Na Fir-chlis

Flora Somerville, God love her soul, had worked her way into my life and heart and had managed, beyond my stubborn resistance, to become a friend. It started when I began taking Wee Rabb to the library for children’s books. It was Flora who introduced me to Burns for children (who doesn’t want to read Burns for Bairns?) and an absolutely darling book in Scots about a wee dug named Shug. I enjoyed learning Scots along with Wee Rabb and only wished I was brave enough to attempt Gaelic. That, I supposed, would have to be left to Rabbie.

But our friendship began in earnest when I’d made that absurd request for “something Scottish to read.” Flora, with an instinctive sense that I very much needed a good laugh, had prescribed Whisky Galore. Four days later, tears of laughter still clinging to my eyes, I found my way back to the library for something different. An enthusiastic aficionado, Flora took on the task of developing my knowledge of Scottish literature with aplomb. On that second trip, when Flora handed me The Mearns Trilogy, we solidified our friendship over a cup of tea and a long conversation about how much Chris Guthrie reminded me of Grandma Lillian and the book’s influence on my own work. The next thing I knew, we were scheduled for a lunch date so she could grill me about my novel. And I went home with Docherty by McIlvanney.

Belatedly returning Docherty thanks to my unplanned trip through the Hebrides, I wondered what Flora might have in store for me this time. I expected a tome, as Flora had discovered I loved complex books, or at least loved them when I had the mental bandwidth to consume them. Since I wasn’t doing much of anything else but staring at a blinking cursor while noshing shortbread and chugging tea – I’d once again found clearance, somehow, for an intricate plotline.

So, when Flora handed me a slim volume with only a few hundred pages, my eyebrows rose. It was a young reader’s chapter book with the intriguing title Where Monsters Lie. I dubiously regarded the unexpected cover.

“You did so enjoy those folk tales with Wee Rabb. This is a lovely and haunting tribute to Scottish lore, and the author has a really keen way of explaining adult emotions to children. Trust me.”

I tapped the book’s cover with my fingertips, hesitating. “Well, at least it will be light to carry home. I anticipate seeing you tomorrow, so I hope you’ll have something heftier to suggest or you may get weary of seeing my face.”

“Never.” Flora smiled brightly. “Also, my mother sent you this.” Flora’s mother lived nearby, an aging bibliophile and – apparently – baker. The wrapped parcel clearly held scones.

“Your mother is an angel.”

“Not really,” Flora laughed. “She just bakes like all my brothers still live at home. My boys can only eat so many scones.”

I laughed too, tucking Monsters and the scones in my bag. “Coffee on Saturday?”

“I’m afraid not.” As usual, Flora’s hands were busy while she talked, stacking books on her rolling cart. “Mother has a medical appointment in Inverness on Friday, so I told her we’d go for the weekend and make a holiday of it.”

“That sounds wonderful. Have a lovely time!” I waved goodbye and headed for the market.

Later that evening, belly full of vegetable soup and Flora’s mother’s currant scones, I curled up on the couch before the fire with the first children’s novel I’d read in a very long time.

I’m not sure when I fell asleep. Or if I fully fell asleep. Waking and sleeping blended together, lifting the veil between dream and reality. I could hear the wind rattling the windows, the crackle of the fire, the jangling of the wind chimes at Rabbie’s across the way.

The tinking of ice on the window.

Tink tink tink.

The sound was disorienting, jarring in a way it shouldn’t be. Ice? I thought. It’s August. No ice, not even in the arse-end of Scotland.

Tink.

Thunk.

I started fully awake. That isn’t ice, I realized. It’s a stone. Hitting my window.

I blinked bleary eyes, stretching out the crick in my neck.

Thunk.

I incongruously wondered if I had a fifteen-year-old admirer trying to sneak me out of the house. I opened the window, narrowly dodging a small projectile.

“Crìosd, hen. What took you so long?” Rabbie was hissing at me from twenty yards away. I simply stared at him, utterly bemused, still blinking sleep from my eyes. “Are you dressed? Gie your shoes and come on!”

“What on earth are you talking about, Rabbie?”

“The mirrie dancers are out.” And with that he turned and started up the path away from the loch toward high ground.

I didn’t know what “mirrie dancers” were. Intrigued, I slipped on my boots and shrugged on my fleece, heading out into the dark.

Rabbie had a small flashlight, but the sky was bright enough I could just about see to keep from tripping over hidden boulders. I took a few hurrying strides to catch him up, then slowed to match his long, steady pace. He had a tattered blanket tucked under his arm and his flask in one hand.

“Did I wake you?”

“Yes,” the groggy fatigue slipping out as irritation, just a touch more forceful than I actually felt. “I fell asleep reading.”

“Same. I was going to bed when I saw na fir-chlis. I thought you’d want to see them.”

