The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [135]
“ ‘Things learned young last longest,’ ” quoted Archie. “I hope not.” A tremor passed over him, and I wondered again what lay behind his choice to be a rural postman.
“Me too,” I said. We turned to other aspects of the story.
Later, as Archie was buttoning his jacket, he remarked that many Icelanders could trace their family back a thousand years. “Hannah and I don’t even know the name of our great-grandfather.” He presented me with our next reading project: Njal’s Saga.
For the rest of the evening, I kept thinking about Archie’s parting comment. My uncle had never mentioned my father’s family, but perhaps there were still people in Iceland who were in some way related to me, and who knew it. Perhaps even now my grandparents were floating in a hot spring, wondering about their Scottish granddaughter.
Hannah was as good as her word. She spoke to Pauline, and Pauline spoke to the headmaster. He agreed to let me sit the preliminary exams in February and the Highers in May, and to lend me the necessary textbooks for English, algebra, trigonometry, history, Latin, and French. Archie volunteered to coach me in Latin, and Pauline offered to lend me her Shakespeare. So my future, for the next few months, became clear. I would stay in Aberfeldy until May. Then I would go in search of Mr. Donaldson. Between Robin and my studies, my days were full. Only at Marian’s urging—you’ve been cooped up for weeks—did I decide one bright, cold Sunday in December to walk up the hill to the white farmhouse I had seen from the pottery window. With a couple of sandwiches in a knapsack, I followed the path up through the beech trees to the little spring at the foot of Weem Rock. According to Hannah, St. David’s Well had long been a resting place for travellers, perhaps a sacred site. I knelt down to dip my hand in the clear, cold water and watched the leaves at the bottom stir.
From the well the path traversed the hillside, climbing steadily. Soon the beeches gave way to conifers and birches. These too were beginning to thin when I caught sight of a stone house set back from the path. The roof had fallen in but the walls were intact. Who had lived in such a lonely place, I wondered, and why were all the windows barred? The house looked too grand to be a shepherd’s cottage. Hoping to discover some relic of the occupants, I stepped inside, but there was only a rusty saucepan and a couple of empty tins buried in the nettles. On the hearthstone lay a small pile of mossy bones. Some animal—a sheep or a fox—had crawled in here to die. If I had found a ruined house near Ballinluig, I thought, that might have been me. I hurried back to the path.
Another hundred yards brought me out of the woods to a field of sheep. I sat on a fallen tree to eat my sandwiches. Nearby a crow was strutting back and forth. Tomorrow, I thought, I would take Robin to the library to look for a bird book. When the crow came close, I threw him a piece of bread. Mistaking my gesture, he took wing. As I followed his flight, I saw that on all sides leaden clouds were massing on the hilltops. Even as I took in that the day had changed, I heard a pattering sound, as if thousands of little feet were running over the hillside. The wind sprang up and pellets of hail the size of barley stung my face. I ran to shelter beneath the nearest pine tree. The air was a commotion of white. Suddenly, out of the whiteness, I heard a voice, shouting.
“Mr. Sinclair,” I shouted back.
I stared at the driving hail, dumbfounded. All the miles, all the hours, all my efforts had not yet driven him out of my brain.
Within ten minutes the sky was clear and the hail was already melting into the grass, but I decided to give up on the farmhouse and go home. I was again on the path, passing the ruined house, when I heard the solid tramp of someone approaching at a good pace. Archie came into view, striding along with a shepherd’s crook much like the one Seamus had carried. His