Prologue
The Eastern Highlands of Scotland. 1868
Willie Farrell hugged his five-year-old brother as they huddled under the coarse blanket in the wood store. It could have been one of those wonderful nights he loved, snug and warm, listening to the howling wind rushing through the tall pines outside and feeling safe. It could have been a goodnight kiss and a reassurance that only a mother’s smile can give. Instead, he clung to wee Rab and lay awake listening for his father, who’d banished them from the croft. He couldn’t understand the rejection when his father cleared a space in the wood store, threw blankets inside and ordered them to stay away.
Why was Pa so angry and where were his mother and sisters?
There was a scuffling of feet and he peered through a crack in the wooden slats of the wall. By the light of the moon, he recognised the stooping figure stumble through the cottage door and flop onto the stone threshold. His father sat hunched on the floor, grasping his knees and weeping. There was no mistaking the pitiful sobs and Willie wanted to shout out, but the sight left him confused. He choked and warm tears flooded his eyes. His father staggered to his feet and disappeared back inside.
What was the dark secret hidden beyond the door?
Willie waited for eternity to pass, then pulled himself from Rab’s grip. His brother slept on, and he crept out into the blustery night. The wind tugged at his shirt, and he shivered. Scudding clouds shrouded the moonlit sky, peppered with its stars, and ominous shadows fell. His chin quivered and when he reached the cottage entrance, he hesitated, his fingers trembling as he lifted the latch. He pushed inwards, fearful that the gusting wind would snatch it out of his hand. Sliding through the gap, an air of choking suffocation filled his nostrils. He gagged at the gut-wrenching stench that pervaded the room and he held his breath.
Where did the foul smell come from?
He looked over at the two beds on the far wall. In the weak light from a solitary candle, he could make out his sisters lying side by side, unmoving. His mother lay on the other bed and his father was kneeling at her side, holding her hand. Willie couldn’t see their faces and a dreadful trepidation anchored his feet.
Did he want to see more?
A strange urge edged him ever closer. Then a lump caught in his throat and his legs wobbled. His eyes grew wide.
Why didn’t he recognise the ones he loved?
Dehydrated masks faced the ceiling, each with their bone-dry mouths, sunken sockets, and skin with its bluish pallor.
His father stood and bending over his wife, lifted her shoulders and offered her water from a cup, begging her to drink. There was no response, and he gently lowered her body. He looked behind, sensing Willie, who rushed forward and buried his head in his father’s chest.
“Pa. What’s happened to them?”
He clung on, feeling his father’s hand stroking his mop of curly hair.
His father pulled him away and Willie looked into his gaunt, harrowing eyes. His grey features were haunting and far away and Willie wanted to scream.
This was not his father. The limp bodies strewn across the beds were not his ma and sisters.
“You shouldn’t be in here. There’s nothing to be done, son. Go back to bed and look after Rab.”
Willie shook his head. “What’s the matter with them? Why don’t they speak?”
“They’re ill and I’m looking after them.”
“Then I want to help too.”
Pa spoke kindly. “Do as I say, and tomorrow you can bring some fresh water. That would be a wonderful help.”
He pushed Willie towards the door and ushered him outside.
“You’ve got a very important job looking after Rab. You’re my number one helper. Will you do it for me?”
Willie nodded and returned to find his brother. He huddled next to Rab, but try as he might, he couldn’t sleep, a nagging fear like a pinprick, keeping him awake. Recurring images of what he’d witnessed filled his mind and his loneliness made his body ache.
As the first strains of dawn filtered through the slats of the walls, he emerged into the chilly morning air. He was desperate to return inside, so went over to the water trough and half-filled the wooden bucket that lay nearby. He hauled it to the door and dragged it inside, the sinews of his arms painful from the exertion.
His father was standing over his eldest sister, Lizzie, a grim look on his face. “It’s almost time for her to meet our Lord, Willie. You can come and see her, but don’t touch her.”
He took a rag, soaked it in water from the bucket, and placed it on her brow.
Willie felt confused as he witnessed his elder sister’s death. She went quietly, as his father held her hand and she slipped into unconsciousness.
Within minutes she was gone, forever, and although her flight may have seemed painless, for Willie the onlooker, the mystery of death was nothing but horror and heartbreak.
His father spoke wearily. “You shouldn’t be seeing this, laddie. Go. It’s not the place for you.”
Willie found his father’s hand and gripped it. “I’m scared, Pa. I want to be with you. Please don’t make me leave.”
“Then stay, laddie, if you must, but you must do my bidding.”
Willie looked across at Pearl, her creamy face waxy and unreal.
Pa touched her skin. “The fever’s gone, but she’s cold and clammy. Same as Lizzie was.”
Willie’s voice was a whisper, almost unable to ask. “What is it, Pa? What’s wrong with them?”
His father could only mumble. “Cholera. It’s called the blue death.”
Willie heard but didn’t follow.
How can death be blue? That’s the colour of the sky on a sunny day.
The words scared him, and he dropped to his knees, praying for his sister’s life. One minute she was fighting hard, the next she too succumbed to a coma, drifting into oblivion, the finality of it causing Willie to panic with stone cold fear. He tried to shake the images and smells from his mind. Pale textured faces, blank eyes and voices that wouldn’t answer back.
Why did their bodies refuse to move when he nudged them?
Like dreadful nightmares, his memory seared them in, locking them away to resurface on a dark and stormy night.
He never wanted to die like this.
John Farrell gripped his son’s shoulder.
“It’s alright to cry, laddie,” he was gentle, “she’s gone. You’ll never see her again. Better say goodbye.”
Willie wept, “Why did she have to die, Pa?”
“I don’t know, son. Life is a confusion of events, and you can’t put them in any order.”
Willie turned to see his mother lying in the bed next to her dead daughters.
“Don’t touch Ma,” came a sharp warning, “you may catch something.”
It frightened Willie. A short while ago, he’d noticed the wrinkles that had appeared on her skin and touched her damp hand. He just wanted to comfort her.
Willie sensed his father’s anxiety, as he turned from his wife and grabbed Willie’s shoulders, looking him directly in the eyes.
His voice was choked with grief. “Take Rab and pray for your mother’s soul. I fear she’ll soon be with your sisters in heaven.”
Willie hesitated.
“Go, son, and take care of your brother, because from now on you’ll need to watch out for him.”
Over the past week, Willie had gained a shadow and Rab was awake, waiting outside the croft, unaware of everything that had happened.
“Willie, when can I see Ma and Lizzie and Pearl?”
“Come on wee Rab. We have a job to do.”
He led the child to the enormous fir tree that stood at the bottom of the garden.
“On your knees now, we must make a prayer for Ma.”
“And our sisters?”
Willie nodded. He didn’t know what to say. Their sisters were already dead.
Should he tell Rab the truth? How could he explain death when he didn’t understand it himself?
“I think we should pray for all our family, Rab. Pa included.”
They followed their teachings and dropped to their knees, making simple overtures for mercy. Both of them had prayed every day, and Willie became angry because no one gave him any answers.
Didn’t God save souls? His mother and sister were souls, weren’t they?
He was told to trust in God, so why didn't He listen for once?
God had not saved his sisters. Was he about to steal his mother too?
Just then, an anguished cry pierced the air.
“Is that Pa?” whispered Rab, grabbing Willie’s arm.
Willie held Rab close, hugging his little brother as tight as he could. An icy tingle ran down his spine, and he shivered. It wasn’t a tingle of excitement; it was an acknowledgment.
Willie Farrell was ten years old and today was the end of his childhood.