“You called them the merry dancers?” The ground leveled out and Rabbie paused a moment studying it. Not responding, he handed me the flask and shook out the tattered blanket, laying it on the ground. Stretching himself out full length on the blanket, he raised a hand to me and I passed him the flask.

“Sit, hen.”

Stepping toward Rabbie, I paused as the sky brightened. Looking up, I saw a faint trail of green glimmer through the sky.

“Is that…?” The green grew stronger, waving, flickering white and orange as it trailed through the sky.

“Sit.”

I did, lowering myself to the ground slowly, my eyes still fixed on the sky. Merry dancers, indeed, I thought, as bands of light circled and flickered above me.

“Na fir-chlis,” Rabbie indicated.

“Aurora borealis.” He grunted assent, tucking his arms behind his head and crossing his ankles. After the briefest hesitation, I lay down next to him. Slowly the world, including Rabbie, faded away, as the ribbons of color flickered and undulated through the velvet night sky.

I felt my breathing slow, my body growing heavy as it sank into the comfort of the earth. Watching the ribbons of green and white, I could almost hear the celestial music inspiring their choreography. My mind drifted in that weightless sort of way one finds in deep meditation. I floated among the stars, releasing, the tether holding me to reality. I heard nothing but the ocean wave of my breath and the music of the spheres.

I’m not sure when I began to cry, tears trickling silently down my cheeks. Not in sorrow, or pain, or even joy – but perhaps in wonder; wonder that I was here in this moment and it was far more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.

A spark of something inside me flared to life, illuminating the music of that song I’d heard on Kerrara, at the top of Arthur’s Seat. I think, if I could have glowed, I would have. I rode the wave of self-discovery, collecting all the bits of myself I’d stumbled on since stepping off the plane in Edinburgh, then coaxing them all into a coalesced whole. This wasn’t a discovery of what I needed or what I did. This wasn’t yet another dissertation on how the world defined me, or even how I defined myself. Rather, it was the re-creation of a self I’d forgotten, which wasn’t constrained or restricted or broken or empty. I discovered a sense of whole-self-ness, complete and fulfilled and radiating out.

A spark of star born out of the black hole I’d become.

I sensed Rabbie on his side of the blanket, taking a sip from his flask, a distant part of another life. Another universe.

The borealis flared, shifting from green to white to blue and back to green.

I sighed heavily, weighted by the glory of the heavens.

“Mmmmphmm.” Rabbie’s contented Scottish noise startled me. I took my eyes off the sky for a moment to find him on his side, propped on one elbow, looking at me. How many seconds or minutes or hours or days or lifetimes had passed while I’d gazed at the sky, Rabbie watching me while I watched the heavens? I felt my cheeks grow warm and my breath grow short. A fuzzy sense of excitement tingled up my spine.

I glanced away and then back at him. Unable to look away again, I rolled on to my side, propping myself on my elbow, my body mirroring his. Rabbie’s face was an open book, earnest and raw. Usually so impassive and analytical, the vulnerability on his features fractured something in me. That piece of me held together with stolid determination and stubborn loyalty and a firm conviction that romance was no longer a part of my life – that piece of me cracked.

Rabbie must have seen it, that glimmer of hope that maybe I wasn’t just a sad, middle-aged, widowed mom, or a struggling author or an exhausted college professor; the hope that perhaps I was still someone desirable and beautiful and alluring. I tingled with the dreaded anticipation of a teenage girl on the verge of her first kiss, hopelessly silly and stupidly scared.

Rabbie reached for me, his hand warm and large as he tucked a wisp of hair behind my ear and tentatively stroked my cheek. I wanted to break eye contact, to look away, to escape. And I so desperately wanted him to draw me into himself and hold me like I was something precious.

“Crissie,” his voice was hoarse. “I’m going to kiss you. If you dinna want me to, you’d best stop me, for I cannae stop myself.”

“Rabbie,” I breathed his name as he drew nearer. He paused, earnestly searching my eyes. “Please.” What was I asking? I wasn’t sure. My mind raced. Please stop. Please don’t stop. Please kiss me. Please don’t do this. Please don’t break my heart.  “Please.”

His lips touched mine. Soft. Warm. Hesitant. I froze, my body tensing. This wasn’t friends, this wasn’t part of the social contract we’d tried to write. It was a violation of everything I’d told myself as I’d biked my way from Fishnish to Uig, a betrayal of the plans I’d made to maintain the status quo. This wasn’t, I was sure, what Neil would want; it wasn’t what my children would want. The painful, pinching point, however, was that it was very much what I wanted.

I should have known from the minute Rabbie took my hand in Inverary, this was where we were headed. I’d tried to avoid it, tried to run away from this stupidly perfect moment. My brain pounded with incessant, anxious questions. Is this disloyal to Neil, a betrayal of my mourning, my grief? Isn’t this contrary to the needs of my children and the life waiting for me in New York? Is it Rabbie I desire or simply the kiss itself? Am I using him in some way? Is he using me?

