Read an Excerpt
The Braid
By Helen Frost Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Copyright © 2006 Helen Frost
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-9633-8
CHAPTER 1
The Mussel Bailiff
Sarah
Isle of Barra, Scotland, 1850
All of us! Father, Mother, Jeannie, and the wee ones — Willie,
Margaret, and Flora — Grandma Peggy, and myself. We're all
to be evicted come next Monday. Our crime? Nothing more than
hunger: I went with Mother when the tide was out, to gather
mussels for our supper. We filled our basket. Mother strapped it
to her back. We could hear, from down the glen, Old Donald playing
on his pipes, a cheerful tune that Mother hummed as we walked home.
I was happy. We'd have more than seaweed in our soup that night.
Then comes the mussel bailiff, so high and mighty, like he thinks
he is the Duke himself! Him and his dogs, all snarling at us —
and he takes out his knife and cuts the straps from our basket, so
it falls from Mother's shoulders to the mud. He grinds our mussels
underfoot until the shells are just blue specks, then tells us we're
to leave our home before this week is out. Mussels in that bay,
we're told, are bait for English fishermen, not food for Scottish
children like ourselves. If they let one family take supper
from the bay, soon everyone, they say, will be taking all the
mussels they can eat. And what, I think, would be so wrong with that?
But I know better than to speak such thoughts. I hold my tongue.
A ship sits in Lochboisdale now, due to sail to Canada
next Tuesday. Father has determined we'll all make the journey,
and he's gone to try to sell his tools, hoping only that they'll
bring enough to pay our passage. It troubles me: how will we
build a house in Canada without them? A table. Benches.
Willie's cradle. Grandma's loom. A new bed for me and Jeannie.
I sit outside with Grandma, knitting. We're trying to be good.
Grandma frowns and clicks her needles like she's telling them
the thoughts she tries to silence. She's in no mood for talking. But
I have so many questions. The day we'll leave is coming close.
Who else can I ask? I lean on Grandma's shoulder: How long will
the journey be? How big is the ship? Will there be dogs and cats
in Canada? As I expect, she shushes me. She says she
has no answers. I grow silent, breathing in the smell of her
wool shawl, the smell of peat smoke and the sea, the sour smell where
Willie spat up on her shoulder after breakfast. At last she
speaks: Child, my heart is breaking, but I'll not be going with you.
I'll take my weaving from the loom and go back to Mingulay
where I was born. My William's buried in the graveyard there, and
some days I expect that I may well be there beside him soon.
Then she takes my head into her hands and weeps. When she sees tears
on my face, she wipes them with her fingers, soft and rough at once.
I know she wants to hold me here. I know too that she'll not try.
She gathers up her tangled wool, takes her basket back inside.
Mussels
Such beauty in the world, such strength
in all the creatures. Each mussel
somehow finds a rock to cling to,
opening when washed by water,
closing when the tide goes out. Shells
protect the living creature — blue,
black-purple, closed upon the rock,
white inside, shining like the sun.
The Braid
Jeannie
Isle of Barra
Willie fussed, and wouldn't go to sleep. It was late, we were
all packed, ready for the journey. Sarah held him tighter
than she usually does. She looked long at his face and then she
gathered him up, kissed his nose, wrapped her shawl around him, pulled
it — pulled Willie — close. She looked at Flora, then at Margaret,
playing on the floor with the wee rag doll we made for her.
Home, Sarah must have thought. Remember this. Later that same
night — we could not sleep — we walked together to the cove. Father
thinks that Sarah must have told me then. She did not. None of
us — not even I — knew what she was planning. Sarah was
so quiet. She didn't laugh when an otter opened a
mussel with a rock and ate it and I made my wee joke:
We'll tell the bailiff, and he'll send you to Canada. The
bay was still. Moonlight on the water made a path from our
Scottish sea to — where? Where, I wonder, will we all be eating
supper in two months' time? One year? I linked arms with Sarah,
the way we've done since we were small, sitting and watching on
that rock. Then we dipped our hands into the sea and touched our
tongues to the seawater, each of us swallowing a bit.
Canada seemed far away, the salty sea so close, our
journey not yet started. We walked back home. Hush now, Sarah said,
they'll be asleep. So they were, but we were wide awake when
we went to our bed. I took the hairbrush from the wooden
bench, and sat by Sarah, brushing out her long thick hair. Oh,
Jeannie, Sarah whispered. I can't ... She drew in her breath. Then ...
Goodnight. (Or did she say goodbye?) She loosened my braids, held
them in her hand, and brushed my hair so hard — I should have known.
But how could I? Then Sarah braided my hair with her own,
close and tight, so our heads were touching. We started laughing.
Will you girls go to sleep? It's near morning! Father called. Like two
cats curled together, we slept that night. Or — did Sarah sleep?
She must have stayed awake until I slept. She must have had
her sewing scissors tucked into her pocket. Sarah knew
where she was going. I woke to no warm place beside me.
She'd cut the braid close to our heads, tucked half into my hand —
You / me / sisters / always.
Now we're in the boat, and leaving;
Mingulay is but a distant blur. We've left without her —
and I want to dive into the sea and swim back home. But
soon we will be out too far to see the hills where Sarah's
tears are no doubt falling like my own. I squeeze my right hand
once, around the braid in my pocket. Father says, Be strong.
Try to be as helpful as you can. Your mother needs you.
Inside, I'm still crying. I'll hold Margaret's hand, I say.
Hair
White, shining in the sun, Grandma's
hair winds round her head, a braid, a
crown. Margaret's hair, black and fine,
damp on her cheek in fretful sleep.
