The Posy Ring Episode 66

Lilias gazed at Mateo, her eyes full of good humour, daring him to disapprove. Her openness about such things would have embarrassed him at home. Here, he was beginning to understand it.

She was reserved and dignified when she needed to be, and cautious in her dealings with the strangers. He sensed that if they overstepped the mark with her, she would retreat. All the same, she seemed to expect frankness about these matters of life, death and courtship, both in herself and in others. She was full of a sense of fun and sometimes it bubbled to the surface in spite of anything she could do to contain it.

Nobody reproached her for it. Perhaps this was because of her position in the community. Her mother was dead. She had no elder sister and it was clear that she was the apple of her father’s eye. McNeill relied on her and had given her a large measure of freedom and responsibility.

She was a young woman of consequence in this small world of the island, and being quite outspoken seemed to be part and parcel of her authority. It discomforted and attracted him in equal measure. He thought that here was a young woman who knew her own mind.

His own father would certainly have quelled any such behaviour with a glance and a harsh word, but Mateo found himself admiring her. He supposed it to be unusual, even here. He liked her. He had never been so openly friendly with any woman before.

The Spaniards had never seen anything quite like the celebrations at Samhain. To Mateo’s eyes, they seemed to be savage and unchristian: nothing like the autumn festival in La Laguna for the statue of Christ that had been brought to the island by the Archangel Michael himself.

Well, Mateo was sceptical about that aspect of the story, but the statue of the crucified Jesus of Nazareth, in wood, both venerable and disturbing, was so extraordinary that it might as well have been made by angels, an image of suffering so profound that it was impossible to see it and remain unmoved.

Now, he had witnessed so much of the real thing that he could attest to its accuracy, even while thinking that he wouldn’t be unhappy if he never saw it again.

At the end of October, the wind and rain that had been constant throughout the month abated, just in time for the return of the cattle from the shielings: compact and sturdy beasts in black and dun, very like the horses, the garrons, which were compact and sturdy too.

The climate and the terrain seemed to demand a measure of toughness if beasts were to survive. Beasts and people both. Bonfires were lit on the high hills, and those returning brought flaming brands down with them, and carried them sunwise around the houses, although carrying any torch around Achadh nam Blàth was quite an undertaking since the house was so big, the land around it so uneven.

There were, besides, windy corners where the torches were in danger of being blown out, which was thought to be unlucky. When Mateo asked why they did this, he was told that it was “for protection”. They sang as they walked and Lilias translated for him.

‘May God give blessing to the house that is here,

May Jesus give blessing to the house that is here,

May Mary give blessing to the house that is here,

May Bride give blessing to the house that is here,

May Michael give blessing to the house that is here.’

So the Archangel Michael was known here too.

“Everything must go with the sun, not against it,” said Lilias. “Did you not notice? When we women are waulking the cloth, we pass it sunwise as we sing. Even the boats when they are brought onto the shore or when they are launched must never be turned against the sun.

“Our houses are blessed by fire in the name of God and his angels, but it must be sunwise. The stones on the querns must be turned with the sun, otherwise the grain will go bad.”

“And you believe this?”

“Why would I not, when it is the God’s truth?”

There seemed no answer to this strange combination of Christianity and something older, so Mateo simply assented. This was a powerful invocation and who was he to quarrel with it? He had been at sea for long enough to know that all voyages were mired in superstitions and heresies. If, on the island, these extended to everyday life, then perhaps it was necessary.

Later, there was feasting in the great hall, to which he and Francisco were invited as guests, along with a great many islanders. Lilias told them that the empty places set at the table were for the souls of the dead who might visit on this night.

After the meal, there was singing and dancing. Stories were told of which Mateo understood not a word, but the sounds washed over him and it seemed to him that they brought their own strange and vivid images to his mind, of ancient battles and long-ago quarrels and loves lost and won.

It seemed to him that the songs were sadder than those of his island, and it occurred to him to wonder if it had something to do with the dark time of year, the absence of the sun, which was such a constant on his island. The long dark nights were difficult to bear and he’d been told that the days would grow shorter still. No wonder so many prayers and songs were invocations to the sun for its return.

“But the days are much longer in summer,” Ishbel told them. “You wait. There’s hardly any darkness at all in the middle of summer!”

He found it hard to believe, but he knew that it must be so. It was different from the world he had left and lost, although it didn’t make it any more comfortable to endure.

Late in the evening there were games of which, again, he understood almost nothing. Francisco had taken himself off to bed, well fed and as happy as Mateo had seen him since they left home.

“I think I might sleep soundly for the first time in months,” he said.

For himself, Mateo felt wide awake and animated. He had been sitting at some distance from her, but once the meal was cleared away, he had slowly but surely edged closer to Lilias.

It discomforted and attracted him in equal measure. He thought that here was a young woman who knew her own mind

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.