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The first news they received from Gillan came two weeks after he had left. It was a fine hot June afternoon, and the MacLeans in Pictou were all occupied clearing the tangle of brambles and brush on that steeply pitched road to Sherbrooke. Faced with the choice of waiting for Gillan’s news and subsequent money or starting on something that could gain them a place sooner, they chose the latter.
They borrowed scraps of leather to grasp the thorns with, and hacked at the plants with other borrowed implements: a scythe, a sickle, a saw. They were all old tools, blunt and little effective. Still, they’d been at it four days running and made recognizable progress when they were hailed by someone down the hill.
“Mistress MacLean!” the voice cried, carried upward easily by winds that cooled the brow of those working. Sheila stopped, turned back to look, and saw one of their neighbors from Pictou standing at the foot of the hill fifty feet distant, waving an arm with something white in his hand. Sheena took the opportunity to straighten her back from its bent position and sigh dramatically. She sat down in the cleared area, thankful for a rest.
Alisdair giggled, imitating her sigh and executed a dramatic swooping fall. Muirne looked at them, shaking her head, then laid down her saw and followed her mother and Neil down the hill. The neighbor was Mr. Macklemore, and he had a smile plastered across his face. “Has the town found a vein of gold under the streets then, Mr. Macklemore?” Sheila asked him.
He cackled at that, throwing back his head and showing his strong set of discolored teeth. “Ah no, Mrs. MacLean, but you’ve ‘ad a letter from your Gillan these three days past, and I’ve only been able to bring it to you now that I’m on my way to visit a friend. He’s got some horses to inspect. I might buy a few to bring back.”
Muirne thought of his going to buy horses and felt a momentary twinge of envy for those already well settled, but let it pass. Our time will come, she told herself. In the meantime, no use getting upset at the bragging of a good-natured blowhard. He continued to regale them with the account of the letter’s arrival and the decision of who should bring it to the family while they camped out here. Sheena much enjoyed the rest on the soft earth, choosing not to listen to the rambling account.
“I was honored to be the messenger,” he said, amusement glinting from his eyes. “And since my friend with the horses lives near a town on the express route, I would be happy to transmit any news back to your husband if there is a reply needed.” He waited then, rocking back on his heels and settling his folded hands on the paunch under his waistcoat.
Sheila acknowledged his effort in tracking them down and thanked him for the offer of returning her reply. She sat down to open the letter while he waited and beckoned to Neil. Muirne and Neil both moved closer, and Neil took the pages from her hands but held it out so they could all see the scrap of paper from their Gillan.
There was Sandy Wilson’s splotchy quillwork in Gaelic across two pages. He wrote that Gillan had had two interviews in Tadoussac, a town along the north coast of the river where he had been deposited by the boat. It was an older town at the intersection of two rivers, and there seemed to be plenty of opportunities. He would consider these two posts, but intended to continue upriver into the city even if he was accepted, in effect delaying his start in order to have time to explore the capital.
He ended with endearments for Sheila and affection to all, and as Neil read that he could feel his stepfather’s solid barrier still there between them. Very well, thought Neil. I will just be proving him wrong by adopting this place and moving into it before he even knows what he’s about. He’ll see.
No reply was needed, especially since the return direction would likely be wrong now. Gillan was most likely making his way on foot now to the capital, Quebec City. Sheila thanked Mr. Macklemore once again before he continued on his way. Sheila turned to see Sheena and Alisdair standing and watching the action down the hill. She grinned, then with her own dramatic sigh, swirled around and fell to the ground. Children were not the only ones who needed humor.
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More days passed with no news, as the MacLeans restored the road to a troddable path. They had one more visit from a Pictou neighbor, who came to replenish their supply of oats and onions, compliments of Mrs. Conaghey, or rather their account with her. He’d thrown in a gooseberry tart that his wife had made, and they almost toppled him with their enthusiastic hugs and exclamations upon the discovery. True, there were gooseberries growing wild enough on the surrounding hills, but they were much too sour to enjoy, and there was the work of topping and tailing each one before you could cook and eat it.
They enjoyed the tart very much, and counted the days left until they would need to return to town to replenish the rest of their supplies. They subsisted on the water from the creek on the property, which was swift-running and clear, and they made nightly fires where Sheila cooked the skirlie in the griddle. Each took a turn telling stories to keep the attention off their aches and blisters. They had made a fair bit of headway by the mark of nine days, when they needed to go back.
Sheila stood back with Neil and surveyed their handiwork. It was soft dirt with plenty of roots scattered about. When the path turned to the right and went out of sight, it was also clear for a good fifty feet.
“When we come back it will need to be with shovels to dig out those roots,” Sheila said.
“Aye, or a cas-chrom,” he teased. They would not likely find their own island farming implements floating around this Pictou community, Scots though it was.
Sheila and the three children would return to town and the boarding house while Neil chased down more details of the property’s owners and the law concerning possession, improvement, and ownership with the professional men in New Glasgow. While they waited for word, Sheila and the children might also be able to return some of the favors done them by the people of Pictou.
It took them the same two days it had taken Neil and Muirne to return to Pictou on foot. Sheena and Alisdair were growing up, no longer running roughshod all over the place but contributing to the household and learning how to behave in civilized company. On the way back, Sheila looked back to see Neil and Muirne with their heads together, laughing over some tale. She thought about the need to find a good lad for Muirne, but whom? She cast her mind over the people they’d met, all kind, but with a noticeable lack of marriageable sons. She would ask Mrs. Conaghey, who no doubt could hold forth on the subject, and perhaps already had done, in their absence.