c) North Chap 5

Chapter 5 Celebrations

It was a long time till dawn. And with the dawn, the storm returned.
The next day was hard - as if the others had been easy. Simple jobs
were made a struggle by the solid roaring of the wind and the constant,
horizontal, biting salt spray. There was little light and that lasted
only a few scant hours. The children had begun to cry in earnest and
she was so exhausted that it was all she could do to wake, briefly
offer milk and comfort and then fall back into a deep sleep.

Still, the gale and Ewan's preparations kept most of the insects at
bay and, once inside the house, it was warm, if crowded.

"There is dry wood in the barn." said John, that morning. "If you want
to get on with making the beds for the bairns."

"Will you no' need it for the fire?" asked Ewan, who was tearing a
soft length of cloth into squares, for swaddling.

"There should be a chance to gather more, if we need it, when the
storm breaks."

"Aye, fine." Ewan laid down the last of the squares of cloth on the
pile beside him. "You'll have to get used to these." he grinned. John
looked at the racks of food, hanging from the beams. He shook his
head.

"I'll have to fix up something to hang them on." He sighed.

"Put them in the back room?"

"We'll need space in here too... Oh my..."

"It will only be for another few years." John raised an eyebrow.

"Oh aye. Thanks for the comfort, Ewan."

"Always here to help you through the darkest hours." John, looking at
Ewan was struck by his youth, the clearness of his skin, his ready
smile.

"Why are you here, Ewan?"

"I got stuck here, remember? Ah well, I suppose I'm just involved
now."

"Well, thanks for your help. Last night - I've never seen anything
like it."

"Aye." Ewan made a face. "A word of warning, John. That child is on
the edge, you ken? I don't know what the insects and all mean, but I
think he is not quite in this world. Keep an eye on him. There are
things between the worlds that won't mean him any good."

"And you know about these things, do you?"

"Every time I go home, John, the way is a little stranger. And I have
travelled."

"Aye, but I think I will leave that sort of thing to her." John nodded
towards the bed.

"Don't, John." Ewan's voice was low. "She is too proud. She thinks
that she knows what she is doing but she goes too far. This whole thing
is because of her. Who knows what will happen because she has used her
power up here in the Isles. She is not wise enough. "

"Ewan." John's voice held a note of warning. "You don't say those
things between man and wife." Ewan stared back, then sighed.

"Aye. I over-reach myself too... Just be careful, John. Don't let her
go too far." There was a pause. "Well, I had better get on."

"The tools are on the wall in the barn. Take the lamp, it will be dark
in there." Ewan raised his hand. He smiled. Turning to the pile of
goods, still unsorted in a heap on the floor, he pulled out a ring, no,
eight rings, of metal. John frowned.

"Lantern of air." said Ewan. The rings were of dull silver wire, each
laid on top of the other and crossing in the middle. Ewan held a small
hook on the side of the top ring. "Watch." Gently, he pulled the bottom
ring down. The rings opened smoothly, like a fan, forming a
sphere.

"Aye, that's some good!" said John, eyebrow raised.

"Just watch." Ewan bent and blew through the opened rings. A blue
flame flickered then caught and burned steadily. He blew again, harder.
The flame grew brighter, hanging, blue-white in the centre of the
sphere.

"What is that, Ewan?"

"Lantern of air, John. Has it's uses. It's yours, remember?"

"How do you put it out?" John was wary.

"Close it. Like this." With a deft snap of his wrist, Ewan flicked the
rings shut. The flame disappeared.

"Does it burn?"

"It might, I suppose, if it got too bright. It's not much use outside
up here, except on a calm day. In the wind it tends to dazzle you. You
can't see."

"This is ridiculous... Would it get too hot out there?"

"Nah. It would be warm though. You would have to be careful not to
look."

Shortly after, a light was seen on Papa Stour, brighter than any
light-house. It bobbed and weaved around on the North Point, easily
outshining the cloud wracked sun. The two men crept back into the
cottage, giggling and blinking at the furious purple and green spots
before their eyes.

"Some good thing, that." said John, his eyes watering. Salt spray
dripped from his hair. Their faces were red, wind scoured. John shook
his hands over the stove. "I'll have a dozen."

"You know how much this would cost?"

"No. Don't want to ken. Hey - what about the pipes of dancing or
whatever?" Ewan looked towards the sleeping woman on the bed.

"I'll show you later." He gathered his cloak about him, tucked the
lantern into a pocket and, touching two fingers to his forehead,
slipped out the door.

