Song of Rhanna (The Rhanna series)

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Outside the wind soughed through the trees and she lay listening to it for a long time before drifting into an uneasy sleep beset by strange dreams. She was running, running looking for Lorn but never quite finding him. Always he was just out of reach and no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t catch up with him – to touch him, to tell him she loved him, no matter what happened she loved him, but then the dream reversed itself and now it was Lorn who was chasing her – yet – strangely – no matter how fast his long stride carried him he never could reach her – even though her limp was forcing her to go much slower than him he couldn’t touch her – because – she was out of his reach and she couldn’t understand why.

  Lorn rose early, pausing for a minute to gaze down at Ruth’s tousled head on the pillow. She looked like a little girl in her repose, her strangely innocent face framed in its halo of flaxen hair already bringing the first tug of remorse to his heart. Her translucent milky skin was sleep-flushed, her lids delicately purpled by fine veins; her soft, pale mouth deceptively childlike for he knew its secrets, how it responded to his during times of lovemaking. In the years of marriage to her he had discovered her strengths and weaknesses and that shy reserve of hers that made her oddly elusive, sometimes even to him. Sometimes he wished she would take life less seriously, learn to laugh more, but he knew that the restrictions imposed on her by her mother during her formative years had a lot to do with the way she was now. Her strict upbringing had left its mark and even though she would have refuted that fiercely there was no escaping the truth of it. She tried so hard to achieve all the things in her marriage her mother had neglected in hers – too hard – often Lorn wished that she would relax and allow their lives to run a more natural course. She was also oddly unworldly for her age, her views on sex and marriage were definitely old-fashioned and ran on strict lines. She was also delightfully romantic, an idealist who didn’t care to plumb the harsher aspects of life too deeply. Lorn put it down to her imaginative talents in the writing world, for writers wrote things that other people could escape into and who could blame Ruthie, as the creator of such stuff, for wanting to evade life’s mundanities by the romance of words. Lorn understood all this to a certain degree, though often he wanted to shake her out of the self-satisfied shell she had built round herself and make her stare the real world in its face.

  But he could never hurt her by doing any such thing – oh no – he could never hurt his darling Ruthie. His hand went to his face to tentatively touch the scratches she had planted there with such uncharacteristic ferocity. Well, she had hurt him all right – more his feelings than anything, though deep down he knew he had deserved everything she had given him. A rueful smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Little vixen, a spitfire if ever there was one. The thought of her rage last night excited him now, and as he stood looking at her she half turned so that the soft roundness of her breasts thrust out enticingly towards him. A surge of desire stirred the slumbering heat in the pit of his belly to fire and he was angry to know that a gentle little thing like Ruth could stir him to such an arousal, making it impossible for him to maintain any sort of cool detachment towards her. He wanted to crush her in his arms, to witness her surprised awakening, her softening, her yielding – but he was still too angry with her to permit himself to give in to his desires. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tightened, and he went from the room, shrugging himself into his his working jacket and letting himself quietly out of the house. The morning was bright and cold the early sky star littered, illuminated by the pale disc of the moon slipping towards the glittering horizon of the Sound of Rhanna which lay silver and serene in the distance. The fields rolled away to the south, the wide well-kept fields of Laigmhor, white with hoar frost except where the trees cast their dark mysterious shadows.

  From where he stood, high on the windswept knoll above the house, it was possible to see the west gable and the chimneys of Laigmhor. A soft glimmer of light shone from an upstairs window – his father’s window. The perfume of peat smoke drifted on the clean air of morning and he knew that his mother would be in the kitchen, stirring the fire to life, setting the porridge pan over the flames. In all the years that Lorn had lived at Laigmhor, his father had never started his day without his bowl of thick creamy porridge. Lorn could almost smell it cooking, a subtle tempting aroma, mixing with the tang of glowing turf, the evocative smell of hot crusty toast piled high on the range to keep warm, generous knobs of butter lying in melting pockets over its golden coloured texture. A picture came to him of the morning kitchen, himself crouched by the fire holding bread on the end of a twisty steel fork, his face smarting with the heat, his hand unbearably hot even though his mother had wound a towel round it. And he saw Lewis perched on a tiny raffia stool beside him, swishing butter over the toasted bread, popping big crunchy pieces into his mouth while he giggled at his own audacity, his blue eyes alive with devilment.

