Highland Portrait (16 page)

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 17
th
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.

The 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.”