John rubbed his eyes. There was a lot to do. For one thing, the toilet
needed emptying. Normally, he would dig a hole up in the sandy ground
behind the mold, and bury the contents of the bucket there. He looked
at the window. He would just take it away along the banks and dump it
below the tide-line. Mind you, even that could be messy enough in this
wind.

There were a couple of spare broom poles in the barn. He could make
drying racks with those. He'd do that tonight. First there were the
animals to see to in the byre and the chickens and ducks cooped up in
their hut. But he didn't go out yet. He rested his hands on the broad
table and looked out the window.

He could see the steady blue light of Ewan working in the barn.
Beyond, the ground sloped gently upwards, becoming better and better
earth, the higher you went. He was proud of this farm. There was enough
land free to keep expanding for a while. There would be a lot of work
involved; clearing stones and weeds from the land he wanted to plough;
building dikes for grazing land. And there was enough stone to build
more steddings if needed, too.

He wondered if it was right - him having the island to himself, while
others on the Mainland fought and bickered over patches of dry sandy
soil. But it was for his family. For the bairns. Enough land here to
keep a couple of families in good stead. And one day, this farm would
belong to Peter. He looked at the bed.

She had fallen asleep nursing Margaret. The child lay, curled on her
breast, rising and falling with its mother's breath. Funny how it was
so easy to tell them apart already. He had thought it wouldn't be
possible, this early, but he could almost imagine that these little
things might, one day, be people. People who talked, smiled, had
responsibilities.

Peter cried the most. He started at every noise, cried when Ewan or
John came too close, cried at the fire, at his sister, at the wind
whistling round the cottage.

"It will change." She had said, that morning, when he had been woken
up yet again, frowning in the gloom.

"Mmmm." he had muttered, realizing that that was all the sleep he
would get after having spent half the night on the roof, painting a
thin, foul smelling oil round the edges of the flagstones.

"Mmmm yourself. Here." She had handed Margaret over to him and reached
for the squalling boy. He had realized that she had been up for some
time already. He had looked down at Margaret, noting her sharp
movements, her dark hair, almost black, and her blue, blue eyes. She
had shut one eye, gummed a meaningful garble at him, frowned and peed
down his sleeve. He had stood there in bemused resignation while Ewan,
already up, prepared another of his strange brews.

Now, looking down at his sleeping wife, he saw the similarity in their
colour and in the shape of their lips. The bed cover was wet with milk.
As he watched, another drop squeezed from her breast and began to run
down over her smooth skin. He put out a finger, caught the drop, raised
it to his lips. Warm, he thought. She couldn't be comfortable like
that. Gently, he tried to lift the sleeping child. His wife moaned and
tightened her arms.

"No, you won't have him." she muttered. Wondering at her dreams, he
attempted to cover her with the edge of the blanket. His efforts
disturbed a large and battered yellow butterfly that flipped and spun
before landing and crawling back towards the third child.

He was awake again. His eyes were wide. He was watching his hand,
where a wood-louse crept around his tiny, perfect fingers. John slipped
his hands under the child and gently lifted him. Underneath, as if
revealed from under a stone, ear-wigs scurried in circles. He flicked
them onto the floor, the child cradled in his left arm. Peter woke and
began to cry again.

Her eyes opened. She seemed instantly awake.

"Oh, you're in. Where's Ewan?"

"In the barn making beds. shall I take Margaret?"

"No, I'll just lay her down here. Is that one fine?"

"Seems to be. What are we going to do with him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, what do we call him? What do we do with all the insects?"

"We will know what to call him when he chooses his name. As for the
insects, we put up with them I suppose."

"Can you not do something? I don't ken, put a spell on them or
something?"

"And have my father find us because I used the power to keep flies out
of the house?"

"I suppose... Do you know what day it is?" She just looked at him.
"It's Christmas Eve."

"So?"

"So, should we do something?"

"It's a Christian festival, John."

"Aye, but it's good fun."

"Do you think that the monks on Ramsay would approve of me, or of the
children, John? They would burn me for a witch. I don't want the
children feeling guilty all their lives because of the narrow minds of
the pious Christians of Orkney."

"We should do something, though."

"I suppose it won't harm to eat well tomorrow." she smiled. "The
solstice has just passed, after all. And when they are old enough, we
will tell them what we can. They will make up their own minds which
faith to follow."

"Do witches give gifts at the solstice then?"

"I am not a witch, John. Don't say that." She put her hand on his.
"You follow what faith you will. I will gladly accept any gift you
offer. Let us leave the children to make up their own minds."

"Aye. All right. But if they want gifts at Christmas, like other
bairns, I will do what I can to give them."

"You do that, John." Peter had settled. The other two slept. "Let me
sleep now?"

