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The Road Home
Siobhan had let her body go with the horse’s gait, relaxing into it, discovering this to be more comfortable than trying to remain independent of the movement of the great beast on which she sat. Her cheek tugged, for the sedate gelding she rode would be far from a great beast in her husband’s eyes.
It took the whole day to reach Perth. They passed gentle, green rolling hills, streaked with the grey-brown runnels carved by rainwater cascading down their sides. These alternated with fields, which ran along both sides of a bitumen road on their way through the Kingdom of Fife and along to Perthshire. Here and there, the road became dirt and rubble. The day’s steady rain, assisted by the action of their horses’ hooves, turned the disintegrated sections into mires.
So far, the journey was uneventful and maybe it would stay that way. The rain didn’t even bother her, it was constant but soft. Siobhan adjusted her oiled skin raincoat and recalled the journey to Loch Ewe and back. Now that trip had been scary. She stared at Rory’s back; his coat was rain-drenched and trickles of water dripped from his hat and down his back.
These were their first nights together as man and wife, but they were no honeymoon. She gave a quiet chuckle. Nights around a campfire and sleeping under the stars were romantic, but with a group, not conducive to an audience-free love making session.
Rory turned in the saddle, smile-lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes, as if he were reading her thoughts.
“You want the reins?” he asked.
“Ah, maybe tomorrow?”
Rory grinned, his dimples puckering, then he faced forward again, riding slightly in front of her with Micah the other side of him.
“Autumn’s harvest is over,” Micah said as they passed brown fields with rows of straw tufts left from a grain crop.
“Aye, need to get on with plantings for the winter.” Rory pointed to the cloud cover that drizzled on them. “The weather’s tellin’ me it’ll be a hard one. Not really what we need after ruined summer harvests thanks to being confined to barracks.”
“The road is washed out up ahead,” Micah said when they neared a section that was a muddy bog.
“We’ll divert around it.” Rory led them off the road and into nearby meadow. “Had to do the same on the way down.”
Siobhan listened quietly to them. She’d seen it before—men trying each other out through conversation. Micah seemed okay. They would eventually be related, so Rory must have eventually judged him as genuine, and Micah must have passed all the tests Rory would throw at him.
“Can I ask how you ken about crops and such, being a bandit and all?” Rory kept his gaze far and wide.
“I grew up in the holiday village with my mum,” Micah answered. “I helped in the fields until I was twenty and still go back now and then to help with the harvests, like.”
“Why d’you leave?” Rory asked.
Micah’s shoulders slumped a little, and he hung his head for a second. “Let’s just say Max wasn’t happy with me there.”
“Why?” There was an honest curiosity in Rory’s question.
“He...doesn’t like me.” Micah’s head twitched. “He thought I’d want to claim a position in ma’ father’s business—our father’s business. Maxwell made my life hell after my mum died. I just left. I could nae be—” he covered his mouth and let out an expletive, flicking a glance over to Siobhan. “It was all such shite and I could nae be bothered with it. I dinnae want any part o’ that.”
“So, you went banditing?”
“No, I went travelling, doin’ odd jobs here and there, for my food and lodgings. But as I travelled further north, there were fewer jobs. I met up with some guys who’d been poachin’.”
They rode for a mile or so without conversation; more meadows were brown, emptied of their crops, and they shone with the rain’s moisture. Siobhan pulled the hood of her coat tighter around her against the chill on her neck.
“I’d never do what my dad’s done,” Micah said to Rory, who still scanned either side of the road. “I’m not the evil bastard he can be.”
Rory turned a narrow stare on Micah. “I ken what you mean. I’ve had a taste of your father’s meanness. He was civil to me today. Probably because of Siobhan, and him wanting to find out all he could about what was in the Bunker, an’ all.”
“But he’s still ma dad.” Micah’s voice tinged with emotion, then he looked over at Siobhan. “You handled him well. You weren’t givin’ anything away. He wasn’t pleased, but he wants to get in the good books with the Scottish Government, so he behaved himself.” He finished with a laugh and a knowing expression.
