The Runaway's Gold by Emilie Burack

the mud and nettles as best I could from me tattered gansey and breeks and started toward him.
    He glanced at me, smiling, then turned back to the schooner.
    â€œWhat’s in the barrels?” I asked, hugging me arms tightly to me chest.
    â€œYou a Robertson?” the whiskered man asked, then sucked on his pipe. “Have the look, I’d say. Cheekbones of your Daa—the eyes.” He looked at me closely, as I shifted nervously from foot to foot. “A bit more handsome than the others with those light blue eyes. And the ginger hair, o’ course. Is that what they say about you, lad?”
    We had no glass to look into. How I looked compared to me family had never crossed me mind. But I held me words, knowing we Shetlanders’ deep curiosity about the business of others. One thing I knew for sure—by day’s end this man and everyone else in the parish would know I had killed Mr. Peterson’s ewe.
    When I didn’t respond, the man continued to look me up and down. “Seems you’ve had a bit of a rough night.”
    â€œWas quite a gale,” I said, pulling me fingers through me hair.
    He nodded, the wicks of his smile twitching. “That’s what that other Robertson said earlier. Over from Culswick. Said his name was John.”
    I turned to him. “When?”
    The old man chuckled, pulling the clay pipe from his lips and inspecting the bowl. “Oh, ’bout when the sun came up. But he’s long gone now.”
    â€œHow did he get the timber unloaded so fast?” I was furious with meself for sleeping as long as I had.
    â€œTimber?” the old man asked, exploding with laughter. “So that’s what he thought the
Fortitude
was carryin’!”
    I grimaced as the breeze picked up an odor even stronger than the boiling whale blubber.
    â€œI’m not sure who is givin’ you Robertsons your information, but there’s no timber in the wrecked hull of Her Majesty’s fine vessel—just barrels and barrels of guano on their way from Gothenburg to Hull.” He thrust the pipe back between his yellowed teeth and pointed to the loaded boat nearing shore. “If you think
your
eyes are waterin’, just think of those poor lads! Looks to me like they’ve got more than enough muck in that ship to cover the crops of both England and Wales!”
    The man made a
click
,
click
,
click
sound with his tongue and grinned. “The mighty English are goin’ to have a hard time findin’ a market for that here in Skeld.”
    So Angus Moncrieff had been wrong, I thought with a twinge of satisfaction. Then a sense of relief flooded me chest. Now all I needed was to catch up with John before he returned home and convince him to put back the pouch! At least there’d be something for the rent and to pay Mr. Peterson for the ewe.
    â€œGood day to you, then,” I said, turning back toward Culswick. “I expect me brother’s hoping I’ll catch him.”
    But I hadn’t taken more than a few steps when the small man let out a long hoot.
    â€œYa won’t find him goin’ that direction.” He winked at me in the morning sun. “Went that way.”
    He pointed north, to the path leading up and around the voe.
    â€œAnd by the fire in that lad’s eyes, I’d bet a kishie of peat he had a more exciting plan in mind than headin’ back for the morning chores.”
    â€œThat leads to Reawick and Garderhouse,” I said, puzzled. “There’s nothing up there but a few scattered crofts.”
    â€œAye.” The man nodded slowly. Then he pulled the pipe from his mouth and banged the spent bowl of tobacco against his thigh. “But it’s the only way to Lerwick if you dunna have a boat.”

An Unlikely Companion
    erwick! John was going to Lerwick! A full day’s walk on the other side of the island, the busiest port in Shetland. Crowded with ships from around the