"I'm got to milk the cow. Will you eat later on?", he asked, but there
was no reply. Closing the door against the wind, he went out into the
storm.

********************************************

And, next day, they ate well in celebration of the Winter solstice,
though John briefly bent his head in prayer before the meal. She would
cook, though Ewan stayed with her, ignoring her protests, carrying the
tray of roasting chicken and vegetables from table to oven. John went
out to work but after found himself scouring the torn banks of the sea
instead, searching for gifts.

Grey streamers of spray lifted from the waves, drenching the air. Head
down, John pushed against the wind. The sea grass at the top of the
banks was a dull, sickly yellow. Cuttlefish and driftwood, tangled in
clutches of black sea-weed littered the field next to the sea. Nearing
the North Point, he saw a thread of white, stretching for the sky. He
staggered towards the cliffs ahead. A stream, running salty water down
to the sea was being blown straight upwards by the wind coming up the
rockface. It hung and wavered in the air to fall back on to the slope
further up. He wondered if it could eventually form a circle as the sea
added more and more water to the continual stream. It was very cold. He
moved on.

In the warm, yellow light of the cottage, she nursed the bairns while
Ewan fetched carrots and potatoes from the sand store in the barn.
Towards dark, John returned, soaking wet, with a bundle in his arms. He
went straight into the back room, grinning briefly at Ewan`s raised
eyebrow.

The food was ready. The cottage was full of steam and odours. They
drank homebrew to the sound of the Winter storms. There was roast
chicken, plump and golden in a bed of onions and potatoes. There were
steamed, sweet carrots and savoury cabbage and onion. There were
rashers of bacon, sausages and stuffing; rich, spicy gravy poured over
soft, creamy mash and neep. There was clapshot and bread sauce, sweet
berries and buttered, crusty bread.

Then there were gifts. Ewan returned from the barn carrying three
wooden cribs, carved and solid. Red wood glowed in the light from the
stove. The cribs were padded with soft, white blankets and laid in the
back room. Ewan reached into his pack, pulling out a long, thin bag of
soft leather. He offered it to John.

"Ewan, man..." John stood, grinning before the stove, his hand to his
head, the shining telescope glinting, brassy and new.

"And for you..." Ewan turned to her. He reached up behind his head,
lifting from his neck an amulet on black leather. A horned moon hung
with a leaping fish. It was a heavy piece, thick and worn.

"Christian superstition." she muttered, but took the gift, her eyes
bright.

"This is no Christian trinket." Ewan smiled.

"No. Ewan, I will try to use it wisely." There was a pause, then. John
broke the silence, turning to the back room. He returned with several
small wrapped packages.

"I don't ken, I thought it was a good idea. It's just a pile of bruck,
really." He was red, hopping from one foot to the other. "This is for
the bairns." And he unwrapped a collection of bright sea-glass, stones
and shells, feathers and shapes of smooth wood. He lifted the
collection by a ring, fastened with fishing-line, and the pieces hung
and bobbed in a cascade of sea-born textures and colours.

"Oh, John... "

"You can put that up above the cribs." said Ewan.

"It's the sea." said John, "So that it's in their blood."

"It'll be that anyway." She said, and she took his hand. "Hang it for
them?" And the bairns were still, watching the turning shapes. If she
tilted her head, she could hear, from the depths of the shells, the
sound of the sea in the summer sun as it kissed the trembling
stones.

"It's beautiful, John."

"And this is for you, Ewan." The package was wet, the coarse paper
split and sogging. Ewan took it, looking at John under his brows, mouth
in a questioning smile. "Aye, well, I was feeling a bit hungry, you
ken?" He looked at the table, still covered with leavings.

"Open it." And Ewan did and his lips opened gently, and, his eyes
wide, he gasped.

"How did you get this, John? It grows well below the low tide."

"I waded out." said John, simply.

"John! You could have been swept away."

"Well, it was sheltered." said John, "and I knew where to look."

"This is enough to last all my folk a whole year. We would pay well
for this."

"It's a gift."

"Do you eat it, John?" She asked.

"I don't. But you folk do, don't you?"

"Very rarely. Only for ceremonies." Ewan smiled. "Or for
celebrations."

"No, Ewan. Not tonight." She said. "There is enough strangeness in the
house as it is."

"Fine. Fine."

"And this is your's." John, handed her a small package. She opened
it.

"A stone?" said Ewan. She looked at John, a frown and half smile on
her face. John took the stone from her. He took her hand in his, turned
it palm up. He placed the black banded stone in there. It sat in her
palm. Gently she began to close her fingers over it. The stone fitted,
cupped in her palm. Her fingers closed. She stood, playing with the
stone in her hand, squeezing her grip around it.

