‘Get them moving, Boxer. Head straight for the river. We will cross where we can.’
Boxer argued. ‘No plan stays good once changed.’ A lone stockwhip echoed.
‘Damn him.’ The McKenzie boy’s stupidity had just given the trackers their exact location. ‘Go.’ Boxer galloped towards the tail end of the cattle as the mob broke into a trot.
A film of dust rose into the air. Jasperson’s eyes began to water as he kept pace with the mob on the wing. Cows were calling out. Calves caught up in the rushing mob were left disorientated. The cattle reached the trees bordering the river with a crash, their hides pressed close to each other as they snorted and bellowed, foaming at the mouth. Jasperson winced at the chaotic stampede. He pictured the frightened animals as his horse kept pace through the thickening trees. He knew calves would drown, that the stock would break free of their ranks to run along the riverbank instead of crossing it. He had a disaster on his hands, one that could lead to a hanging. He was entering the tree line when something caught his eye, a flash of metal perhaps in the moonlight or a distant light, he couldn’t be sure. Without hesitating he dug the heels of his boots into his horse’s flanks and followed the rushing cattle through the trees.
For the second time in a week Maggie strode towards the ruin, emboldened by the hearty walk and a sense of daring unknown to her for years. It rose above the surrounding countryside to sit proudly upon the summit of the hill, and whispered to her of bloody siege battles in one age and illicit liaisons in another. The wind whipped her hair into her eyes, stinging her with the icy scent of the North Sea as she circumnavigated the tower and approached the cliff face, exhilarated. Below lay a distant inlet and a long low bridge carrying cars across it. Beyond a sleety mist was banked on the rocky shoreline across the water. She turned back towards her own home country, the sea wind biting at her neck. Cottages dotted fields, curling smoke rose prettily from every house and chunks of peaty land were cut away from the hills as if a giant had stooped down to take a bite from a tasty morsel. She walked cautiously towards the ruin, a jumble of rocks making her leapfrog slowly from one uneven surface to another. Another day she would have jumped them. Another time she would have hitched her skirts and stretched her legs across slabs scarred by centuries. Not today. Maggie drew air slivered with cold into her lungs and whistled a sketchy tune as she stepped up onto the narrow threshold of the ruin.
She ducked her head through the opening to smell musty earth and unused space. It was dark inside. A small crack in the wall let in a line of light that crept across the dirt floor to trace the stone on the opposite side. Maggie stretched her arms wide to touch either side of the ancient doorway. It was a jump down, aye, she remembered that, for at the time excitement consumed her and she was too distracted to consider the gap between daylight and darkness. Her hands ran along the rocky walls seeking support. Gingerly lowering her body she sat squarely on the entry stones, her feet solid on the ground below. She stood unsteadily as if the light had taken her balance and with it the years between then and now. She was a girl again, her body lithe, her feet supple and her need great.
They met for the third time at the ceilidhs after Ronald’s return from Edinburgh. Having enjoyed a string of afternoons together before his departure, Maggie was relieved on his return. There were whispers of him simultaneously outing with Catherine Jamieson and Maggie doubted she could entrance Ronald Gordon like the older beauty. Yet there he was walking into the whitewashed hall with the other villagers, and there she was walking towards him. They met in the middle of the hall, a crinkled-eyed smile greeting her nervous anticipation. Her words of greeting were lost among a small throng of locals drawn to this strong featured, gregarious man. Having recently seen the Northern Lights, Ronald held the circle gathered about him spellbound. He talked of dazzling shafts of colour, of violets, blues and red, the enchantment in his words eliciting pride from those who’d grown up with