Climbing down through the hills into a valley he spied a croft that might provide them with a night’s shelter and possibly some clothes for her.
Coming over the hill he stopped Stella and Ferghus.
“Lass, yonder is a crofter. Wait here and I will find us shelter for the night. Ferghus, keep watch.” With that Robbie rode the short distance down the slope of the hill onto the farmers land. Dismounting, Stella waited, walking with Ferghus in the heather looking at the small cottage and wondering who might be living there, what would they be like. So far on this journey she had met only Robbie and the soldiers. One wanted to marry her, the others wanted her dead. She was hoping the crofters would fall somewhere in the middle.
The croft was made of stone with a stout thatch roof, surrounded by a large garden and several fruit trees. To the east of the croft was a larger stone building, presumably the barn, thatched and surrounded by pens for pigs and goats.
After twenty minutes Stella saw Robbie and a smaller man, surely the crofter, come out of the cottage. Robbie had clothes draped over his shoulder and the farmer motioned to the stone barn and accompanied Robbie inside. After several minutes the farmer came from the barn and went directly into his croft. Robbie came out of the barn and signaled Stella and Ferghus to come down from the hill to the barn.
Stella and Ferghus moved swiftly, and Robbie met her as she came to the great doors of the barn. Robbie led Arwen into the barn, a cool stone building that housed a cow and several goats and had chickens wandering about.
Stella loved a barn. She remembered the first time she walked into a barn, inhaling the scent of new hay, the horses and the sharp smell of the Absorbine to sooth the animals’ achy muscles. She recalled the busy wooden structure, the horses snorting, neighing and kicking their stall doors. It was there that she and her father boarded Arwen and it was here that Stella was surprised to find what an excellent rider her father was. He seemed very comfortable on a horse, knew how to handle them and seemed at ease when they bucked and reared. Her father, always so scholarly, seemed to be a man of many dimensions. This old stone barn smelled the same as any barn any where across the globe and throughout all time. Barns would always be places of warmth and safety, undisturbed by human industry.
“Stella, I have clothes for ye, lass. Don them quickly and we will dine with the farmer and his wife. Speak softly and quietly, Stella, we do not want to draw attention to ye. Yer words and manner of speaking will be strange t’ them. Do ye ken, love?
Making herself small and invisible was not to her liking, but under the circumstances Stella understood the wisdom of being part of the background, rather than the main attraction. She slid from her horse. “Yes, I understand. I can be circumspect.” She never anticipated that her Texas drawl would be cause for panic, but she would do as he asked.
Robbie took Arwen’s reins and handed Stella the bundle of clothes he had purchased from the farmer’s wife. As Robbie led the horse into a stall and fed and watered both of the animals, Stella looked at the rather strange full dress and thought that having a turn at the Renaissance Faire was not such a hard thing. She slipped the clothes over her shirt and jeans and removed her hat, donning, in its place a white capped head covering. The dress seemed rather voluminous in the waist and Stella thought that perhaps it may have been a maternity dress. She undid the belt in her jeans and wrapped it around the dress at her waist. In spite of the thickness of the wool it was velvety soft and the color a beautiful slate blue. She stuffed her hair into the small white cap and turned toward Robbie.
“How do I look?” she smiled and tried to be as 17th century as she could, but the fire of her spirit shown thru, disturbing him. Robbie saw not a farmer’s wife, but a Faerie Queen disguised as a farmer’s wife. The clothes did nothing to hide her strength, her fire, her courage.
“Lass, can ye be humble and downcast yer eyes? I know tis not yer way, but I mean to protect ye and this will keep ye safe.” Stella tried to think of herself as invisible and looked to the ground. Her head bent, her shoulders in submission.
“How’s this?” she asked.
Stella took a deep breath, dipped her head to signify humility, keeping her eyes on the ground. She was the picture of shy humility. Almost. Robbie watched her with interest as she tried to transform herself and he realized how much Stella, and the females of his experience, differed. Stella, in her magnificence was a little less than the angels. The females of his experience, was merely an integer of man. A shadow of what they were truly meant to be. He felt humbled by the comparison.
