Chapter 1: Kindling and Resentment
To the east a jagged line of golden sunlight divided heaven from earth as the island sky faded from the black of night to woolen gray. Hamish MacBride groaned, rolled over in his bed, and tossed the sheepskin quilt off. Time to rise. Thirty years of habit woke him with the dawn. The sun would be up soon and he wanted tea and porridge in his belly before that. He looked over at his brother Dougal, still asleep in his narrow bed against the other wall. At one time they had shared one bigger bed, warmer in winter, but Dougal's nightmares put an end to that. It was often colder this way, but quieter, for Hamish. Shirt, britches, socks, boots, and out the door for kindling sticks.
Outside, he lit his roll-up, took a deep drag and stared out at the island as he let the smoke out slow. The wind was up, not strong yet but doing its best to whip the short rugged grass into a frenzy. In the shed, ten feet away, the sheep rustled, impatient. They heard their shepherd moving and they too were hungry.
Hamish took another drag, held it a moment and again slowly exhaled. The wind snatched the smoke away immediately. He knocked the coal off the end of the cigarette and put the remainder back in a small metal case he kept in his shirt pocket. Enough.
He heard a noise and glanced over at the sheep shed. Farther down the weathered gray stone wall a loose shutter was clattering in the wind. One more thing to tend, he thought. He gathered an arm full of kindling, then strode over and slapped the shutter tight. That would do for now.
He stepped back into the cottage, and the warmth made him shiver in contrast to outside. The kettle sat on the iron stove that sat in the stone hearth. Dougal's doing. He'd been up and filled it at least. Good. But he’d rolled himself back onto his bed.
“Time to get the fire going," Hamish said, dumping the kindling on the stone hearth. He looked over at Dougal, who lay on his back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. "You hear me, Dougal?"
Dougal blinked, turned his head toward the noise, and nodded.
Hamish went to the cupboard for the tea and oatmeal. He set out the cups, bowls and spoons and glanced over at Dougal. He hadn’t moved. Hamish took four steps over to his bed and stared down on his brother. Dougal shifted his gaze to Hamish.
"Aye, I heard you," Dougal spoke.
“Then beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” Hamish asked in a low, overly sweet voice, “but would you please...” here he began to get louder and louder... “haul yer lazy ass out of bed and mend the fire! We've a long day ahead of us--ewes need shifting to the upper pasture and the shed needs a good mucking out. And we have the shipment at sundown.” He stopped and then more quietly said, “Mend the fire so we can have some food, IF you please!”
He turned back toward the cupboard. “I’ll take the ewes alone and when you’re done with the sheds you can join me...”
Dougal leaped out of bed, red faced. "The 'ell I will! I did 'em the last two times! Do the damned shit work yerself! I'll take the..."
Hamish turned around. When he faced his brother, he didn't speak, didn’t move closer. His body tensed, ready to fight and his cold gray eyes bored into Dougal.
Dougal winced but didn’t back down. "I'm no' your servant, Hamish. Have you forgotten? We're brothers, Hamish.”
"It's not me doing the forgettin’... brother.” The last word came out like spit on the floor. “It's me reminding you that our father put me over you. On his deathbed, Dougal.” Hamish's gaze didn't waver. "Your place is here, with me. Doing what I say. Just like our father said. Have you forgotten that? Because I haven’t!”
Hamish's voice was low, dangerous. "Our father, yours and mine, put me in charge, and I've kept what’s left of this family fed and clothed ever since."
Dougal’s heart was pounding, a vein on his forehead stood out, the one that always did when he got angry. Or scared. It wasn’t his turn to back down, dammit. Not this time.
"I'm not a child any more, Hamish. Neither one of us is." Dougal retorted, his voice barely above a whisper, but with a force that scared even himself. "And I'm not daft. I know as much as you do, about sheep, about... about the boat, about smuggling. About keeping us together.”
Hamish's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward and slapped Dougal on the cheek. A red mark appeared and his voice went low, the distant thunder of a storm approaching over the Firth. "Dougal McBride, you know nothing. Yer so damnably stupid you don't even know what you don't know!" He spat on the floor.
Dougal's hand went to his face. His other hand clenched a fist so hard the knuckles popped with the strain. Heat rose in him, red hot coals ready to burst into flame. He stepped forward.
“Don't you be callin’ me stupid, Hamish. I'm no' a fuckin’ child anymore."
Hamish took hold of a chair and swung it around. One leg caught on a crack in the slate floor, and it toppled over when Hamish let go.
"Sit your self down, boy! While I light the fire you were too sleepy to light. And while I make the porridge because you don't know how to not burn it for the both of us!" His voice was getting louder. “Sit down, brother, before I KNOCK you down!” Hamish roared, red faced.
Dougal didn't sit. He'd seen Hamish this mad, seen it lots of times. “You've changed, Hamish. You're not the same man who took care of me when we were lads. No. I won’t sit on command.”
Hamish shifted his weight, stepped in and slammed a fist into Dougal’s chest. The blow knocked him back and he fell onto his bed. He reached down and grabbed Dougal’s shirt, pulled him up, face to face, inches apart. His breath was hot and smelled of his roll-up.
“You are stupid, Dougal. Too stupid, and too weak and too big a coward to do anything but obey me.” He dropped him back onto the bed. "That's why father put me in charge. And now... after all these years, you think it's time for a change? I kept this family alive, kept this whole island going. I've done what I had to do. And if you think that makes me too hard on you, so be it."
Dougal lay on the bed, his chest heaving. His cheek stung from the slap. His chest hurt too. But he didn't look away. He glared up at his brother, his eyes burning. "I've done what you've told me to, Hamish. But I'm not scared of you. Not..."
Before he could finish the sentence, Hamish yanked him up off the bed and Dougal's feet scrambled to find the flagstone floor. Hamish swung him around and slammed him against the wall. The impact knocked down the photo that hung on the wall, their only photo of the whole family. It rattled to the floor, the glass that covered it cracked in two.
Dougal's head hit the wall hard. His vision began swimming. The stone was cold and the rough texture bit into his skin. Hamish was in his face again, his hot breath on his face.
"Well maybe it's time for a refresher lesson, brother. Maybe it's time to make you scared of me all over again. Just like I had to last time."
Hamish slammed a fist up into Dougal's stomach, just below his ribs. Dougal gasped, couldn't catch his breath. He sagged against the wall as his brother stepped back.
"One punch, strongman? Just one punch from your big brother? Stupid and weak, I told you! Are you ready to respect me now, brother?” Hamish’s face was contorted with rage.
Dougal was still gasping, bent over, trying to catch his breath. Hamish came at him a third time but he held up a hand.
“Stop.”
Hamish stopped, took one step back.
His shoulders heaved. The rage inside of him was a living thing, breathing, needing, wanting.
“You’re lucky I stopped,” Hamish growled.
Dougal coughed, spat onto the flagstones. He tasted blood. He rolled his shoulder, testing it. Nothing broken, just bruised. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at Hamish. His eyes were wet, shining, but they weren’t tears.
“Lucky?” Dougal said, his voice raw. “Aye. I’m lucky.