Free The Runaway's Gold by Emilie Burack

kishie’s braided rope straps, as he took another long swig from his jug. But when he tried to put the jug down he lost his grip, and a strange black liquid splattered on me rivlins.
    â€œSolus Christus!” he cried, trying to right the jug before all was lost. “Only Satan would keep me from this tonic!”
    I crinkled me nose. “What is it?” Then I dipped me finger into the foul-smelling stuff.
    â€œGo ahead,” he said, his voice breaking. “Taste it.”
    I hesitated at first, touching me finger to me tongue, and then spat violently. “You’ve been drinking
this
?”
    â€œEvery day since December 29.”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œTuts, lad! For the sciatica, of course! The late Bishop Barclay suggested such a potion in his remaining papers, which I am privileged to hold in my possession. Tar and water it is. And I ask you, lad, what else but Divine Providence could direct him to suggest such a mixture as this?”
    â€œTar?”
    â€œNot just any tar! Norwegian tar!” He quickly cleared his throat. “And I must say, I
have
been feeling a slight improvement of late.”
    It was when I turned back to the path to hide me laughter that I nearly choked. There, in the distance, but no less than a half mile behind us, trudged the unmistakable hulking frame of Knut Blackbeard. And the moment I saw him, Reverend Sill saw him too.

Mary Canfield
    s that . . . ?” Reverend Sill started to ask.
    â€œNo idea,” I lied, heart pounding. “We’ve lost track of time. The sun will soon be setting!” I flung the kishie over me shoulders, grabbed his frail hand, and beckoned him back to the path. “We best get moving or it will be nightfall before we see Lerwick.”
    â€œWhy, that’s Knut Blackbeard—your Daa’s companion,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “I’m sure of it. We must wait and ask him to join us on our journey.”
    â€œWait? No!” I tried desperately to calm the panic in me voice. “We’ve no lantern. Only an hour at most before the path will be impossible to follow!”
    â€œMr. Blackbeard is of my flock,” the old man scolded. He yanked his hand from me grip so fiercely I nearly toppled backward. “A wayward sheep, there is no doubt, but one of my flock nonetheless. I’ll not avoid his company.”
    â€œBut—your meeting! And your charges against that evil Murdoch Bairnstrom! And what of your missing stipend?”
    As I prattled on, the old man lowered his forehead, his chin jutting forward like a ram making ready to charge. “Christopher Robertson,” he bellowed, his voice dropping several octaves, “is Satan putting you between me and Mr. Blackbeard?”
    â€œSatan? No, sir!”
    â€œThen why, may I ask, are you shunning a neighbor on a journey such as this?”
    Me heart banged into me chest as I stared down at me worn rivlins. “Please, sir, I can’t say.”
    â€œHoot, lad! We are nothing without the truth!” He snapped his hands to his hips. “The Lord cannot help you, and nor can I, if the truth is not shared!”
    And, oh, how I wanted to tell him everything about the night before! Of the shameful thing I had done to Mr. Peterson’s ewe and of the terrible wrongs that had been done to me. But I couldn’t—I wouldn’t. Not until I got that pouch of coins back from John. I knew it was Reverend Sill’s duty, as head of the church, to keep in order the moral behavior of the parish. If I told him, he would have no choice but to turn me over to Sheriff Nicolson.
    I glanced over me shoulder at the outline of Knut Blackbeard, fast cresting the hill we had crested just half an hour before, and to this day I do not know why it is I didn’t simply turn and run. Instead, I looked directly in the reverend’s ancient, watery eyes—the eyes me family hated—and from somewhere deep