“Take yer boots off, love, they are strange and nay the shoes of a Highland lass.”
“Hmmph! Highland lass,” muttered Stella. “I hate being barefoot, my feet will get dirty.” She frowned, but took her boots and socks off and hid them under Robbie’s plaid. “OK, but nothin’ else comes off.” Robbie looked at her bare feet and shook his head. Even her feet were beautiful, the skin soft, the nails clean and pink. There appeared to be no bad parts to this woman.
Shyly Robbie reached for her hand. “I have told them ye are my wee wife. It would not be proper for us to travel together unchaperoned for they may think poorly of thee. But as my wife you are protected from evil tongues.”
This was another reason to not stay here, thought Stella. A woman’s very being was questioned in any situation where she was not married. The prevailing culture had determined that any unmarried woman was dangerous and libidinous by nature and that her every move and behavior was not to be left to her own agency. She was imprisoned under the guise of ‘protection’ and her spirit corralled and monitored for the sake of men. The very thought made her blood begin a slow boil, but she knew she was powerless to change that. She was a traveler here and merely passing through, and it was best to remember, ‘when in Rome…’
She set her lips in a grim look of disapproval, but nodded to Robbie. “This is not the Texas way, Robbie, but I will do it for you.”
“Lass, I ken it is nay the Tegis way. When ye first threw me o’er yer wee small shoulders I understood that ye would nay be like any woman of my knowing. But the way of things is different here, I mean only t’ protect ye from it. I gave ye my oath.” He entwined his fingers in hers and walked with her to the farmer’s croft. He felt emboldened by her firm grip, her willingness to do his bidding.
Ferghus thought to accompany them, but Robbie turned and sent him back to the barn. “Stay, boy, we’ve still got soldiers looking for us. Mind the horses.” Ferghus obediently loped back to the barn.
He did not see her smile, nor the glance she gave to their entwined hands. Robbie had huge hands and hers, even for a woman, were small, the only delicate thing about her. The Celestial Committee had built her with activity and energy in mind, but had given her the hands of a small princess.
“So, Robbie, how long have we been married?” she queried, cheerfully. Disguises and roll playing were not new to her because she never missed Comic-Con. Every year she was there, displaying her work, taking part in the fun and insanity of the costumes and make believe. It was her favorite time of year. But usually her costumes were a bit ‘leggier’ than this woolen dress.
Robbie’s heart buoyed to hear the laughter in her voice. Mayhap she would find that marriage to him was not such an unreasonable thing. He squeezed her hand tighter.
“Ah, lass, let us be married for a year now.” He wrapped his hand around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him, and squeezed. “Aye, a year.”
The farmer’s wife greeted them at the door. She was a pretty young woman with sad eyes and welcomed them in humbly.
“Good wife, we are pleased to be here and thank thee for thy hospitality and welcome.” Robbie became the ambassador for them as they were led into the small, but comfortable croft.
“We welcome thee and thy bride to our home,” said the crofter’s wife. She nodded to them and pointed to the wooden slab table and benches that were the centerpiece of this lovely small croft.
Th
e croft had a plain but functional layout, being divided only by a plaid that separated a small sleeping area from the rest of the rectangular cottage. A large fireplace was in the middle of the long wall and was hung with a metal rod that held a black cooking cauldron.
It was simply furnished with two chairs by the fireplace and a large slab table with benches near the cooking area. Small wooden shelves held all the cooking and eating utensils, while clothes were hung on pegs by the curtained sleeping area. Dried flowers and herbs hung from the rafters giving the whole a sweet woody fragrance.
Stella was delighted with the little croft and thought it such a romantic place for this young couple who appeared to be about her age or younger.
Stella dutifully nodded her head and smiled sweetly at the crofter’s wife, hoping against hope that she could be invisible at least for the time it took to fill her belly She was ravenous and could probably eat a French fried mountain goat if need be, but counseled herself that the fare was going to be sparse and tasteless. That was ok, as long as it put something her belly. She’d even eat one of those sawdust oakcakes if served up to her.