  Lorn stared ahead, seeing nothing as his inward-turning thoughts took him back over the years he had spent with his brother. Even though he had so often been ill they had been good years. If only he’d had the strength then that he had now, what times he and Lewis could have had. Lewis had frequently bemoaned the fact that his brother had been so often ill. Lorn could hear his voice as plainly as if he was standing beside him now, talking about all the things they might have done – ‘if only . . .’

  He threw back his head and sighed. God, how he missed his brother. Though it was years since his death, Lorn still felt as if part of himself was missing, like an arm or a leg that had been severed – no – it was more than that – it was a spiritual loss, they had been so close, never a day passed but he felt that Lewis was by his side, walking beside him – an ever-present shadow that wouldn’t go away. It was an odd feeling with an uncanniness about it that often made him shiver and wish sometimes he could feel entirely alone – free. The thought struck him with unexpected suddenness and he frowned. What had made him think it? He didn’t ever want to forget – to be free of the twin who had been so much a part of him. And there was another reason that made him very aware of Lewis’ closeness; a much more tangible force than a spiritual awareness. He was reminded of it every day when he looked at little Lorna, his brother’s child, the daughter whom Lewis had never lived to see and who was the delight of Lorn’s life. Before Douglas’ birth he had wondered if perhaps a child of his own would make him feel less for Lorna – but it hadn’t been so. After all she was the flesh of his flesh, and because she was part of Lewis there was a special place in his heart for her. He was proud of his baby son, but little Lorna was his joy and he adored her to such an extent he had to force himself not to give her more attention than her brother.

  ‘You’re there, Lewis, aren’t you, you fly bugger?’ he whispered softly into the wind. ‘Always you’re there. You made damned sure of that when you left behind a living legacy through whom you can weave your magic spells.’

  He laughed softly and bracing his shoulders breathed deeply before leaving the knoll to stride over the fields to Laigmhor. As he drew near, the morning sounds of the farm came to him; the rattling of the chums in the dairy; a young cockerel exercising its voice; the hens clucking sleepily; the short, delighted barking of the sheepdogs frisking by Donald’s side, as together, he and Old Bob strode away towards the fields, the old man leaning a little heavier on his crook but otherwise showing few signs of his eighty-five years. Occasionally Bob took a morning off, especially in winter, but he scorned any suggestion that he should retire. Fergus didn’t press the matter knowing that the day the old shepherd admitted to age would be the day that would see the start of his decline.

  The kitchen was warm with that atmosphere of morning peace about it that was so peculiarly Laigmhor. Though streaks of dawn were silvering the eastern sky, night still draped the island in a dark cold blanket, and the curtains were pulled over the windows, shutting out the cold, giving the room an air of a self-contained little world which nothing unpleasan
t could penetrate. Lorn had always loved this special dreaming hour, seeing it as a time of leisurely re-acquaintance with familiar things and people, before dawn stirred the rambling old house to life. His affection for his boyhood home had never dimmed and he knew it never would. He had his own home, his own life to lead, but Laigmhor was where his heart lay. Often he had teased Shona for voicing the selfsame sentiments but she had just smiled and given him her ‘blue-eyed, knowing look’ which told him that he didn’t fool her for one minute.

  His mother was at the range stirring the porridge, her hair silvered by the soft lamplight shining from the mantelpiece; her sweet face as smooth as a girl’s in the kindly shadows flitting round the fireplace. She looked round at his entry, a smile breaking the composure of her features.

  ‘You’re early,’ she observed in some surprise. ‘Did Ruth make you rise too soon? If I mind right you were aye the sleepyhead in the morning and never got up before you had to. Lewis was different, he was the lark, trilling away at the top of his voice the minute he opened his eyes.’

