The Posy Ring Episode 83

Mateo peered into the ashes. There were patterns and spirals there for sure, although nothing that might not have been created by the wind blowing down the chimney. But who was he to quarrel with or to quell their joy?

When it became apparent that the days were lengthening, Mateo learned how to use a cas chrom, the long foot plough called the “crooked foot”, which enabled one man, working all alone, to plough several acres of inhospitable and rocky ground so that oats and bere could be planted there.

Friendship or love

The implement was simple enough, an iron foot over a long wooden shaft with a peg sticking out to one side. The shaft was the slender trunk of a birch tree. It was a long, hard and tedious job, working backwards, slowly and carefully, along a trench, pushing and rocking and turning, pushing and rocking and turning and then starting over again.

Once he got into the rhythm of it, there was a certain pleasure to be had from the sheer repetitiveness of it, the physical effort, the chik-chik, chik-chik as the implement sliced into the sod. It took his mind off Lilias and that single thoughtless kiss, hardly a kiss at all.

Had it been friendship or love? How could he tell? It took his mind off his home and the weather, the bloody events of the past year, and the uncertain and possibly ruinous future for himself and his cousin.

In March, while Mateo was still working away at his task, doggedly, sodden with mud, washing himself in the painfully cold burn afterwards, like a form of penance, Lilias’s brother sent a heavy wooden kist, locked and bound all around with iron, to the island.

The key to this precious cargo was in the possession of Mcallister, whose birlinn had ferried it to Eilean Garbh. They opened it to find all that Francisco had asked for in terms of paints and pigments, brushes and canvases and more. Kenneth had postponed his own visit home until the summer, but had sent the things to Islay with a friend, who had engaged Mcallister to bring them on to Garbh during a reasonably calm spell. Lilias confessed to Mateo that she had no notion how her brother had got the money, the “siller” she called it, to pay for these things, since her father had sent nothing save the letter requesting them, and Kenneth was always without resources.

But he must either have won the money by gambling, or borrowed it, both of which seemed alarming to her. They seemed faintly alarming to Mateo as well, but he was pleased on his cousin’s behalf. Ishbel was wildly excited at the thought of having her portrait painted. Lilias was less exuberant, but he could tell from the sparkle in her eyes that her vanity, such as it was, was flattered.

Mcallister seemed surprised to find the Spaniards still on the island. Perhaps he had expected them to escape. He seemed more surprised still at the nature of his burden as they hauled it up the track to the house.

“Pictures?” he said and spat on the ground outside the house. “Pictures? He wants pictures? Ach, what is Mcneill thinking of ? What next?”

Whisky shared

Iain Og Mcneill, a house servant and a remote cousin of the family, who had been sent to help with the kist, sniggered.

Ruaridh Mcneill, standing just behind the door, overheard them. “Aye,” he said. “And do you know what I’m thinking, Mcallister? I’m thinking that I will most certainly be paying you far too much for fetching a wee kist such as this one from one island to another. As for you, Iain Og, have you no work to do?”

Iain Og slunk off, while Mcallister had the good grace to look embarrassed. But he and Mcneill were soon chuckling over a silver cuach of whisky shared between them, the best spirit, redolent of peat and honey, and the best cuach too, normally kept locked away for the most important visitors.

Mcneill saw the portraits as giving a certain status to his daughters. Only the wealthy had their portraits painted. He was not wealthy, at least not in terms of gold and silver, but he had a significant number of men at his beck and call and a significant number of cattle, so why shouldn’t his daughters have their likenesses done by a real artist. He never doubted that the foreigner was a real artist.

Ishbel’s portrait came first. They knew that the child wouldn’t be able to sit still for very long. Francisco sketched her with charcoal, and then bribed her with sweet cakes, made by Beathag with her precious stores of summer honey.

Mcneill would come in and peer over Paco’s shoulder for a while, making him very nervous, but the laird said nothing, only grunted in a noncommittal way. He seemed happy enough with what he saw.

Lilias would sometimes come out to watch Mateo working in the field, the rhythmic push and rock, cut and turn of the cas chrom, following every movement, as though following the melody of a song.

“Stop,” she would say, sometimes. “Just stop and talk to me.”

“I have to finish this stretch of land. promised.”

“Who did you promise?”

“Your father.”

“If you don’t do it, somebody else will.” “That isn’t the point. I gave my word.” She sighed. “Ah God,” she said suddenly, “I do wish the cailleach would go to sleep. Can you not feel her, nodding and yawning. Like a child who resists with every wee piece of her. Can you not feel her?”

Wise old woman

He came over to where she was perched upon a rock, laid the cas chrom down, and sat down beside her, brushing the sour earth off his hands.

“What are you saying? I have no idea what you are saying? Who is the cailleach and why must she sleep?”

“I am always forgetting how very little you know. The cailleach is the wise old woman. Such as I will become in time, God willing. She walks the fields, bringing winter in her wake. The land needs to sleep and we need to rest for a time, while she walks and renews, walks and renews.

“Only now, she’s growing weary. It’s her turn to lie down and sleep. Then the springtime will come. Soon, she’ll not be able to resist. She will lie down and take her rest, and the blessed Bride will come and bring the springtime with her.”

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.

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Francisco sketched her with charcoal, and then bribed her with sweet cakes, made by Beathag with stores of summer honey