The Posy Ring Episode 82

The lower branches of the Clootie Tree have split and fallen or are already full of decaying cloth. She can’t see anything resembling her mother’s silk scarf and can’t remember where they put it; the elements must have done their work and it is long gone, shredded by wind and rain.

The place has a very strange feeling. Daisy doubts if she will come back up here, or certainly not on her own. The tree is not promoted in any way to outsiders. There is nothing about it in the island tourist leaflets and nothing on the website. She doubts if many casual visitors to the island even know of its existence, although some of the offerings festooning the lower branches look quite new, so at least some of the islanders are still indulging in a little paganism now and again.

“See,” he says. “Even Hector thinks it’s weird here.” The dog is still crouching on the lip of land, looking across at them and whining, but coming no further.

“Lift me up, and I’ll tie it on to a branch,” she says.

He puts his arms around her, jiggles her upwards until he is holding her under her bottom, and then he hoists her high into the air, staggering slightly.

“Ooof,” he says.

“Are you implying I’m heavy?” she asks. For someone so slender, he’s surprisingly strong. He’s all muscle. It strikes her that this is very far removed from the last tragic time she was here, and yet in its own way, it seems equally important.

“Get a move on for God’s sake!” he says, but he’s laughing too. She balances in his arms, finds an empty branch, reaches up and ties the worn tea towel round it, thinking of Fiona swearing over the Wemyss pig, thinking of Cal, sitting on the bench, hammering angrily at the wood. Thinking of his lovemaking and how much she enjoys the sensation of his long body welded to hers.

Biological clock

She could wish for all kinds of things for herself: for the wisdom to know what to do with the house, for her father’s happiness, for a nice faithful man in her own life and even, as has lately crossed her mind, for the possibility of a child. Tick-tock says the biological clock. She has been deaf to it until now but it has been there all along and now she can hear it. Soon it will become insistent. But she doesn’t wish for any of those things at this moment. Instead, she whispers, so quietly that the wind carries the words away and he can’t hear them, “I wish it would be all right for Cal. Let him keep Carraig. Let things sort themselves out in the right way.”

Then, she braces herself on his shoulders. “Right,” she says. “You can put me down now!”

“Thank Christ for that,” he says. “I don’t need a hernia right now.”

She slides down his body, but he keeps his arms around her and pulls her close, kissing her deeply. She’s dizzy with desire for him. There’s a big boulder on top of the hill, not far from the tree. It could be the remains of a standing stone, or just a huge piece of granite. It has a smooth, vertical surface. He lifts her again and staggers towards the stone.

“What are you doing?” she asks, but he just shakes his head.

He sets her back gently against the stone, running his hands down her body, tugging at her jeans.

Helpless pleasure

Momentarily, she wonders what would happen if somebody climbed the hill, saw them, but Hector would bark, wouldn’t he? She can hear him snuffling about among the willows. And then she can think only of Cal. She leans against the stone and sees green leaves, white flowers, a pale blue sky and at last a wave of the most intense, helpless pleasure scythes through her.

Then he’s looking up at her, grinning wickedly. “Was that good?”

“We’d best go back down to the house before the dog decides we’ve gone missing.” “Where is the dog?”

“Over there. I can just see his ears.” “Why won’t he come into this circle?” “Why indeed. He’s spooked, I think. I’m spooked too.”

“It didn’t seem to stop you.”

“No. But maybe that’s part of the ritual.” “Do you mean that?”

“No. I’m joking. But we can pretend it is.” All the same, she wonders. This is a primitive place and with him, all her impulses seem primitive too.

“Are you staying the night?” she asks. “Do you want me to?”

“Yes, I want you to.”

1589

The winter seemed impossibly long. How do they bear it?, thought Mateo, when he woke yet again to a day of thin rain, mist on the hills and grey skies. Francisco carried on teaching the three children as best he could, although Ishbel was by far the most amenable.

Mcneill obtained paper and charcoal from the priest, whose small church lay in the south of the island, while Lilias, with her father’s permission, had written a letter to her brother to be carried to the mainland by the next visiting vessel. It listed the various pigments, canvases, brushes and other essentials the Spaniard needed to enable him to paint two small portraits.

St Bride’s day

In February there was a brief respite when the young women of Achadh nam Blàth and the nearby clachan celebrated St Bride’s day. They took a sheaf of oats from the previous year’s precious harvest, formed it into a rudimentary figure, dressed it in some scraps of wool and linen, and trimmed it with whatever decorative items they could find: glass beads from broken jewellery, small shells from the seashore, a garland of daisies, snowdrops, coltsfoot as well as hazel catkins.

The figure was supplied with a slender white wand formed from a piece of birchwood. Ishbel had made a bed of rushes covered by a baby blanket close to the house door. There, Bride was welcomed in and laid down comfortably for the night.

“She was the foster mother of Christ,” explained Lilias. “And so we honour her in this way. But she brings the springtime with her as well. Soon, soon it will come.”

“It can’t come too soon for me,” said Mateo.

In the morning, the cousins found some of the household looking at the cooling ashes of the fire. “There they are,” said Ishbel. “The marks of her wand. She has been wandering about in the night, and there will be a good crop!”

“And a prosperous year,” added Lilias.

It strikes her that this is very far removed from the last tragic time she was here, and yet... it seems equally important

The Posy Ring, first in the series The Annals of Flowerfield, is written by Catherine Czerkawska and published by Saraband. It is priced at £8.99.