The littlest girls squealed and giggled as understanding dawned on them. Finley looked again at her mother, now participating in this slow, graceful dance, her smile as radiant as the beams of morning that shot over the cliff and set the pasture to sparkling with dew and femininity. She swooped down and swept her hands toward herself, daubing her face with the cool, lubricous dew that still smelled like night and also green, still-tight buds ready to burst forth with life. Finley laughed and laughed as she, too, washed her face with summer’s arrived ripeness, while the youngest Carson daughters raced around the pasture with their palms skimming the grass like swallows.
Lá Bealltainn.
Then the women began picking the flowers—yellow and orange and all shades of lilac—until their arms were laden. The young girls made beautiful crowns of blooms for them all, ropes and necklaces and waist garters, all frilled with soft, fragrant petals. Back down the hill they went, looping the wreaths and circlets onto low-hanging branches along the path, on doors and windows, overhangs and well handles.
Finley and Ina diverted through their own barn, laughing and skipping as they christened the tired old building with the bright gaiety of summer. Lachlan and Rory were in the aisle about their chores and stopped to lean on their fork handles as the women swept toward them. The old milk cow won a crown hung over one sweet ear; her calf received the treat of a thistle flower to crunch.
Ina draped a necklace over Rory’s head, who grinned proudly and pulled his wife to him for a peck on her cheek. Finley was caught up in the moment as she skipped up to Lachlan and tucked a bell heather behind his ear. She rose up on her toes without thinking as he leaned forward to grant her her kiss, and Finley didn’t turn her head. Lachlan’s hand came up to cup her jaw as their mouths met, and when Finley pulled away, his fingers lingered on her skin as he looked into her eyes with a faint, bewildered smile.
“Dew suits you,” he said.
Finley felt warm to her very toes, and rather than ruin the moment by saying something ridiculous and clumsy, she skipped away from him and out of the barn, her spontaneous laugh the only betrayer of her ecstasy.
The entire town was soon bedecked in bright blooms and then, as if prearranged, the menfolk emerged onto the streets, the elders of the town, the young men and boys afoot with rowdy shrieks. The feminine and masculine halves of Carson Town melded as streams converging into a river. And that river wound its way up the main street to the expanse of rolling hill before the old house, where the evidence of the long hours scouring the bay for driftwood was piled.
A cassock stuffed with heather lay on the ground near the base of the mountain of fuel wood, a bow and cord and dry, fluffy tinder at the ready. Murdoch stood patiently by the quiet pile until everyone from the town had arrived and was attending him with great anticipation. Just as he opened his mouth, Finley felt a warm hand slide along the small of her back. She looked up to see Lachlan at her side, and although he didn’t look at her, his hand remained resting on her waist.
As if he had truly come to meet her.
As if she was truly his woman, his wife.
As if he cared not who saw him touch her and the conclusions they would draw from it.
“Lá Bealltainn, Carsons!” Murdoch bellowed, startling Finley back to the present. The gathering returned the greeting to their chief with whooping cries of revelry.
“It has been many a long year since our town has celebrated. Many a long year since we’ve had aught to celebrate,” Murdoch allowed more solemnly. “But let today mark the beginning of nae only a fruitful growing season for our crops and our animals, but a future of abundance for all our folk.” He paused, seeming to struggle with a bit of emotion, and the sight of it brought a prickle to Finley’s eyes. “Never again, God willing, shall our people suffer from such want as we have endured. With this need-fire, we kindle renewed wills—the very thing that makes us Carsons. Never a stronger clan was there, and never a stronger clan shall there be!”
The crowd cheered, and Finley noticed that Lachlan’s shout was one of the loudest, and her heart squeezed painfully, wonderfully.
“Now, as I’m sure yer all in want of a hot meal,” Murdoch went on to the laughter of the crowd. He bent and picked up the corded bow and spindle, held them in his hands for a moment, looking at them in a most melancholy way before raising his gaze once more to find Finley’s father nearby in the crowd.
“The need-fire must be struck by a married man of the town.” He bundled the tools together in one hand and held them out. “Rory Carson, you gave up the life you were making to return to us when you were needed. You’ve done everything you could to see that your kin in blood and in name survived. You have proved a friend to me. To us all.”
Finley’s father stepped forward and took the tools with a humble nod of acknowledgment, and then he turned away, looking over the sea of faces before him. “I did return to Carson Town. But it was nae unselfish, as I wouldna’ve had my good Ina, nor my sweet, gentle, meek, wee lass.”
At this, the crowd broke out in good-natured laughter, and Finley felt a creeping blush steal over her face even as she sent her father a mock scowl.
Lachlan squeezed her tighter to his side for the briefest moment, as if he was proud to be standing with her. Finley didn’t think anyone had ever been proud of such a thing in her whole life.
Rory continued. “But I am an old man now. And I am not so proud as not to know that the burden of Carson Town’s success rests on the shoulders of the young. And I hope you will agree with me, Murdoch—that all of you will agree—that there is one here who has done much that was unexpected of him for our good.” He paused, and Finley held her breath. “My gel’s husband, Lachlan Blair.”
