“I am having trouble,” Finlay admitted, “keeping her fro’ doing all the things she thinks she can, like training ponies and wielding a sword.”
Reagan laughed outright. “I wish ye luck o’ that. Will he be a harper as well as a fine warrior, this son o’ yours?”
For an instant, Katrin’s eyes met Finlay’s and softened. “I hope so,” they said in unison before Katrin added, “He—or she—will be whatever is born into him, or whatever she wishes. I ha’ learned”—she lifted her chin—“to trust in wha’ is meant to be, and so leave the fear behind.”
Reagan nodded soberly. “A worthwhile lesson for anyone.”
“Come inside, man,” Finlay invited him. “I hope ye can stay wi’ us for a time.”
“I cannot.” Reagan shook his head. “I am bound back for Ireland, Scotland being no place for me at present. With your king still in chains in England and your fight for liberty bruised and battered—at least for the time being—’tis nay fit place for anyone.”
“Aye.” Again Katrin glanced at her husband. “We mean to keep close and look after our own. As for Scotland—well, we maun trust that time will tak’ care o’ her also. She is no’ so easily defeated.”
Just like our love. She almost thought she heard those words in Finlay’s mind.
“Reagan, are ye sure ye canna stay?”
“Nay, I wanted only to make a stop here and see that ye were set right, before I leave Scottish soil. Harper”—he turned again to Finlay—“ye keep singing and telling your stories. They are our past and our path to the future.”
“I will.”
“And ye, lass.” Reagan’s gaze softened once more as he reachedout to embrace Katrin. “Remain the strong woman ye be,” he whispered into her ear.
“Och, aye.” Strong enough to love in the face of loss. Strong enough to have faith in a promise given long, long ago.
They stood with their fingers linked, hearts linked, souls linked, and watched their unexpected visitor away. He went as swiftly as he’d come, heading south along the coast road, and once he was out of sight Katrin wondered whether he’d truly been there at all.
Or if, like the dreams that so often flickered through her head, she’d merely glimpsed him on the turning of the great wheel that was her life.
The tiny life within her fluttered and stirred as she moved into her husband’s arms, a new song for a future yet untold.
The Song of Finlay the Bard
Do our ancestors journey with us
In the color of our eyes?
In the strength of our limbs,
A fiery mane of hair.
Or does the connection reach far deeper?
Is there a better way for spirit to travel
Than via the blood of family?
Do our ancestors journey with us
In the choices that we make?
The longings of our dreams,
An aching of the heart?
The hint of a tune long remembered.
Is there a surer way for spirit to travel
