A Woman's Story at a Winter's Fire (2/2)

     ‘I want to tell those stories too.’ Kelpie drew a deep breath. She came closer to the fire, spread out her hands before it, embracing the warmth, her guardian and prompter. She looked through the fire, to the guests on the other side. She closed her eyes. ‘On a bright summer’s day,’ she said, ‘a girl came walking, on the beach that had served our fathers and mothers. She came from the ribs and other bones on the hill, from portals of death, looking for life. She saw a whale stranded on the beach, sent by its mother the ocean, who could tell from the ripples of her dress on the shore, that the people of these islands were in need. The tide ebbed and the whale could not move, the more she struggled. The girl, who also once lived in the House of the Red Bream, watched the whale. She ran down to the shallows, and tried to push her back into the sea, but it was too late. She saw the light begin to fade in the eyes of the whale, and in that moment they were sisters. She stayed, touching the whale’s side, until her father came home from fishing on the other side of the island. The spirit of the whale had gone by then. He was glad to see the whale, and greeted his daughter. She buried her head in his furs and wept for the loss of the whale. Her father comforted her, saying the ocean was looking after them, and had sent the whale to help them live through the next winter. The whale would not have come to them if it was not ready to go, its death an ambassador for life. The ocean knew what it was doing. It always knows. Even when the weather changes, the summers are colder, and the red bream passes away to other rivers. We no longer had the river for it to swim in, the bright river of summer merged with the harsh winter sea of the dark, and the islands change, but we go on. She was the last girl to eat the red bream, now it is no more, though our house still bears its name. That girl was Old Mother to my Old Mother. One day I will bear that name too.’ She bowed her head, to applause. Old Mother smiled.

     ‘You are learning, child. The rhythms of life, they come and go, they are as one with death.’ Kelpie smiled, a little uncertainly. The door to the house opened once more, and a well-built man came in. He needed help to close the door. Kelpie ran into the arms of her new husband.

     ‘Where were you? You missed my story!’ She held him close, and had no intention of ever letting go.        

***

Old Mother sat alone, watching the fire dying. For her, it was the completion of a circle. She had not liked to speak of death, of closed, completed circles, to Kelpie earlier. She watched its dark red heart crumbling into itself, and felt for her own heart for a moment. It seemed to be slowing every day. The House of the Red Bream was silent now, all the guests gone. They were back in their houses, those who were staying for now. She looked over at the great stone dresser, her cups now standing there again. That year’s harvest of mead had done them proud. Maybe too proud. She smiled at the memory of Smoke Man, and wondered where his visions might take him next.

     The wind was continuing to rise. Their earlier companion was growing closer, as if anxious to embrace them in its audibly cold, grey embrace. ‘That wind comes from the House of the Pole Star,’ she said aloud, ‘it always did.’ The door rattled suddenly, as if someone wanted to come in. She frowned, then gathered her furs about her and inched closer to the fire. The yellow tongues were gone, the orange tower collapsed, but the dark red heart lived on. There was no more seaweed to build up the fire. The others had left her there out of respect, knowing she wanted to pass on her own terms. She had felt her time was coming. She stretched out her hands to it. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you for guiding me, for the changing seasons, for my young bones that became old, for all the skills in trapping and hunting and staying alive these many winters I have known. For the gift of stories, for the love of this place, the love that holds us together, keeps us warm.’ Her head fell onto her arms, cross legged. The fire seemed to wink back with many eyes, the more it crumbled. It had lived long through the day. Like her, it had perhaps had its time, done its job. She could feel her heartbeat slowing, a slow thread pulse moving, a ship coming into harbour, aligning itself with all things living and dead. She smiled. She was ready. But someone else was not.

     The rattling at the door became insistent this time. Old Mother gradually roused herself from her communion with the fire and moved slowly over to the door. She braced herself for the cold. In came Kelpie, still in the stained furs of her wedding finery. ‘I wanted-‘ Old Mother began.

     ‘I know,’ said Kelpie, ‘but you are coming with us. The whole village is coming. Even the other old ones are going. The life here is going, and we want to take you with us! Leave this place to our stories, and our children’s children, who will find it again.’

      Old Mother looked over at the beds, thinking of her relations, still buried there. ‘The bones-‘

     ‘Our bones have to move,’ said Kelpie firmly. ‘Now!’ She propelled Old Mother to her feet and pushed her to the door. Hair-Shirt took her other hand, as she stepped over the threshold. The wind was bitter. Old Mother looked back once more.

     ‘The bones,’ she said. ‘The bones have come full circle.’ There was a hint of a smile as she let Kelpie hustle her outside, and they bent into the wind. The wind rose in pitch, blowing in sand and debris. The fire was no more.