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The two men headed up the hill to the road, then southeast to the ferry. A pleasant grey light had crept over the hills, and it was easy walking that warmed them with the effort. They tramped over dark purple heath and green sedge grass. They hopped over little chasms carved by winter streams. They passed neighbors’ houses, members of their kirk, but most were not looking out the small high windows, and did not see them pass. People were breaking their fast and looking inward, not out.
Mid-afternoon, their path brought them to a high point from which they could see north to Skye. Gillan pointed to the black crags, visible from Mull as a shady crooked line with a deep v-notch. “The Cuillins, Neil. It’s a different view from here, but they’re the same.”
Neil looked where he pointed but did not recognize the mountains. Dark shapes with crags at the top were shady and far-off, separated by water and the small isles in between. From Dalcriadh, their home, they could see Ben Mor, the largest mountain on the island. From this side of Mull, he saw Loch Ba for the first time, where their minister lived, and Sgurr Dearg, the reddish hill marked by dangerous scree. The Cuillins across the water looked wild and foreign.
Starting down the green hills littered with wildflowers, Neil realized he hadn’t seen much of his own island. He knew most of the Treshnish, but that was only the northwestern sea-end. He’d seen maps: there were great big mountains and high-up lochs he’d never explored.
He made a promise to himself that when he came back to the island, he would visit the four corners of it, so that it would truly be his.
His hands skimmed the rose bay willow herb as he jogged down after his stepfather, who kept his hands at his sides. Gillan was looking down to where the barge stood waiting. A few passengers were forming a queue, so it was to leave soon. “Hurry up, lad, we may just make it!”
With that, they scampered down, hoping the ship captain would see them and wait a few minutes. It took a quarter of an hour before they were standing at the ticket gate, panting a little, but proud of themselves. The ticket seller asked if they needed the return. They nodded yes. He took the few coins from Gillan, then handed them their tickets. They walked over the gangplank, and as soon as they reached the boat, a man hoisted it up after them.
“You see,” Gillan said, “they waited for us to sail. It’s a good sign.”
Neil nodded, but kept his opinion to himself.
––––––––
Another hour, and the barge was nearing the harbor of Oban. Neil and Gillan had stayed out on the deck the whole time, their packs on their back. Gillan had kept their return tickets for safekeeping. All in all, it was looking like an auspicious day.
They munched on a late breakfast of bread and cheese as the barge docked and let down the gangplank. Gillan hung back, and Neil was curious to see why. They watched as other passengers exited the covered portion of the ferry, Gillan with his eyes narrowed at each one. There were only perhaps two dozen others on the small boat with them, and when they had passed, Gillan muttered something, spat, and cocked his head at Neil to disembark.
What was that all about? thought Neil uneasily. Who was he looking for?
Whatever it was, he would have to hold his peace, for Gillan stepped through the main town of Oban in no time, and they were on the open road through more green hills again. Gillan whistled a few tunes, but Neil stayed mostly silent through the day. When the sun dipped past the horizon, Neil wondered when they would stop for supper, and where. He’d only seen a few cottages in the last hour of walking, and no smoke, a very strange sight. He wondered if anyone lived in them at all, or whether they had all been evicted as well.
Just as his stomach was beginning to rumble, a cottage came into view off the road, nestled up against a small rise in the land. Smoke wound out of a hole in the roof, and Neil’s spirits lifted. Perhaps there would be a chance for some stories and exchange of news with the crofters.
“Could we not stop to ask for some supper here, Father? It is still the highlands.” He looked hopefully over at him.
“Aye, I was thinking the same thing. I shall go and knock.”
An answer came immediately, as apparently they had been sighted coming up along the road. A little woman opened the door to let them in. She was Mrs. Munro, a widow with four children all grown and left. She stayed here in case any came back, but would perhaps soon be leaving too. And what was their business?
“We are on our way to Glasgow to see my sister. She says they may have good work in a cotton mill there, and my family on Mull may have to be moving on,” Gillan said, not sure whether he should broach the subject of evictions with their hostess.
“Oh, evicted, as sure as not, don’t you know, everybody is getting theirs sooner or later. It’s just terrible. As if the lairds had any better duty than protecting their people, now the King and Prince are gone.”
“Mrs. Munro, I do not say we disagree, but who is the Laird in these parts? Has he been any kinder than the tales we hear of the Duke of Sutherland?”
“McDonnell it is, and no kinder than any other. Some out in the isles I heard were putting in improvements to let people stay, but if you’re here, and on your way to the city, then I suppose that puts paid to that illusion.”
“Aye, perhaps. But I didna see any people leaving on the ferry today from our island, the Lord be thankit.”
The three of them toasted to that, and Neil had his answer to Gillan’s scrutiny on the boat.
Mrs. Munro poured water from a jug by the door into a pot over the fire and invited them to stay for tea. They accepted gladly. With the foremost worry out and done with, they could pass on to other news and stories. Neil told of his schoolmaster’s habit of falling asleep at the end of classes because he was staying up late a-courting. Gillan told of his discovery of the perfect cast to catch the silver trout off Dunawald. And Mrs. Munro told them of the time her husband had walked forty-nine miles, clear over to Inverness, to fetch her the flowers she wanted for her bridal bouquet. She still had the dried wreath in her wooden chest.
Time flew by, and several bannocks and cakes had been consumed before the men stood and said they should really be going, that they had many more miles to cover before sleep. The old widow smiled and blessed them, clasping each of their hands and waving them off before shutting her door. They set off on the road again. Neil glanced back to where the moon shone in the west, over his island. He turned, and walked on.