"I know your hand." he said. She moved to him, raised her free hand,
palm to his mouth. His lips brushed her skin.

Then the bairns began to squall and were brought into the big room.
She laid them on the bed and, sitting beside them, said, "I have been
thinking these past days. Why should I pander to a tradition that has
no bearing on my life? Why I should make light of my way of celebration
by appeasing the insecurities of others?" Ewan gasped at that. She held
up one hand. "Thinking that the forcing of a gift negates it's power.
That it's appeal to the common folk denies it's worth. But I find
myself in debt to you tonight. That is not my way." She looked down at
the floor, her hair falling over her eyes. "I would like to offer
something that is both mine and yours. I hope that you will accept as
my gift, The Norwegian Maid..."

She lifted her hand to her hair, brushed it back, lifted her eyes and
cleared her throat. Ewan slowly sat down on the floor, next to his
pack. John said nothing. She spoke, and her voice rang in the old
chant, filling the cottage, low, dark and strong.

"A man in haste, in heart-quick speed,

A man with silver at his brow;

A man in state of higher grace,

With sword and bow and raiment dark

To keep unknown his purpose straight,

Did ride with thoughts of loving arms

And flowing hair of maiden fair, a maid who did not love to wait."
John saw Ewan take a small wooden box, pegged and strung, from his
pack. He set it on the floor and leant back to listen.

"He crossed the silver, star kissed Forth.

His horse was champing at the bit,

High stepping fear, with nostrils wide,

It's ears laid flat, it heard the storm

That sang a song of straw and teeth

Amongst the rocks of Kinghorn cliff

The wind sheer stone, and weathered bone of men, forgotten, far
beneath.

In joy and fear, he raced the storm,

Along the barren, rain slick spur

Rocks cracked beneath his hooves that night.

The lightnings cut the cliffs about.

The blood-shot sea roared out his name

His horse took fright and shied and caught

A hook of stone in hooves that split.

With screaming arch,

It's head thrown high,

The tearing wind

Did drown it's cry.

His burning eye

Shone fever bright.

He raised a shout

Against the night.

And few did know the rocks below had kissed a king in final
flight.

The Lairds all huddled in the hall.

The Queen was weeping in the tower.

The English King, he clasped his hands

Around the neck of fair Scotland.

There was one heir to take the throne.

The wife of the Norwegian King

Had left a child, then, reconciled, had left this world to die,
alone.

Queen Margaret, the child was blessed.

A sceptre made a secret friend.

In halls of ice, she did not skip,

She did not laugh, Norwegian maid,

Ruled from afar, her each decree

Was softly spoke, and soon ignored.

Alone inside, the Princess bride grew shallow, savage, cold was
she.

King Edward stretched his long, long legs,

So long, a horse could ride between,

The English crown upon his knee.

He, dreaming, saw the Scottish throne

On English soil. He planned a trade.

The wedding was arranged, that year,

With sword and drum, his swaddling son, would wed the cold Norwegian
maid.

They sent for her, the Scottish Lairds,

They called her forth across the sea.

They called her forth, a babe to wed.

A child of seven years was she.

She kissed the earth and climbed aboard.

She turned to face the fading shore,

She left her heart, was torn apart, she left her heart in icy
fjord.

And every day, she took her food,

Sitting silent in the stern.

The tears ran down those cheeks of pearl.

The ice was melting by the day.

The look-out saw South Ronaldsay,

The nurse-maids ran to fetch the child,

She turned her head, in lilac bed, and gently wished her life
away.

King Edward stretched his long, long legs,

So long a horse could ride between.

He dandled on his knee, his son

"You'll be a man like me." he said

His son he closed his mouth and hand.

He never lay with woman-kind.

In final breath of barbarous death, he blessed the ruler of his land."
She lowered her head. John realised that he could hear a low strong
note, like a church organ. Above this, pipes skirled and wailed on an
autumn night. War drums faded with his heart-beat. His blood sang in
his ears.

"Music," he said, "I can hear the music of it."

"Pipes of dancing," said Ewan, "but they only play what they hear. A
rare story rarely told gives a spirit to the song. A rare story", he
said again," rarely told."

She blinked and shook her head and smiled and, rising, said, "but I
have an untold thirst." And raising tankards high, the three drank.
Then Ewan danced and the pipes played his movements with whirling
fiddle and steady drum. John dipped his fingers in the homebrew, was
caught sneaking sups to the bairns and was suitably chastised. The
bairns slept well.

Again, Ewan slept before the stove. He lay in the red, flickering
light, staring into the flames. The pipes of dancing hummed a gentle
echo of their kiss.