Free Shadow in Hawthorn Bay by Janet Lunn

back had prickled in fear before she realized it must be the urisk, although as she said later she had seen “not an ear of him”.
    “Urisk,” she had called softly, so as not to alarm or offend him, “Urisk, it is the wee
uan
that has got himself lost. I would sing a song of gladness for that wee
uan.”
There had been no response, but not three minutes later the lamb had appeared from behind the rocks. Mary had sung her song and, ever after, had stopped by that outcropping to hum or sing to the urisk.
    Luke was not awkward and Mary had no reason to believe he was stupid. He was big, however, just under six feet tall. He had a round face, bright brown eyes, a snub nose, and a wide mouth. His thick chestnut-coloured hair looked as though it had been cut with a knife. Not handsome, he had a warmth and kindliness to him that made him pleasing to look at. As well, he had an air of determination—or stubbornness—that spoke of capability. And in spite of the fact that his pants were none too clean and hung from a single suspender, and his shirt badly needed mending, he had a neat look. He certainly did not look like a goat-man.
    A picture came to her of Luke carrying a small boy. She could not see the child, as his back was to her, but the expression on Luke’s face was so distraught that instinctively Maryturned and put her hand on his arm. The picture disappeared. She shook herself.
    “The skitters and midges are fierce.” Luke smiled sympathetically. When he smiled it was with his whole body—from his warm brown eyes to his big, broad feet. Hastily Mary withdrew her hand.
    They had walked three miles when Luke turned off the government road onto a narrower one, not much more than a path through the woods. Mary thought of her horrible flight along such a path the night she had walked from Cornwall. She shivered and halted.
    “It’s the only way to get there.” Luke looked down at her. He grinned. “You want I should carry you the rest of the way?”
    Mary blushed. “I do not mind the road.” She stalked ahead. Luke stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pants and began to whistle.
    In single file, preceded by the nervous scolding of the finches and bobolinks and small animals, the two made their way over a log bridge, up a rise, and along the path for five more miles to the Anderson homestead.
    “Here it is.” Luke pushed open the door and led the way into the house. From somewhere in the smoky room there was a loud laugh. “Ain’t much good bringing us a itty-bitty little stick like that, Luke.”
    No one else said anything. A cat mewed.
    All Mary could think of was the seven weeks she had spent on the
Andrew MacBride
. It was the stench and the small dark space. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw two boys sitting at the table in the centre of the room. One was a large, red-haired, red-faced boy, more or less her own age. The other was Henry. A woman sat by the smouldering fire in a rocking-chair. In spite of the suffocating heat she was huddled under a large shawl.
    “This here’s Mary.” Luke took Mary’s arm and drew her into the room. “Miz Colliver’s off nursing Miz Heaton.”
    “Can’t be helped, I expect.” The woman sighed plaintively. “Git the jug for the girl, Sim.”
    “Good morning to you, Henry,” said Mary.
    Henry dipped his head shyly but made no sound. His brother poured from a large jug into a battered pewter cup. He lumbered across the room.
    “Here y’are, have a good swig. Helps the bugs.” He laughed.
    It was whisky. Mary had only ever had whisky in small measures. Her mother and father had brought it out at the feast of Beltane, at New Year, at births, funerals, or for chills. She was tempted, all the same, to gulp down the entire contents of the cup.
    “Sim, Mary don’t want no—” Luke began.
    “You shut your mouth!” Sim glared.
    Just then a big, red-haired man burst through the door. “Which one a you young apes left the white-faced cow on the