Rory extended the corded bow and spindle into the empty space at the center of the crowd. “You are well met to us, Lachlan Blair. Lá Bealltainn is your doing. Would that you kindle the need-fire.”
Finley couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her, and she felt Lachlan stiffen at her shoulder. This was a clear olive branch from the town, delivered through her own father, even if Murdoch could not bring himself to extend it. It was a laying to rest of the past, and the grudges held against Lachlan for the sins of his clan. All those gathered watched him with anxious, hopeful expressions. There was no animosity here for the man at her side, not any longer. Lachlan had worked every day to win over the town as he had set out to do, and Finley could think of no stronger evidence to prove that he had succeeded.
He pulled away from her gently, taking care to press her shoulders with his palms and look into her eyes before he turned to the center of the crowd and stepped toward her father. He held out his hand.
“You do me a great honor, Father Carson,” he said.
Rory placed the bow and cording into Lachlan’s palm with both hands, reverently, ceremonially. Finley’s throat constricted.
Lachlan went to the cassock and knelt. He squared the thin pine board outfitted with a divot between his knees, and then set the spindle. He laid the cord over the spindle, twisted the bow to form a loop, and began to work.
Lachlan was sweating within minutes, and the longer he worked, the closer the crowd drew to him. Tiny tendrils of smoke began curling from beneath the blackening spindle, and a circular ridge of brown dust rose up from the divot. More smoke, and now a whiff of burning wood on the air.
“Almost there, lad,” Rory said in a soft voice.
The encouragement seemed to give Lachlan renewed strength, and the bow was a blur as he sawed at the wood. And then, suddenly, his actions stopped and he reached for a pinch of the fluffy tinder. He laid it on the smoking pine board and leaned down, blowing gently, gently. Smoke rolled, and then a small lick of flame flickered up from the center. Lachlan added more tinder, tucked it in, prodded the flames, and then carefully picked up the hearth board.
He rose up on his knees and turned toward the base of the
smaller fire that had been laid, nestling the hearth board in the pile of kindling, feeding the baby flames thin strips of bark, wood shavings, then twigs and shards of light, percussive driftwood.
A teasing crackle of proper wood, and then the flames grew tall, spread. The crowd gathered around the fire erupted in a cheer.
Lachlan Blair had brought life back to the town.
* * * *
Every female in Carson Town kissed Lachlan that morning.
As they came up by family to collect their bit of need-fire to carry back to their own hearths, they pecked his cheek, squeezed his hand, gifted him with warm smiles of welcome and thanks. Genuine welcome. Oddly, it was Kirsten Carson who had been the most reserved.
“Doona forget, Blair,” she whispered in his ear.
Her reminder sobered him. In the busy days leading up to this morning, Lachlan had indeed almost forgotten about the valley of Starving Lake beyond the edge of the cliff, about the family he’d left behind there. Nay, nae left behind, a dark voice argued. Forced to leave.
It was like another lifetime.
Thoughts of his brother brought to mind the idea that Town Blair was also celebrating Lá Bealltainn at this very moment, Marcas likely lighting the need-fire with Dand at his side. There would be roast lamb on the green, and the unmarried women and girls would dance around the well. He knew they were carrying on without him, and it caused a darkness to dampen his spirits, much like a lone, laden cloud passing menacingly before the warm sun. Perhaps it would pour out its rain and ruin a pleasant day, or perhaps it would drift by still laden, leaving behind only a brief chill and a thankfulness for the light.
Ina Carson was the last of the townswomen to come forward after everyone else had dispersed to their homes for a hasty breaking of their fasts. Her gentle smile had grown familiar to him, her way of looking out for him as a mother would, and yet still always granting him respect as a grown man. He’d never really had a mother.
“You did so well, Lachlan,” she said, pulling him into her embrace and patting his back. She leaned away to beam up into his face. “So well. We’re all proud as can be.”
Lachlan’s throat constricted.
“Naw, doona embarrass the man, Mam,” Rory interjected gruffly as he steered his wife toward the path. But he gave Lachlan a wink and a nod before he turned away, and there was a sparkle in the old man’s eye that meant just as much to Lachlan as Ina’s maternal praise.
“Good morning.”
He turned back his head, and there was Finley. He’d thought she’d gone ahead, but he was inordinately pleased that she’d waited for him. Her red locks were tamed into two long braids that hung over her shoulders, a score of bright, tiny blooms woven in among the strands. She still wore her flower crown, and her wide, blue eyes seemed to reflect the smile on her pink mouth.
“Good morning,” Lachlan replied.
“Care to walk me back to the house?”
“Will you feed me bannocks?”
Finley nodded.
Murdoch was at his side then, taking the narrow spade from Lachlan’s hand. “Go on, lad. I planned on tending the fire ’til the games begin, any matter. Brought meself some good eld victuals.” He patted the pouch on his belt.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to Lachlan that he drop his arm across Finley’s shoulders as they walked down the path, and for the briefest moment, he allowed himself to again pretend that it would always be this way. That Finley would give him smiles and kisses, and walk home with him.
They were friends, were they not?
