The sky was still blue this August evening, the gray sides of the towering mountain peaks of western Scotland were still lit by the sun, but the long day was at last ending. To the east the light was fading in the deep glens and forests, the wind sighing through the branches, lifting drops of water from the tumbling streams onto nearby ferns, where they would linger through the short summer night. The sun moved ever downward in the west, changing the sea from blue to molten silver, and the cobalt of the offshore islands to a muted gray. Waves hurried to claim the shingle, lacy white foam flying from their crests to join with the descending evening.
The young girl who hurried up the headland saw none of it; she saw only the old woman ahead of her moving steadily away, and she increased her speed anxiously. Seals lifted their heads from the water and shorebirds dipped down to get a closer look at the two figures below. But the young girl did not look.
KATHLEEN GIVENS
She wanted to see the future.
She was a beautiful child, with long bones and glossy dark hair that waved around her oval face and framed her blue eyes and even features. But it was her determination that one saw, the glint of steel showing in those lovely eyes, usually hidden under a layer of courtesy and training, but now, unwatched except by the creatures of sea and air, her jaw was set and her gaze unfaltering.
She thought of herself as Scottish, but in truth her blood was mixed. She’d been formed by fiery Picts, ancient Caledonians, and ferocious Norsemen on her father’s side, triumphant Normans and passionate Celts on her mother’s. She knew of their intermingled histories, had heard the stories of the old days and the battles for dominance, of foes who had come from the south and from the sea, of courageous people who had held the Romans at bay and fought off the Vikings. But all that was in the past, and she gave it little thought. It was what was to come that interested her now, and only the old woman could help her to see it.
She’d seen much already this evening, had watched as the rituals of Lammas Night, the first of the harvest festivals, were carried out, the storing of the seed corn and the ceremonial lighting of the bonfire that illuminated the sky. She’d watched the clanspeople her father led devour the Lammas feast and had tasted the Mass Loaf, made from the first flour ground after the harvest. And after the meal, when many of the others were worse for drink, or lost in the wonderful music, she’d watched her father clasp the hand of his latest mistress and slide from the hall. And watched her mother’s eyes darken as she saw them go.