She bowed slightly and using her best Scots brogue she delivered what she thought would be the appropriate response murmured as quietly and humbly she could, “Thank ye so much, we are in debt to ye,” and was pleased to see Robbie pleasantly surprised.
“We are most grateful fer yer kind heart, good lady,” said Robbie.
“Och, tis naught I could do,” said the young wife. She motioned Stella and Robbie to sit at the table and set wooden bowls in front of them, filling them with a rich, thick lamb stew that reminded Stella of the fare at one of her favorite Greek restaurants.
“Hmmm, this smells delicious,” said Stella. Her hunger was beyond anything she had ever experienced and she was impatient to dive into her bowl. Hunger was something new to Stella, as it was to all middle class Americans.
She noted that Robbie and the crofter were sitting patiently at their seats waiting for all to be served. Quietly and with reverence, the crofter bowed his head and gave a blessing over the food. Stella dutifully bowed her head and closed her eyes. Reverently she listened to the blessing of the crofter and thought about the meal. It had been brought to her through sacrifice and hard work. No trip to the grocery store, no microwave oven, no Food Network knockoff. This meal was given to her through their hard efforts and that made it doubly meaningful to her.
After the prayer and as they ate Stella tried to surreptitiously memorize the small croft. She wanted to paint it but this was not the time to pull out her sketch book.
Robbie and the young crofter discussed livestock and farming, swapping stories and information in the way of all new friends. Robbie also apprised him of the doings of King James and Stella realized that this was how this couple received news in their world – through the visitation of the occasional traveler.
Their meal was finished in the friendly and hopeful atmosphere of all new relationships – a welcome surprise and diversion in the visitation of strangers. The farmer’s wife got up to take the dishes from the table.
“It would please me to help ye in this,” Stella said. The farmer’s wife looked at Stella and said with a sad smile, “No need, lass, I can have this done in no time. I know ye must be tired. Take this bread with ye to the barn. Morning will come soon enough and ye will want to have something to break yer fast.”
Night moved swiftly into the small valley washing the sky in the hot red watercolors of a dying sun. Orange clouds, tinged in pink were brushed across the sky in a dance of mingling shades of crimson. The colors were so true, so brilliant that Stella could only stare with her mouth open. “My god, Robbie, look at this beautiful sky.”
Robbie looked at the sky remembering his own experiences of wonder at seeing a sky painted such and then turned to her. “Aye, it is beautiful, lass, but nay as much as ye.” His eyes softened and he grew hard with longing. He took her hand and kissed the soft knuckles. She looked at him, his skin glowing red in the embers of the sun, and saw the Robbie she had felt in the studio. This man loved her and that frightened her because she did not know him. Not only was he a stranger, but he was from a different century and how can you love someone that lived four hundred years before you? It couldn’t be done – but still she felt that tug, knowing Robbie was tied to her in spite of the centuries, but she just didn’t know how. He was almost handsome, although he could use a shave, but what she saw of his face was pleasing to her. He was gentle and kind, when not murdering the English, and was quick to see to her comfort and safety. These were acts of love that she had not experienced before, outside of her father. Why was she feeling a softening in her heart? She was determined to return to her own time. She would not stay.
He winked at her and tugged on her hand, “Come, wife, we must get some rest. We leave early, we can be in Oban by tomorrow evening if we do not run into more soldiers or flying horses.”
Ferghus greeted them with excitement as they opened the wooden doors. Robbie let Ferghus run out into the gathering darkness to find himself a meal.
“Robbie, do we have light? I need light,”
Robbie let go of her hand and moved to the side of the door. “Aye, lass, here is a lantern.” The lantern was merely a hanging metal candlestick, but it would work. Stella winced at the thought of a burning candle inside of a barn, but realized that daylight was the only other source of light and that was fast dissipating. She had her flashlight but wasn’t ready to send Robbie over the edge with a flashlight.
Stella found her backpack where she had hidden it with her boots and hat. She grabbed her sketch book and pencil and sat against the wooden stall where Robbie had hung the lantern. It wasn’t much light, but it was enough to do some preliminary sketches. She wanted to put down the images of the croft because she knew she could use them later. Robbie busied himself making a soft pallet with his plaid for their sleep. He watched her from the corner of his eye, as she took a small book from her backpack and sat close to the candle. He watched with curiosity as she took a stick and sharpened the end of it with her knife.