They rode into Perth and arrived at a wide green, edged by trees on the banks of the River Tay—the South Inch. Small camps dotted it here and there. Shack-like structures made of wood and others of more permanent materials, leaned against trees or remnants of old buildings, or each other. People camped in tents while other travellers were making temporary shelters to cover themselves from the rain.
Rory chose a camping place, and he and Xian strung a tarp between two trees. They settled their animals while Micah’s people collected wood and clean rubbish, and when the rain eased, they lit a fire. They ate a meal of baked beans and a type of bannock, which Micah had made for them over the coals. Rory set out a bedroll under the tarp and gestured for Siobhan to sit. Gentle rain had started again, and Rory gave a tarp and some rope to Micah’s crew to sling between trees on the opposite side of the fire. When the tarp was up, Micah stretched out under their shelter, leaning on his elbow.
Rory sat beside Siobhan, his face reflecting the lambent light. The fire cracked and sparks popped into the night sky. Siobhan leaned out from under the canvas tarp. The clouds patched over a twinkling sky while sparks from the fire flew heavenward to join them. Siobhan sighed.
“Aye,” Rory whispered. “A place to be, not just exist. I dinnae ken how you could live down there for so long. Can you no feel the fresh air?” He took a deep breath in.
She followed his lead. The cool air held a scent of pine—also human body odour, and a reek of rot and sour milk, which wafted over from the nearby rubbish heap. She crinkled her nose.
“Aye, well.” Rory tilted his head in the direction of the rubbish. “Wait till we get out o’ a city.”
***
THE WARMTH OF RORY’S arm around her waist, and his lips against her cheek, woke Siobhan. The sun’s early morning glow touched the rain-soaked trees of the forest that covered Kinnoull Hill behind their camp. On the South Inch, raindrops glimmered on nearby branches to welcome a new day with prisms of fractured light.
“I’m sorry, Siobhan. This should be our honeymoon, but it is nae much o’ one.”
“You’re correct there, Rory Campbell. You owe me.” She returned his kiss, his stubble tickling her lips.
They packed up camp and left Perth following what remained of the A9. Rory spent the morning giving her riding lessons, and by lunchtime she took the reins with confidence.
Siobhan reflected on Rory in the future. He hadn’t laughed. He’d cried his brokenness into her arms. His loss still so great and raw after three years without her. Her throat tightened. Rory had lost his parents five years ago, when his mother died of cancer and his father time travelled to the past to be with her. But Rory had time travelled to be with them less than a year ago, if Siobhan was recalling correctly, and would have seen his mother alive, but as a young woman. And witnessed his father’s death.
Keeping track of those timelines could mess with your head.
So many losses in such a short time. No wonder Rory had been in such a state after she had died. He hadn’t had time to work through any of those griefs when responsibility had forced him to take up his role and act on it.
She needed to help him work through his grief now so that when—if—she died, he’d cope with it better and be able to make rational decisions. Even avoid those choices that he’d believed had led him down the path of being in-debt to Lloyd.
“I’m aiming for the Community near Loch Tummel, Siobhan.” Rory twisted in the saddle. “It’s in an old castle. We may get to sleep in a bed tonight. What do you think?”
Siobhan’s buttocks were sore from another day in the saddle, and there was an ache in her back from a night on the ground. She nodded, the prospect of a night to themselves brought a warmth to her middle.
“You want to be at Tummel House by sundown?” Xian intruded on her thoughts. “We’d better move.”
Rory leaned over and took her reins back, then they kicked their horses to a fast trot.
“Just keep those thighs tight. Dinnae want you falling off,” he said with a half grin.
The rest of the day passed by in a jolting blur. Thick, leafy forests, coloured with autumn’s gold and red, grew closer to the narrowing path as the day wore on and the sun soon began its slide to the horizon. Cold seeped out from between the trees when dusk arrived. The drystone walls lining the road added no warmth to Siobhan’s bones, while the road narrowed to a track in various shades of grey in the gathering dark.
“Not far now, Siobhan.” Rory got a wind-up torch from his saddlebag and lit the path a little.
