“Why can’t we go home?”
“I told ye, yer father’s got business to do.”
She slowed her steps and lagged along behind him. He stopped and turned. He held out his hammy hand. “Come along, lass.”
She took two steps and slid her hand into his big one. “Where are we going?”
“To tickle a trout.”
“How do you tickle a trout?”
“I’ll be showing ye, lassie.”
“Where are the trout?”
“Up ahead. Near the bridge. Trout like to hide in the rocks. We have tae lure them out.”
She walked along with him. “Fergus?”
“Aye?”
“Why do trout have rainbows in their skins?”
He stopped suddenly and planted his hands on his hips. “Are ye going tae be talking me ear off again?”
“No. I just wondered.” She swatted a bumblebee, then stared at it for a long time.
Fergus stopped near the bridge over the stream and said to her. “Why are ye stopping?”
“I was just wondering.” She caught up with him. “Why do they call them bumblebees? If you listen really close and you can hear a bee hum. They don’t bumble. Shouldn’t they be called humblebees?”
Fergus just laughed and pulled both Graham and her into the stream. He taught them how to lock their fingers together and set them in the cold water, down just a few inches beneath the glassy surface.
He taught them to be very, very still—Graham failed at that—and showed them what every Scot knew was true: if you were gentle, if you were very still, if you had the wit and blood of the Highlands, then the fish would just settle right into your open palms and let you tickle them with one bent finger until they were senseless and ready to become your tasty dinner.
Kirsty had more questions. Lots more questions. Sometimes she felt as if she were just one big question. So often no one could answer her questions. They just ignored her or made a joke as if her questions didn’t matter, but they mattered to her.
Even Fergus, who had so many fine tales to tell, who knew how to tickle trout, could speak Gaelic and make a fire without a flint, couldn’t answer all her questions.
So she settled in and learned to tickle trout and tested new ways to intimidate her brother, but she never learned the things she really wanted to learn: like why do mothers die and why did her father not want them around?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Time is
Too slow for those who Wait
Too swift for those who Fear,
Too long for those who Grieve
Too short for those who Rejoice;
But for those who Love,
Time is
Eternity
