“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 celebratingLá Bealltainnat 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.