  Lorn sat down at the table and smiled at her ruefully. ‘Ay, and fine I knew it too. He used to punch me awake with a pillow and I hated it.’

  ‘What do you think of your eldest brother then?’ A sparkle kindled in her eyes. ‘He’ll have to set his feet on dry land with a bairn on the way.’

  ‘Just what I said, though knowing him he’ll likely leave it till the last minute. It would suit Grant fine if his firstborn was launched on the high seas.’

  ‘Ach you,’ she scolded mildly. ‘Don’t say things like that. If I know Fiona she’ll make sure she’s home in plenty of time to have her baby here.’ She ladled porridge into two plates and was about to share out the remainder amongst the cats when she caught the hungry look on her son’s face. ‘Would you like some? You have the look of a starving man about you this morning.’

  Lorn got up and fetching a bowl held it out to be filled. Kirsteen laughed. ‘You daft big gowk of a laddie! You mind me of that story by Dickens – Oliver Twist in the workhouse holding out his bowl to be filled with gruel. Your eyes are bigger than your belly, for I know fine Ruth never lets you out the house without a decent cooked breakfast inside you – and what on earth have you done to your face? It’s a bonny sight I must say.’

  Lorn poured cream over his porridge and chose to ignore the reference to his scratches. ‘I left Ruth in bed. I was wakened before the alarm and thought not to disturb her. It’s no’ often she gets the chance of a long lie.’

  Fergus came in, his rugged face glowing after a brisk wash in icy cold water from the bowl in his bedroom. Sitting down he drew his plate towards him. ‘How are the bairns?’ he asked, a question which he put to his son every morning and which in anyone else might have been asked out of a sense of duty, but Lorn knew different.

  ‘They’re fine.’ Lorn tried to cover his scratched cheek with his hand and hunched over his plate awkwardly.

  ‘And Ruth? I heard you saying she was still in bed when you left.’

  ‘She’s fine.’ Lorn was angry that the words came out more offhanded than he had intended and he expected the inevitable keen scrutiny in the black eyes across from him.

  ‘She isn’t ill, is she?’ Fergus asked tersely. His family had become more and more important to him with the passing years. He tried never to interfere in their lives if he could help it, always having scorned the interfering busybodies he had encountered all too often in his own youth. He could never abide prying for prying’s sake; his interest in the lives of his offspring was motivated purely by caring and though he knew that his concern had intensified with the years he could no more ignore it than he could ignore the fact that he had been born a McKenzie.

  ‘Ach, Father, of course she isn’t ill,’ Lorn sounded unusually impatient. ‘She’s been a bitty tired this whily back, she has a busy time looking after me and the bairns. I thought a long lie would do her good.’

  Fergus studied his son for a few moments, his attention riveted on the red weals on his face, then he turned his attention back to his breakfast, saying no more on the subject till they were walking side by side over the fields to fetch down a cow who was due to have her first calf at any time.

  ‘You’ve been in the wars,’ Fergus observed shortly as he opened the gate to the top field.

  Lorn’s hand shot self-consciously to his cheek and he reddened as he lied quickly. ‘It was one of the cats. They get carried away sometimes.’

  ‘Some cat,’ said Fergus dryly. ‘More like a buggering tiger – or a woman in a fit of rage. You and Ruth have had a row.’ There was no hint that it might be a question, it was a blunt statement and Lorn glowered at his father, annoyed at the way he had of burrowing straight to the truth of a matter.

  ‘Ay, we have.’ His normally soft voice was harsh. ‘It’s natural for a man and wife to disagree now and then. No doubt you and Mother did it in your time, and like as no’ still do.’

  ‘We’re discussing you and Ruth at the moment, your mother and me don’t come into it.’

  ‘You’re discussing it,’ Lorn threw out sulkily. ‘I didn’t bring up the subject and have no wish to make an issue out of nothing.’