Flora's and Jeannie's golden curls,
Sarah's red-brown braid — Mother's strong
hands, teasing out the tangles as
she sings into her children's ears.
After Three Days
Sarah
Isle of Barra
Were they angry? Could they understand how this place holds me, so
tight I could not live away from it? Nor could I leave Grandma.
She scolded, but she was pleased when, after three days, my hunger
pulled me back here. That first day, I hid and watched their boat go out —
Margaret kneeling at the bow, arms spread like a bird. Behind
her, Mother, strong and watchful, one hand upon her shoulder, the
same way she watched me when I was four. Flora sat straight beside
Father. Jeannie held Willie. No doubt she sang to him. Boxes
of food for the journey, and two other men — the fishing boat
was full. A man named Ranald took them to Lochboisdale. He has
a younger brother going to Canada by choice. Jeannie
joked: He should go in place of one of us — perhaps now she thinks
the joke has turned out true.
Grandma tells me about Mingulay:
Our life will not be easy. We'll have fish and birds and eggs to
eat; I have no fear of starving. But winters can be long — and
Sarah, only twenty families live there. You'll be lonesome
on your own. She looks hard at me. I'll have you, I say. She blinks.
Our journey there is likely to be rough. Some say it's every
bit as daunting as the trip to Canada ... Well, then. We link
our arms and walk down to the cove. Sarah's coming, too, Grandma
says to Murdo Campbell, the young fisherman who's taking us.
When he sees me, arm in arm with Grandma Peggy, clutching my
wooden walking stick like it's my sister, I can't guess his thoughts.
Oh, Sarah, don't you worry, now, Grandma Peggy says. (I know,
then, I should be worried.) If anyone can land a boat or
hold us steady in a stormy sea, it's Murdo Campbell. He's
known for landing safely on Mingulay when others can't. My
own thoughts I keep to myself: Have I been foolish? Is this man
laughing at me? I know my hair must look odd where I cut it;
two patches on my skirt are coming loose; the past three nights I've
slept out in the hills, with little food. Here, Murdo says, I
had two old waterproofs at home, and brought them both. You'd think I
knew that you were coming, Sarah. I take the small one. He looks
me up and down as if he's weighing me, then shifts his anchor,
hands me a bailer — just in case — seats Grandma Peggy to his
left, me to his right, and pushes us out to sea. Grandma folds
her hands and bows her head. I look up at Murdo — his eyes calm,
but merry, arms pulling hard on the oars. He looks at me. Aye,
Sarah, they'll be glad, on Mingulay, to have a lively lass.
Hand me that parcel, would you? He opens it and offers me
strong tea, still hot, and a hard-boiled egg. The birds are calling to
you, he says, pointing overhead: gulls circling, screeching. If they
say anything, it's likely, You, there — where do you think you're going?
Song
The songs that enter children's ears
carried across centuries of
love, stay with them, bringing comfort,
setting their feet dancing, coming
back to them when their own children
first look up and see them smiling
or hear them weeping as they rock,
strong boats upon a stormy sea.
Going On Without Sarah
Jeannie
Crossing the Atlantic
So many people in so small a space. This ship is like
Grandma's salted herring, people packed that tight, everyone
hungry, cranky, some sick — a man died yesterday. I go
out to the windy upper deck, taking Willie, leaving
behind our crowded sleeping quarters down below. That air —
the stench of it won't leave my hair and clothes. Last night I slept
beside Margaret. She was thirsty, so I climbed over
boxes, stepped around people, to the water by the life-
boat. Even the water stinks. Father wonders if the ship
has enough water to last the crossing. He cautions me:
Jeannie, let's try not to drink too much too soon.
Always, I'm
thinking about Sarah. Is she thirsty? Did she go to
Mingulay with Grandma? Or is she still hiding, frightened
to come down from the hills, but hungry where she is, alone
and cold at night? Sarah's strong and clever, and yet ... Oh, I'm
lonesome for her. So is Mother — she bites her bottom lip and
blinks back tears whenever someone mentions Sarah. And is
everyone expecting me to take her place? I can't! I
link arms with Flora, as Sarah used to do, but it's like
Grandma trying to act like Mother. Why did Sarah leave
us, Jeannie? Flora asks. She's six years old — her question is
my question, too, and only Sarah has the answer. Our
thoughts of Sarah stretch from here to her like yarn unwinding.
Know this, Jeannie, Mother says, as if she fears that yarn could snap,
or trip someone — as if she can see my thoughts unravel —
she's not lost to us. She'll always be our Sarah. But now,
my Jeannie, you'll be the oldest and we'll count on you. (A
man walks by and looks at us. Do I look older? Or is
it my short hair he's staring at — is he laughing at me?
I glare at him — he turns away.) Though I'm the oldest here,
I'm not at all like Sarah! Compared to her, I'm useless.
I've never stood by Father as he works, the way Sarah
looked on, learning how to use his tools, or when to pull the
anchor when we went out fishing. Just like a lad, he'd say,
his eyes twinkling. As if a lad is better than a lass!
Fold these dry clothes, will you, Jeannie? Mother, usually so
calm, seems fretful. I study her. Is something wrong? I ask.
Aye, Jeannie — it's Margaret. She's taken ill. The poor wee
lass was up all night. She can't keep her food down. It worries
me. I jump up — I'll do this later, Mother! I go down
to Margaret, hot and sweaty, asleep in Father's lap.
They both look dreadful, and Father won't let me stay to help.
Go back up to your mother. Now! he barks. My blood goes cold.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Braid by Helen Frost. Copyright © 2006 Helen Frost. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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