But the pretend was becoming more challenging of late to reconcile with the real, and it was difficult for Lachlan to accept that he was just biding his time at Carson Town, doing what was necessary to bring about what he’d set out to do. The game he was playing could turn him into a helpless pawn, he warned himself. And Lachlan dreaded the time drawing near when Finley would not smile at him, would reject his kisses.
But then he squeezed Finley to him for a moment as they approached Rory and Ina’s longhouse. It was just today. Just today. And it was Lá Bealltainn. Nothing so drastic was going to happen today to prevent him from enjoying this town, this woman, on such a special day.
Today, he belonged.
* * * *
Murdoch sighed and sat down on the rock rolled near to the fire. He tucked the handle of the spade behind his arm, and reached into his pouch for the skin, but rather than opening it at once, he rested it across his thigh and stared out over the low rooftops of the town toward the sparkling blue bay and the wide, seemingly endless sea beyond. No ships. No ships for years.
He’d kept his word.
If he hadn’t been listening for them, the need fire would have surely masked the hesitant, shuffling footsteps behind him.
Murdoch retrieved one of the cold oatcakes from his pouch and then unstoppered the flask and took a mouthful of the whisky. Then he reseated the cork and rose slightly to place the flask and the oatcake on the sandy, rocky ground away from where he sat. Murdoch took the spade from beneath his arm and stepped to the fire to herd the spreading flames. He couldn’t hear the footsteps so near the roar, but he knew they were still there.
“You are welcome at my fire, Geordie Blair,” Murdoch called out.
* * * *
The leftover food from their morning meal was packed into the baskets, along with the dishes made the day before, and Finley and her mother looped the handles over their arms as they preceded the men from the house and toward the beach. A few townsfolk had carried tables and benches out onto the sand, and even now, some were busy setting up short, staked flags, placing painted targets and piling wood for smaller fires.
The wind was gentle and warm over the waves, sending the flags fluttering. Children took shifts guarding the food baskets from the excited seabirds that swooped over the beach like banners tethered long on the end of the children’s sticks.
The men and older boys wandered down the beach in loose groups, their belts heavy with weaponry, and in moments, the first rounds of the games began. Axes, daggers, and freshly sharpened spears were hurled over the sand toward the targets, with shouts of triumph and cries of lament decorating the air. The girls and younger children had stick horse races, and water-carrying competitions, and there was a net-plaiting contest for the women. Ina Carson won it easily, and to the laughing encouragement of all the women gathered when she’d told them the secret was all the years she’d spent trying to get Finley to hold still long enough to have her hair tamed.
The food was brought out. Then the mead. And then the second round of men’s games began. Lachlan had a good showing, and Finley wanted to think it was because he knew she was there watching him, cheering for him.
Her husband. Her husband whom she wanted to stay in Carson Town. She wanted him to stay and be her husband in truth.
And tonight, emboldened by Lá Bealltainn, she would tell him so.
Then all were divided into groups for the foot races. The youngest children went first, along a short course on the beach, and Finley thought no one at all won that heat, because most of them ended up on their faces and squalling because they got sand in their eyes and—soon after—their mouths. The older children were divided by age and sent into and through the town, with the victors winning special shell necklaces.
As the afternoon slid into evening, all the men thirteen and older were gathered together for the longest and most anticipated foot race: through the town, past the old house, to the falls bridge and back. A lad of ten and four easily claimed the prize of a pewter mug, and it was soon filled with rewarding mead for the victor as the sun hovered over the horizon and the beach fires were lit.
Finley found a panting and sweating Lachlan near the mead barrel and strolled up to him, her hands clasped behind her back.
“Showin’ your age are you, Blair?” she ta
unted with a smile.
The men around the table laughed as Lachlan turned to face her. He paused a moment, taking in her appearance. She still wore her flower crown, but her hair was loosed from her plaits and flowing over the bodice of the gown she’d worn on their wedding day. Appreciation burned in his eyes.
“Och, I let the lad have it,” he said. “Every boy needs a bit of encouragement now and again.”
She snorted. “I could have bested you in that race.”
Lachlan turned up his cup and drained it, set it on the table, and then reached out to snag Finley around her waist. He pulled her to him and leaned his face close to her, but just when Finley thought he would kiss her, he touched her nose with his fingertip and grinned.
“You’re adorable.”
He released her, and Finley tried to hold back her own smile. “Does that mean you willna accept my challenge? I understand if you’re afraid.”
The men ooh’ed in anticipation. A set of pipes squeezed out a few hesitant notes, and then took up a lively tune, while a pair of drummers added high and low percussion to the salty, cooling air.
Lachlan placed his hand on the tabletop and leaned his face toward hers. “A challenge, is it?”
“Aye. Down the beach to the pools.”
“To what spoils go the victor?” Lachlan asked.
She shrugged, as if she hadn’t thought that far ahead, as if it didn’t matter. In truth, it didn’t, because she hoped to gain her victory before returning to the festivities. “Boon of his or her asking.”
“Lurin’ ye to yer death, Blair!” one man called out in a laughing warning.
“Doona trust her comely face!”
The Highlander's Promise Page 16