  He strode away, his pace quickening so that he was well ahead of Fergus and for the rest of the morning he was careful to keep his distance for fear of being asked more of those straightforward questions that were so awkward to answer. He had no difficulty keeping himself busy. His role at Laigmhor had become bigger over the years with his father allowing him more and more say in the running of things. He enjoyed the challenge of his work, the hours never dragged by, rather they were often too quick in passing so that there was always some task that had to be left for another day. Working in the silence of the frosty fields he thought over the events of the previous night. It was the first really serious row he had had with Ruthie, and now that he had time to see it all in retrospect he wondered why he had been so violently opposed to having Rachel at Fàilte. That temper of his, that buggering curse of the McKenzies had blinded him with fury but now he was puzzled as to why he had flared up like a bull with a sore head – and yet – he knew – all the time he knew and it was the knowing what he did that had made him oppose Ruthie’s suggestion.

  ‘Damn you, Rachel!’ He spoke the words aloud, his breath clouding in the frosty air. Pulling his hand into a fist he banged it hard against a gatepost. ‘Damn, damn, damn you!’ His mouth tightened, his eyes grew dark as he remembered Rachel – that last time she had been on the island – those great expressive eyes of hers watching him, always watching him, as if she was trying to tell him something, yet in an odd sort of way not wanting him to know what it was. But he knew all right and Rachel was aware that he knew – and he hated her for picking on him – even though he understood why, she and he shared similar feelings.

  In her case she could look at him and relive her time with Lewis, in his case he could look at her and understand the excitement Lewis must have felt in her company. Ruth thought that his resentment of Rachel was born of her rejection of his brother – oh, for a long time he had hated her for that but somewhere along the way his hatred for her had died, leaving space in his heart for other feelings – feelings that he wouldn’t admit even to himself – and so he had had to protect himself some way and the only way he knew was to keep up the pretence of anger against her. It had proved a successful compromise, so successful he had fooled Ruth, had even managed to convince himself that his dislike of Rachel was genuine. So far it had worked; for as long as she was just an elusive figure outside of his own world, it worked, but now his self-deception was under threat. Ruth wanted to bring Rachel into his world, to rob him of his contentment and make him feel discontent in all the safe, secure trappings that marriage had brought him. Ruth didn’t know – she couldn’t know – of the dangers that existed outside their own cosy little domestic world.

  A movement caught his eye in one of the lower fields and he walked slowly down to stand watching hi
s father examine a sickly ewe who was in lamb, the muscles of that powerful right arm of his standing out like rope as he flipped the creature expertly back on to her feet.

  ‘Father, can I ask you something?’ Lorn said gruffly.

  ‘Ay, what is it?’ Fergus didn’t look up.

  ‘If Mother wanted to have a friend to stay and you couldny stand the sight of her – because of some very personal reason – would you – still let Mother have her way?’

  Fergus’ dark head jerked up and his black eyes snapped with amusement. ‘Let her! God, lad, can you really see your mother bowing meekly to my will? She has a pretty determined one of her own in case you haveny noticed. Oh ay, she would have her way all right but if the body was such a thorn in my side I’d make pretty buggering sure I made myself scarce at every opportunity. Does that answer your question?’

  Lorn nodded. ‘Ay, thanks, Father,’ he said seriously then added cheekily, ‘Does wisdom like that always come with great age?’

  ‘Well, of all the . . .’ Fergus, eyes glinting, let go of the ewe and took hold of his son as if he was about to spank him. There in the fields father and son tussled, emerging from the fray laughing and panting, Lorn’s arm thrown over the older man’s broad shoulders.

  ‘Your old man can still spar with the best of them,’ smiled Fergus. ‘One arm or no.’

  ‘Ay, it never did keep you back!’ Lorn’s laughing face became serious. ‘I wish I’d known you when you – when . . .’

  ‘When I was all in one piece,’ Fergus’ rugged face also became serious. ‘You wouldny have liked the man I was then – too buggering proud and stubborn for my own or anyone else’s good. You mustny let the McKenzie thrawn pride ever stand in the way of your good sense, Lorn. You all inherited it in varying degrees, but you – you, my lad, are your old man all over again, though I think you’re too sensible to ever let it rule your head.’