short, sheep-cropped grass scarred by moss- and lichen-covered outcrops of the underlying rock that rendered the place unsuitable for any kind of agricultural activity other than the raising of sheep.
Some time after that, I noticed that my companion was craning his neck to look around us, where nothing had changed within the past few miles. “We really should be drawing close to Maybole by now,” he said. “But clearly we have not come as far as I thought we had. I see a farmhouse, though, so we have at least reached civilization.”
I grunted my disdain. “Habitation I will accept, but I would balk at civilization , in this part of the world.” I looked about me, taking in the rolling sweep of the surrounding craggy hills and the paucity of trees. “No signs of settlement that I can see, but I have no doubt Maybole will be here somewhere, and when we find it we will be in the very heart of the Carrick earldom. Pardon me, then, if I walk in silence for a while, preparing myself for the sight of its glories.”
We walked on for another half mile until we rounded a bend in the road and came to the so-called town of Maybole. It was ahamlet: a cluster of buildings with two undistinguished taverns and a scattering of people who eyed our priestly robes incuriously. We considered stopping at one of the hostelries, but only briefly, deciding that we would be better to keep going for the remaining few miles to Turnberry. We turned right at the crossroads and kept walking, and the road led us along the bank of a narrow, noisy, fast-flowing brook.
Martin had been walking with his head down, mulling over something, but now he glanced at the roadside stream. “Lots of water around here,” he said. “Is this the same burn that we crossed in Maybole?”
“Your guess would be as good as mine,” I said. “Running water is everywhere in these parts. There are dozens of these burns, all flowing into one another until they reach the sea as rivers. Some of the rivers have names, others don’t. It depends on how close they come to places where folk live.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Martin said. “There’s one comes out right at Turnberry, forming the spit of land that holds Bruce’s castle, and I know it has a name, but don’t ask me what it is because I couldn’t tell you.”
“And how far remains to Turnberry? I have enjoyed your companionship, Father, but our loving Saviour knows I’m ready to reach journey’s end this day, pleasant as it has been.”
“Six miles, I’d think, something like that. Less than two hours, at any rate.”
“Two hours to kill, then. So what will we talk about now?”
“You tell me,” he said pleasantly. “It should be my turn to talk, in fairness. What?” he asked me, frowning quickly. “What did I say?”
“You said almost nothing, Father. I’ve been talking. For hours.”
“I don’t understand,” he said as I felt my face break out in a wide smile.
“Nor should you,” I said. “How could you?”
“What on earth are you talking about, Father?”
“I’m talking about anything and everything, it seems,” I said, andthen laughed aloud. “Martin, you’ve cured me. I’m talking as easily and fluently as I did before my injuries, and I haven’t been aware of it until this very moment.”
‘What injuries?”
“My mouth, my face.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Nothing, obviously, and for that I thank the Lord God. You have no difficulty understanding me?”
“Why should I?”
“Because—” I realized that I was being foolish. The young priest had never heard me speak before today, so he had nothing against which to judge my prowess. But I had, and I was exultant. I had no doubt I was taking greater care with my enunciation, but I was doing it with ease and confidence. “Because I did not always speak, or sound, the way I do today,” I finished. “But so long as you can understand me without difficulty, then I am content. You were about to
Some time after that, I noticed that my companion was craning his neck to look around us, where nothing had changed within the past few miles. “We really should be drawing close to Maybole by now,” he said. “But clearly we have not come as far as I thought we had. I see a farmhouse, though, so we have at least reached civilization.”
I grunted my disdain. “Habitation I will accept, but I would balk at civilization , in this part of the world.” I looked about me, taking in the rolling sweep of the surrounding craggy hills and the paucity of trees. “No signs of settlement that I can see, but I have no doubt Maybole will be here somewhere, and when we find it we will be in the very heart of the Carrick earldom. Pardon me, then, if I walk in silence for a while, preparing myself for the sight of its glories.”
We walked on for another half mile until we rounded a bend in the road and came to the so-called town of Maybole. It was ahamlet: a cluster of buildings with two undistinguished taverns and a scattering of people who eyed our priestly robes incuriously. We considered stopping at one of the hostelries, but only briefly, deciding that we would be better to keep going for the remaining few miles to Turnberry. We turned right at the crossroads and kept walking, and the road led us along the bank of a narrow, noisy, fast-flowing brook.
Martin had been walking with his head down, mulling over something, but now he glanced at the roadside stream. “Lots of water around here,” he said. “Is this the same burn that we crossed in Maybole?”
“Your guess would be as good as mine,” I said. “Running water is everywhere in these parts. There are dozens of these burns, all flowing into one another until they reach the sea as rivers. Some of the rivers have names, others don’t. It depends on how close they come to places where folk live.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Martin said. “There’s one comes out right at Turnberry, forming the spit of land that holds Bruce’s castle, and I know it has a name, but don’t ask me what it is because I couldn’t tell you.”
“And how far remains to Turnberry? I have enjoyed your companionship, Father, but our loving Saviour knows I’m ready to reach journey’s end this day, pleasant as it has been.”
“Six miles, I’d think, something like that. Less than two hours, at any rate.”
“Two hours to kill, then. So what will we talk about now?”
“You tell me,” he said pleasantly. “It should be my turn to talk, in fairness. What?” he asked me, frowning quickly. “What did I say?”
“You said almost nothing, Father. I’ve been talking. For hours.”
“I don’t understand,” he said as I felt my face break out in a wide smile.
“Nor should you,” I said. “How could you?”
“What on earth are you talking about, Father?”
“I’m talking about anything and everything, it seems,” I said, andthen laughed aloud. “Martin, you’ve cured me. I’m talking as easily and fluently as I did before my injuries, and I haven’t been aware of it until this very moment.”
‘What injuries?”
“My mouth, my face.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Nothing, obviously, and for that I thank the Lord God. You have no difficulty understanding me?”
“Why should I?”
“Because—” I realized that I was being foolish. The young priest had never heard me speak before today, so he had nothing against which to judge my prowess. But I had, and I was exultant. I had no doubt I was taking greater care with my enunciation, but I was doing it with ease and confidence. “Because I did not always speak, or sound, the way I do today,” I finished. “But so long as you can understand me without difficulty, then I am content. You were about to
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