Free Love and Music Will Endure by Liz Macrae Shaw Page A

this?’
    ‘Greed. The landowners don’t need people any more. They say there are too many of them. Sheep, the big English sheep, are more profitable.’
    ‘I know times are hard but the land here is good.’
    ‘That’s why the landlords wanted it, to make more money in rent. This time they didn’t even offer them inferior plots in exchange, or a passage on a ship.’
    ‘Maighstir Ruaridh doesn’t agree with emigration. He says folk should be given enough land to live on.’
    ‘Hmm, but emigration and the chance of a new life might be better than what these people face scraping a living on a relative’s plot.’
    Màiri thought about what her father always said, “If it’s such a land of milk and honey abroad why aren’t the landlords falling over each other to buy a berth for themselves on a sailing ship?” Aloud she said, ‘Can nothing be done to stop the cruelty we saw today? The landowners and their bailiffs should be stopped.’
    ‘Indeed they should but how is that to be done? Not by violent methods like throwing stones. We must look to the Bible for guidance. Think about the parable of the tares, Màiri. Remember how the servants wanted to pull out the tares growing among the wheat? Like you wanting to throw a stone? But the Lord said, “Nay, lest while you gather up the tares, ye root out also the wheat with them. Let both grow together until the harvest; and in the time of harvest I will say to the reapers, Gather ye together first the tares, and bind them in bundles to burn them; but gather the wheat into my barn. The reapers are God’s angels who on the Day of Judgement will throw the sinners into the fiery furnace.” How does it continue?’
    ‘There shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth. Then shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father.’
    He nodded. ‘You are well versed in the Good Book, but beware the sin of pride, Màiri. Judge not that you be not judged. What is the state of your own soul? Will you be among the wheat or the tares?’
    She winced. He had touched a sore place. She remembered as a small child sitting on Pappa’s lap and tracing the lines on his palm with her fingers. She found a silvery scar and curious, pressed it. He winced and took his hand away, ‘That’s an old wound from a gutting knife. It healed but I always know it’s there.’
    Her sister’s death was Màiri’s scar. Seonag had been so angry and upset over Màiri’s poem, saying it had blighted her wedding day. Mamma had never blamed her in so many words but the accusation was there in her eyes. Seonag was so delicate, unlike her younger sister and should be treated gently. Had her verses hammered themselves like nails into Seonag’s coffin? Did Mamma believe in her heart that the wrong daughter had died? Those were questions that could never be asked or answered. Pappa had told her that being a bard was a gift that she couldn’t refuse, but was it a cursed gift? Did her guilt mean that she couldn’t condemn anyone else’s actions? Mamma, like the Reverend, would quote Scripture, “How wilt thou say to thy brother, Let me pull out the mote out of thine eye; and behold a beam is in thine own eye?”
    Pappa, though, would argue with Mamma about religion. Like boats moored side by side in a choppy sea their hulls would scrape and grate. What would Pappa say to the Reverend Carmichael? “I don’t see the oppressors seeking forgiveness for their sins and crying out for salvation. It’s the godly folk who end up in tenements in the city or disappear across the seas.”
    ‘Don’t look so troubled, Màiri.’ The Minister’s voice interrupted her thoughts, ‘You were intemperate earlier but you have been a good Samaritan today to these suffering souls. Wemust make haste to Carbost now. Tomorrow you can help the women gather more supplies while I organise the men to carry them to those in need.’
    So she wouldn’t be given a chance to protest again. Màiri didn’t know