Page watched in both revulsion and awe as the fire licked its way up the scaffold toward the body wrapped in new blankets. And even once the flames reached the platform she couldn’t make herself look away.
As she watched the flames consume, she felt curiously removed. For an instant, the piper’s sound drifted away, and only the roar of the fire reached her ears. From the corners of her eyes she saw the writhing dancers, and yet her focus remained upon the ashes that rose from the pyre—feathery shadows that floated up and disappeared beyond the rosy light of the bonfire into freedom. Free to roam the earth and settle at will, or not at all. Page imagined herself one of those floating ashes, and felt her soul lift along with it, into the cool black night. She lifted her gaze to peer into the moonless sky and found herself floating, floating... free...
Freedom. It was what she’d always wanted... what she’d sorely craved...
Or was it in truth?
Had she instead only longed that her father would reach out and snatch her far-wandering soul, and hold her fast against his heart?
Her gaze fastened upon a dark fluttering ash... Were she free to go... free to fly... where would she alight?
The soft sound of children’s voices drew her out of her reverie, and she peered down to spy Malcom and his friends working at catching ashes in their palms.
She watched them an eternity, feeling never more the stranger in their midst.
As she watched them, they gathered what remained of Ranald’s body into their tiny hands, along with those charred wood flakes. They ran, scurrying to catch all that they could, gathering black rain into their little fists. They blackened their faces with the soot, blackened their eager little fingers.
And then as Page watched, they brought the fruits of their labors to Ranald’s mother... handed her the smothered ashes. One by one, they turned over their hands and sprinkled black dust into her cupped hands.
A smile touched her lips as Malcom turned over his own and nothing came forth. He scrunched his little nose as he peered down at his soot-blackened hand, and then he shrugged and wiped his fingers across her upturned hand. She smiled, and after speaking low to the lot of them, stood and lifted up her palms to the sky and let the ashes fly once more. What soot remained, she smeared across her breast—the part of him she would keep—and once again began to weep.
Page’s eyes stung with tears, and the thought struck her that true love was as ungrudging as a mother’s simple but unselfish gesture of releasing her beloved son’s ashes into the wind.
The kitchen reeked of lye soap.
Steam from boiling kettles curled upward to mix with acid fumes, the combination of heat and lye strong enough to burn the lungs from any breathing creature who should merely think to pass by the small stone building. And yet they all remained cheerful within, working diligently at her every command. She didn’t fool herself for an instant; these people were clearly desperate to rid themselves of their fleas and seemed eternally grateful and even eager to comply in any manner conceivable.
Page had awakened to a dark, empty room—Iain nowhere to be found—but she hadn’t been afforded time to lament the fact. Glenna had entered almost at once, her voice a cheerful admonition to be up and about.
God’s truth, Page might have loathed the woman at once, save that she was much too agreeable to be despised. Glenna had brought with her a tunic for Page to wear—one she’d claimed had never belonged to Iain’s wife at all. Page had found herself smiling as Glenna had assured her, blushing, that it was one of her own—from her younger, thinner days, of course.
It was a grand gesture, Page thought. She had never concerned herself overmuch with her manner of dress, and was only mildly embarrassed that Glenna should think she needed a new gown. She was entirely dismayed, however, to find that even the tunic had fleas!
Page had, at once, taken it upon herself to rid the MacKinnon clan of their fleas. Recalling how they’d managed Balfour’s infestation a few years past, she set about the tasks with zeal. With Glenna’s help, she managed to gather the infested men and women together and was in the process of boiling garments within the massive iron kettles.
The kitchen was pervaded with perspiring bodies; some merely observing the strange ritual, others participating. When she dared to bathe Broc’s dog, the flea-breeding culprit, stunned murmurs accosted her ears. Some whispered in Gaelic. Others in plain English.
“Och, but I think she’s gain’ to wash the bluidy dog!” exclaimed someone.
“I’ll be damned, she is gain’ to wash the bluidy dog!” said another.
“Must be a Sassenach curse to ward away fleas,” whispered another.