too, isean, and sit down until you’ve stopped coughing.”
“No, I don’t want the boy to listen to what I have to say.”
Janet raised her eyebrows but spoke calmly, “Very well. Off you go to the kitchen and find Effie,” she said, smiling at Louis’s anxious, upturned face.
The child shuffled out and Janet ushered Thomas into the room where the lamp still stood guard lighting the window. She settled herself in a seat. Thomas pushed the door shut before sinking down heavily on the settle.
“What’s the meaning of this abomination? Is this how you corrupt my child?”
“We were celebrating Halloween as we always do. But we’re all God-fearing Christians like yourself.” Her voice was steady. “As for Louis, he has thrived here, both in body and soul.”
“How could he thrive? Wearing a devil’s mask when he should be reading the Good Book?”
“I cannot believe before God that I have caused him any harm. I took him to church when he was well enough. We said our prayers together every night and he was beginning to understand my Gaelic Bible.” Her eyes gleamed fiercely. As they glared at each other in silence there was the sound of wheezing outside the door.
“Is that Louis? We’ll see what he has to say for himself.” Thomas rose to his feet and flung the door open. The two youngsters huddled together, white faced in the doorway.
“He ran away from me,” Effie whispered in her cautious English.
“Leave us,” Thomas ordered her, as he pulled Louis into the room.
The boy’s dark eyes were spilling with tears as his gaze flickered between his father’s frown and Janet’s slight smile.
His father held him at arm’s length. “What have you been doing these past weeks, apart from dressing up in heathen garb?”
“I’ve heard lots of stories about Finn McCoul and Bonnie Prince Charlie. I’ve helped Effie and played by the shore.” His voice quivered.
“You’ve not been to see how the lighthouse is progressing then?”
Louis hung his head and swallowed a sob, unable to speak.
“If you remember from my letter, he took some time to recover from the fever. I wanted him to gain strength and enjoy himself a little before he returned to Edinburgh.”
“But his head has become stuffed with nonsense.”
Thomas let go of his grip on Louis’s sleeve. The boy stumbled. “Sit down before you fall down,” his father sighed in exasperation. Turning to Janet he spoke through clenched teeth. “The boy certainly looks sturdier now but I’m disappointed that you pandered to his whims. He’s old enough now to put away childish imaginings.”
“He’s not yet eight years old. Surely he has plenty of time to apply himself to a profession.” Janet’s tone was light, but Thomas glowered in response.
“It’s almost my birthday, Papa. May I stay here for it?” the boy begged.
Thomas raised a heavy hand to silence his plea. “No. You will spend it with your family in Edinburgh. You’ve been away far too long.”
Louis bit his lips. “I don’t want to be an engineer like you. I want to write stories.”
Thomas hissed.
“I remember how hard I tried to stop my older boy from getting a fishing boat. I was terrified. I pleaded and when that failed I threatened that I wouldn’t speak to him anymore. To no avail. I was mistaken, of course, because it was the oil from his fish that kept the light going. We have a Gaelic proverb, ‘Mas dubh, mas odhar, mas donn, is toil leis a’ghohbais a mean.’ It means, ‘A nanny goat loves her kid, whether he’s black, dun or brown.’”
“I’ve no time for riddles. I thank you for your care of Louis. The island air has suited him. It’s late now, well past his bedtime. If I may, I’ll share my son’s room for what remains of the night. We’ll depart early tomorrow. The horse can carry us both. I wish you, good night.”
Janet arose at sunrise. She had allowed herself to hope that Louis would still be with her for his eighth birthday in November. Then she could be sure that he would live to grow up. He would outlive his shadow who never reached eight years and never outgrew his brown tweed breeks. But she was determined to bid farewell to Louis. The child came and smiled shyly at her. The dark shadows under his eyes made her long to embrace him but he stayed just out of reach. He held out his bird bone hand to shake hers and his voice was a subdued cheep. “I thank you for taking care of me and hope I wasn’t too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all. May God bless you.” She held her composure while she waved them farewell, Louis craning back from the saddle where he sat in front of his father. She stayed until she could no longer see them. Then she slipped into the boy’s room and pressed her aching face to the bedclothes to catch the downy child smell of him. She felt something crinkle beneath her cheek and found a tightly folded piece of paper. She opened it to find some words written in a child’s loopy, shaky script:
“This is for your boy, the one who wore the rough trousers.
Here he lies
Where he longed to be
Home is the sailor
Home from the sea.”
She cradled the scrap of paper in her hands while her pent-up tears roared down the hillside, swooping across the shore until they plunged into the depths of the ocean.