of demons, which was far, far more frightening.
A little later the mist thinned and turned golden, with the sun shining through it, and the whole world was bathed in glory. The vapor cleared quickly, and I looked out, astonished, at the vast new world we'd entered. Hillsides with white ribbons of water streaming down them swooped low into the valleys. Rocks in tumbled piles towered over us. There was nowhere so wild and solitary on the Isle of Bute.
When the last traces of mist had melted away, Mr. Lithgow brought out his knitting again and resumed his careful watching of the cows' swaying rumps as they plodded on in front of us.
There was something else I knew I had to say.
"Granny wasn't a witch, Mr. Lithgow—not an evil one—but she knew about bringing babies safely into the world. She knew what was unlucky, like the swifts and the swallows, and things like charming to find lost things, and how to protect from the fairies." And curses, I thought, but kept to myself. She knew plenty of those.
"She knew all that, did she?"
It wasn't easy to tell what he was thinking, because the hair falling down over his forehead and the beard curling thickly around his mouth hid much of his face. His voice, though, sounded friendly enough.
"And she knew about healing, too, if you had a bad stomach or a headache."
"Did her cures work?"
"Oh! Yes, well, I think so."
It had never occurred to me that Granny's healing charms might not work. I had just assumed they did.
"But the church people thought all that was wicked," I persisted. "And what I want to know, Mr. Lithgow, is do you think Granny has gone to Hell? Is she going to burn in the pit of fire forever?"
He didn't answer straightaway, and glancing up at him, I saw a frown divide his brows.
"Well, now," he said at last. "There's a question you should ask a minister. An educated man." I said nothing, waiting for him to go on. "They talk of Hell, the preachers. And if it's in the Bible, I suppose it must be right. But look around you. Creation. Flowers. Birds. The sun." He coughed, as if embarrassed. "If God could make all this, why would he bother to make a Hell?"
He was looking down at something, and following his gaze, I saw a blue butterfly settle with a flutter of its wings on one of the tiny yellow flowers that shone like jewels among the bright green grass. Then he whistled to the dogs, unnecessarily I thought, and speeded up as if he wanted to get away from me.
I didn't mind. I knew I hadn't angered him. He just didn't like talking about such things.
What did he mean? I thought. Does he really not believe in Hell? The idea that Hell might not be there after all was so daring that I stopped walking and stood, stuck to the ground. Then I caught in my nostrils a sudden strong honey scent of heather, which the warmth of the sun was bringing out, and I threw my head back to sniff at it luxuriously.
Why would God make Hell, when he can make all this? I repeated to myself, but I was afraid that the thought was wrong, and I put it away from me as I hurried to catch up with Mr. Lithgow.
***
It was the faint whiff of peat smoke that told us we were near our evening's rest. We came around the shoulder of a hill and could look down on the roof of a small house lying by a loch. Peter Boag had already led the cattle through a gap in a dry stone wall, and he was lifting our bundles from Samson's back.
The sun was still quite high in the sky, and we hadn't been walking for more than five or six hours. I'd expected to cover a greater distance in a day, so I was surprised when Mr. Lithgow said, "Here we are. The day's over."
A woman had come out of the cottage. She didn't seem alarmed to see the great herd of cows already grazing in her field.
"The drove always stops here," said Mr. Lithgow, seeing my surprise. "She'll cook our food for us. We sleep out in the open, along with the beasts." He coughed, embarrassed. "You could ask for her to let you sleep inside, Maggie, but..."
"No, I'll stay outside with you," I said, seeing the woman look curiously toward me. "I want to