Rabbie sensed my hesitation and he pulled back, still cradling my cheek in his warm hand, which still smelled of whatever loam he’d recently been excavating. His eyes held an infinite number of questions, but he waited for me.

“It’s…” I hesitated again. What do I say? The thought chased itself through my head like a dog chasing its tail. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done this.”

“Aye.” Still he waited, refusing to take what I wasn’t ready to offer, hoping I’d give him something, anything.

I took a deep breath, closing my eyes, willing my body to relax. The breath shuddered out of me. Eyes still shut, I said quietly, “Kiss me like you mean it, Robert McEnys.”

He didn’t hesitate. Rabbie’s mouth met mine fiercely, almost possessively. It shattered me. I splintered into a thousand pieces and threatened to fly apart.

That kiss became my world, my universe. It was all the wonder of the heavens boiled down into a perfect meeting of two celestial bodies. His mouth tasted of whisky and his hair smelled of woodsmoke. He was solid and steady, the perfect counterbalance to the trembling that consumed me from head to toe.

Rabbie’s hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck. His thumb toyed with my earlobe and stroked down the side of my throat. He angled his head, deepening his kiss, pulling me closer. Without a thought, I rested my hand on his chest. I could feel his heart pounding, rapid as my own. My fingers brushed against the hollow of his throat and a rumble of a groan answered them.

My mind went blank, erasing the flurry of thoughts and emotions preceding that particular moment, and I sank into the relief of it. I’d been so exhausted by the unending train of thoughts that the silence in my head felt like paradise. There was no worry or fear, no existence beyond that spot where Rabbie’s mouth met mine, the place on my neck where his fingers lingered. I was timeless and ageless and formless and free of the myriad things I was supposed to be and desired to be and forced to be. There was no need, no want or desire or hope, nothing but the perfection of the moment.

I blessedly wasn’t thinking of anything, merely reveling in the wonder of Rabbie’s mouth as it caressed mine as we lay beneath an infinite sky beribboned with glimmering shreds of the universe.

Slowly, ever so slowly, hesitantly, almost unwillingly, the kiss ended. Rabbie looked at me with the light of heaven in his eyes and the corners of his mouth upturned in that winsome smile I’d seen so rarely. His gaze was so intense I could barely meet it. I found myself satiated while still wanting, confused although wholly confident, jumbled up in ways I’d forgotten one could be jumbled.

           I opened my mouth to say something – anything – although I didn’t know for certain what would come out. Before I could speak, Rabbie touched his finger to my lips, shushing me.

“Ist, mo leannan. Ist.” With that he rolled to his back, tucked his arm under me and pulled me close so my head was resting on his shoulder and I was nestled against his side. That word Rabbie had used weeks ago, cherished – I hadn’t known what he’d meant when he’d said it before. I realized with a sharp pang of clarity that the feeling bubbling up inside of me was exactly that – being cherished. I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt it before, although surely Neil must have held me like this once upon a time.

My whole adult life, I’d felt alone, surrounded by enemies with my back to the wall. I’d always known there was no one else to help protect that which was most dear to me. Life had always been me against the world, weighed down by the burden of preserving the lives of those who depended upon me. I’d never once been a treasured jewel, protected at all cost.

Since the day of Neil’s final DUI arrest, when it was clear he was going to jail, that alcohol had so painfully consumed him that he couldn’t fight his own battles let alone mine, and I finally understood that our life together would never be what I’d imagined it could be – since that day, I’d given up the dream of having someone to fight alongside me, defend me, protect me. If Neil had been a different man, he’d have resented me for it. But he was himself, and although he must have seen the burdens I carried while he fought his own demons, and surely felt a modicum of guilt for his inability to be what I needed and wanted him to be, Neil was by and large content with the life we’d settled into. His contentment, more than the carefully buried resentment, the subtle gaslighting, the gentle humiliation, had been a knife in my heart. His contentment had been the ultimate betrayal.

It had been so very long, even before he died, that I’d felt valued at all. Neil and I had become cogs in the machine of our family, mindlessly chugging along to keep everything running. Romance had all but died out even before James had been conceived. James was my much longed-for, happy accident, the final hurrah of an almost happy marriage.

With the na fir-chlis, celebrating above us, I allowed myself to pretend, for one brief moment, that this was reality. A life where someone called me by affectionate names, held me close, looked at me with desire. A life in which someone placed a protective arm around me and sheltered me even from myself. I pretended it had always been this way and remain this way, that I had no one to answer to but myself and the man who held me close. I shoved all my thoughts of responsibility and loyalty and insistent obligation into the darkest recesses of my mind and released all the tension in my body in a slow exhale.

I sank deeper into Rabbie’s side, my head growing heavy on his shoulder. The last thing I remember was the flicker of green and white far above me.