Birds settling for the night filled their way with their constant chatter. Siobhan recalled this from their camping journey to Loch Ewe. It happened of a sunrise too. Or even before, when an optimistic bird sang its hope of a new day even before the sun had begun its way above the horizon. Siobhan’s fingertips tingled holding the reins. Now all these things would be a daily occurrence for her. No more hustle and bustle of the Bunker’s occupants performing their daily duties the only sign it would be daylight up top, or the predetermined lights-out with the hum of the fans sucking air deep into the bunker to signify it was night.
As the night deepened, the birds ceased their chirps, but another sound floated its way through the forest and along the road, gaining in volume as they travelled on.
“Is that...is that...?” she cocked her head, straining her hearing.
“Aye. It is,” Rory replied.
“Bagpipes! And the music of a cèilidh.” Micah laughed. “We’re goin’ to a party.”
“But we’re not invited,” Siobhan said.
The music increased in intensity while they drew closer to its source, and light from the near distance flickered through the foliage.
The clump of horses’ hooves came out of the forest’s edge.
“Halt!” A young man pulled up his large horse in front of them, accompanied by two other men on horseback. “Who are you?” His companions shouldered their rifles, only shadows in the now-dark night.
“Rory Campbell and companions seeking travellers’ rights this night, my friend.” Rory shone his torch near his own face. “We’re from the Invercharing Community having travelled from Perth today. May we seek shelter at Tummel House Community tonight, please?”
“Rory Campbell? Caitlin Murray-Campbell’s son?”
“The one and the same.”
“Och, come with us.” The young men lowered their rifles and turned their animals, indicating they were to accompany them.
Hooves clattered behind Siobhan as Micah’s companions followed and the men led them along the dimly lit road. Turning a bend in the narrow road, the light that had flickered through the trees became blocks of light. The wall surrounding the castle loomed before them, dark grey in the night, the top windows of the triple-storey building peeping their brightness above it. The group passed through the gate and halted in oblongs of light streaming from the windows and doors of the lower floors. Music poured out and surrounded them with a drum beat and a jaunty bagpipe tune. They dismounted and stood around a lit brazier, their would-be hosts peering closely at each one in turn.
“This is my wife, Siobhan.” Rory linked his arm in hers and then introduced the others.
A man walked out of the large double-fronted door through the blare of music, his kilt swinging with each step. The heavy wooden door remained open, giving Siobhan a glimpse of a hall-like room, bare floorboards, and lots of people with a definite festive air.
“Mr Donaldson, sir, this is Rory Campbell,” the young lookout said. “Claims he’s Caitlin Murray-Campbell’s son from the Invercharing Community up north, sir.”
In the brazier’s light, shadows flickered across the wrinkled face of the kilted man, revealing an age his gait defied. His glasses flashed in the firelight.
“Och, ye have the look of Scott Campbell about ye. There’s nae denying who fathered you, young man. Welcome.” Mr Donaldson extended his hand.
Rory grasped it and returned the vigorous handshake. He introduced the rest of his crew.
“Ye have come at a grand time, for our daughter is wedded today and we are celebrating this night with a cèilidh.” Mr Donaldson beamed. “Ye are most welcome to join the celebrations after you have recovered from the road.” He turned his gaze onto Siobhan. “Mrs Campbell, ye look a wee bitty travel worn, if I’m no’ rude in saying so.”
“Aye, Siobhan is tired, Mr Donaldson, and I am a poor husband, for I’ve dragged my wife many a mile this day when we should be on our honeymoon.” Rory gave an embarrassed laugh. “She’ll have to wait—”
“Honeymoon? Och, no!” Mr Donaldson turned to the doorway and shouted to a lad standing nearby.
“Aye, sir?” The teenager also wore a kilt, as did all the men.
“Go tell ma missus we have guests and to get the best suite ready for them.”
“Sir? But the young now-Mrs Gillis and her man will be—”
“Och, no, lad. Not that one! The next best one, aye?”
“Aye, sir.” The teenager ran back into the festivities.
“Mr Donaldson, we couldn’t—” Siobhan began.
“Och, now ye could, and ye are, and a hot bath will be awaitin’ you.” Mr Donaldson flourished a hand and then directed her in through the wide-open doors of the castle.