Like The Down Of A Thistle – Sarah Swan

“I gave them two rabbits I caught in my snares this morning, so they were happy with that,” she said. There was a large patch of dark, loose earth with a smaller amount next to it, which had been scraped up into a neat pile, ready for me. As I scooped up the last three shovel loads and sprinkled the earth on the grave, also giving Florie a turn to do the same, I could not stop the silent tears from flowing again.

“Sorry,” I said, as I wiped them away. I hated constantly crying in front of Katherine. She didn’t exactly have an easy life herself, and I’d yet to see her lose control the way I kept doing. “Don’t be,” she said. “It’s alright to grieve.” I wanted to mark the grave, but considering Katherine hadn’t been permitted to do that for her own son, I felt it would be inconsiderate to suggest it.

Sensing what I was thinking, Katherine walked over to an overgrown patch where several different plants and flowers were growing. “Thistles or Dwarf Cornel?” she asked, leaning on the shovel. “I think it has to be thistles,” I said. She nodded and started digging up a patch of them. When she brought them over, she gently rested them in the middle of the grave, then covered the roots with the loose earth. Then she dipped the shovel into the river and poured a trickle of water around the base of the plant.

She repeated this until the soil was dark with moisture. “Did you want to say anything?” she asked, standing next to me, still holding the shovel. I shook my head. “No.” We went back up the valley to my croft and the next job involved picking through the cottage to find anything worth saving. It had rained through the night as we’d hoped, and the smouldering in the roof appeared to be completely gone. “I’m glad we didn’t wash our clothes this morning,” I said, sighing. “We’re going to be filthy again by the end of the day.”

My hands were already black from picking up charred lumps of wood and thatch, and the front of my dress was going the same way. “We can worry about that tomorrow,” said Katherine. “Anyway, I’ve cancelled the party, so there’s no one we have to impress.” I knew she was trying to cheer me up, and rather than disappoint her, I returned a single-sided smile and rolled my eyes. “Very funny,” I said. We spent the rest of the day clearing out the cottage.

We dragged out the scorched woven mats and threw them on the rubbish pile which would be burned at a later time, then scooped out the blackened hay from the bed boxes.

First Edition March 2021 Copyright© 2021 Sarah Swan Follow me on Twitter: @SarahSwanAuthor Follow me on Facebook: @SarahSwanAuthor Follow me on Instagram: @SarahSwanAuthor All rights reserved. This book is for your personal enjoyment only. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express permission of the author. Like the Down of a Thistle is a work of fiction.

The Highland Clearances and Jacobite Rebellion, however, were very real. For the purpose of the story, I have made references to these and other historical events, but this has been done with artistic license and are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

OceanofPDF.com T Chapter One Anna he rain lashed down across the grassy expanse of the Glenkeld Valley, warm enough not to be sleet but cold enough to penetrate to the bone. Having never left the Highlands, Florie, my seven-year-old daughter, seemed not to notice. She ran down the hill from our cottage in her bare feet, her dark blonde hair matted and plastered to her face.

“I’ll get them, Mam!” she called out, her voice barely audible over a loud crack of thunder which echoed off the side of the mountains. I stood in the doorway of the longhouse and called out to her to return, but the child was already halfway down the hill and headed into the valley. Berating her under my breath, I flung my cloak over my shoulders and pulled the hood down low, before stepping into the storm.

I hurriedly followed my daughter down into the valley, my flimsy leather shoes almost instantly filling with cold water as I squelched through the grass. Even though I hurried, it took a good few minutes to catch up to the little girl. The sky lit up with a flash which was immediately followed by another loud crack, when Florie came into view again. Through the sideways rain, I could see her holding a stick and trying to persuade our flock of fourteen sodden sheep to venture back up the hill.

She was struggling, and I regretted not moving the sheep into the barn before the weather had turned. Something about storms seemed to make the creatures more stupid and stubborn than they usually were. They were skittish, bleating and darting about aimlessly along the muddy bank of the river. Though if it wasn’t for the river which carved its way through the valley, the sheep may have ventured much farther from home. I bent down to pick up a stick. It was a bit short, but it would have to do.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: efa137422f0fa6e0
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 2,278,075 bytes (2.173 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 300
• Language: English (en)

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• Estimated Reading Time: 580.97 minutes
• Total Words: 116,193
• Total Characters: 609,923
• Average Words per Page: 387.31
• Average Characters per Page: 2033.08

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