“What is that stick, lass?” his curiosity was great where she was concerned because in the two days he had known her she had shown him things he had never seen before.
Stella looked up from what she was doing. “Stick? Oh. It’s a pencil. Look at this, Robbie. There is graphite inside this stick and I use it to make marks – to draw.”
“Graphite?” Robbie’s head cocked with interest at this stick. “Aye. I have heard of graphite, the English use it in their armaments. Will this pencil explode?”
“Well, what a pencil does can be explosive, but the pencil itself won’t explode, it just leaves marks.” She handed him the pencil. He examined it, his eyes narrowing as he tried to determine how the graphite was put into the stick. Once again he was impressed with the craftsmanship. He looked inquiringly at her, “Tegis?” he asked, handing it back to her.
“Yes. From Texas.” She smiled thinking that a ten cent pencil could be a thing of miracles, miracles that she took for granted. She looked at the pencil and truly saw an invention that may have changed the world - pencils were an extraordinary thing and were the very basic tools of her art. Pencils left behind a record of one’s life, gave shape to human language, were the means to express the richness of the human heart, and they marked out the mathematical models of space travel. What an incredible gift was the pencil.
Robbie sat down comfortably next to Stella, their shoulders and arms touching. Stella welcomed the feel of him, the comfort and peace that his nearness imparted to her. Stella had pulled up her dress so she could sit cross-legged on the hay covered dirt floor, her jeans preserving her modesty. She was still barefoot and pulled the ends of dress over her feet to keep them warm. Robbie sat with his legs straight out in front him, leaning against the wooden stall. She noted he had taken off his sword but laid it down within a hands distance from him, still alert to any danger that might interrup
t them. They were facing the barn door that Robbie left partially open to allow Ferghus to come back in.
“Ye are making marks? Are ye writing?” he asked. He looked at the small black book she had in her hand. It had a black cloth cover, which he thought odd. Most books of his experience were covered in leather, metal or wood and the bindings and covers were works of art in themselves. He expected something even grander from Tegis, but this book was plain as if made for a poor man – but what would a poor man do with a book?
“I’m going to draw the farmer’s croft, Robbie. I want to paint it when I get home and I need to put down some details while they’re still fresh in my mind.”
Robbie looked genuinely surprised – again. “You are an artist, Stella? That is what you do?” Robbie tentatively reached for the small book. She hesitated, thinking about what was in the book. Had she drawn anything that she would have difficulty explaining? She generally filled up a sketch book quickly and this one was less than a quarter filled, but she recalled that most of the drawings were craggy faced cowboys and horses. She relented and allowed him to take the book from her.
He gently took the book weighing it in his hand, feeling the heft of it. It was small, smaller than any book he had seen, perhaps an inch thick and as wide as his two palms together. He ran his hands over the coarse cover thinking it odd there was no design or ornamentation on it. The binding, however, was excellent, crisp and well made and the cover itself was stiff and hard, although he thought it was not wood. He opened the cover of the book and touched the first page. It was blank, smooth textured, but thick. It was made from rag and did not have the crispness of parchment, but seemed soft and absorbent.
Stella watched Robbie look at the book and again wondered about the miracle of small things. In her world books were abundant, every household having books that were not only cheap but printed in color with pictures. Books were a commodity that were so common they were found in grocery stores, piled high like forgotten junk merchandise in the bargain bins. They were highly disposable and easily forgotten. Most homes had at least one bookshelf and others had rooms filled with books shelves. Not just professors or the rich, but ordinary people who found pleasure in reading and collecting books. Her own books numbered in the hundreds and were stuffed without thought into rickety book shelves, large art books piled on the floor in short towers serving as side tables, and others scattered throughout the house wherever she left them, dropped without thought. Her father’s books were in the thousands. Not only had he written many books but he had spent a lifetime accumulating them. He had books in every room of the house, packed in boxes in the garage and lying scattered about like flowers in an English garden.
Highland Portrait Page 12