Bruar's Rest

minds. But hard foot-slogging by the men kept everyone half-fed.
    The women walked once a month into town and hawked mouthfuls of bread from people hardly able to feed themselves. Doctor Mackenzie must have taken to his bed, for neither hide nor hair of him was spotted throughout the long winter months. Perhaps, they thought, the good doctor was dead. He was an old man, and Scotland saw droves of over-seventies succumb to death in those wintry days.
    Farmers were a godsend to the nomads; they gave turnips, potatoes and milk without condition. Well, maybe not entirely freely, because Bruar and Jimmy had a pile of hard chores to do before the men of the land paid them in kind. Rachel hated the turnips, better known as neeps. ‘They’re for making soup rather than boiling,’ she’d say. ‘They are fit for ewes’ bellies, not folks’.’ She now had reason to think about eating healthily, because the first stirring of life had begun in her own belly—she and Jimmy were expecting a child.
    That winter had been extremely harsh, but soon buds appeared on sleepy willows, along with bleating lambs in the fields; their fingers thawed out. ‘Survival will be easy now’, they all thought. Spring sang along dykes and hedgerows, in tune with the birds, which began their mating rituals.
    Bruar and Megan joined the birds and the bees. ‘Let’s have a dozen sons,’ he laughed pulling down the camp door one warm evening, ‘and fill the glen with our own tribe!’
    ‘Six boys, the same amount of girls or I’ll not have any,’ she teased.
    ‘Deal!’
    Their laughter within the tent, smothered by kisses, filled everyone with hope of days to come, expectation of fresh growth and an overwhelming feeling of being alive and thankful for it.
    Rory called over to O’Connor, ‘Will you listen to them in there going at it like rabbits! If they’re not careful the tent will collapse on top of them, and we’ll soon see how fast they shift.’
    ‘Ah, fur sure we hear them, and what a beautiful sound they make. Who cares if the tent falls down, winter’s over an I’m for a belly of rotgut at the public house, may God bless its solid walls. My gut’s done in wit supping the green-brown dregs from my still jug. Come on, man, an’ join me!’
    Rory had passed a milestone in his life, a winter without the company of demons. ‘I don’t need the blasted stuff,’ he told the Irishman sternly, speedily heading into the distance to chop wood for the fires; any chore that would take the yearning from his stomach.
    Over his shoulders O’Connor slipped a shabby threadbare coat and leaped the grey stone dyke, slipping on its mildewy coating. For a minute he stopped. The yearning in Rory would surely master him, and he’d be joining him on the low road to busty, sweet-tasting women and alcohol, he was certain of that. ‘You’re a drinking man, me old mate, whether you like it or no, the want is there under the surface. Stay aff the stuff as long as you can, but remember this from one who knows; once you’ve booked inta Hell Hotel you can leave, but never check out. Remember that, Rory. And here’s another thought for youse—“a tiger stays striped”.’
    The Irishman’s words sent a shiver through Rory as his mind rushed back to his sister—her flaming eyes, pale drawn face, her parting words when he collected his sons. But the determination had never been as strong, he’d beat the craving, even if it meant his end; he’d made enough wrongs in times past; now for the rights. With two daughters-in-law to help him, things would be different. Soon he’d be big Rory, the grandfather. So many had been wronged, but more than anything else, that promise he’d made so long ago to his lassie would keep him on the right path. Sleepless nights and long guilt-filled days had hounded him until now; yes, he would stay away from the demon.

     
    Summer came with a blaze of colour and warmth. Jimmy gathered armfuls of reeds for basket-making as Rachel continued to feel the stirring of growing life in her belly.
    Bruar and Megan spent long days chasing the grouse and pheasants high up on the heather moors, stealing rich moments for passionate love-making and swearing on one another’s lives that nothing would separate them.
    Doctor Mackenzie hadn’t succumbed to the ravages of the past winter as they’d imagined, and was soon tethering his horse to the same gnarled oak as before, and sharing the thick hot tea that big Rory was now