The Cele De, however, see in death a friend whom the All Wise has entrusted with delivering his children from the pain and travail of mortal existence into the eternal paradise of his gracious kingdom. When bodies and hearts become too sick or broken to go on, Brother Death comes to lead the suffering spirit away to its rightful home. Accordingly, this journey is accompanied with laments and dirges for those left behind, but with songs of praise and happiness also for the one who has gone ahead.
While the body was being prepared for burial, Murdo determined that a grave should be dug in the corner of the churchyard. Although, as he said, Torf-Einar had not been one of the Lord's better sheep, he was still a member of the flock. I offered to help with this chore, but my father would not have it any other way but that he should dig the grave himself.
At dusk, the corpse was brought out and borne to the gravesite in the churchyard where most of the settlement's inhabitants had gathered. The sun had set with a fine and radiant brilliance, touching the clouds with fire, and setting the sky alight. In the golden twilight, the linen grave clothes gleamed like rarest samite, and the faces of both monks and mourners glowed. We sang a lament for a departed warrior, and then Abbot Emlyn led us in a Psalm; he said a prayer, following which he invited those closest to the deceased to toss a handful of earth into the grave. Murdo stepped forwards, picked up a fistful of dirt, and let it fall; and I followed his example. I suppose, despite our brief acquaintance, I felt some innate kinship with Torf-Einar. For all his profligate ways, he was still part of the clan, and we did for him what we would do for any family member.
We sang a Psalm while the monks undertook to shovel the dirt into the grave. The deep hole filled up quickly, and a single flat stone with his name scratched onto it was raised upon the mounded earth, whereupon we went back to the hall to drink and eat a meal in Torf's memory. As we reached the hall, I glanced up and saw two stars shining over the steep thatched roof- one for Torf, and one for Skuli, I decided. In the same instant, the monks began singing again, and it seemed to me that the stars shined more brightly. 'Farewell, Torf,' I murmured to myself. 'May it go well with you on your journey hence.'
We feasted in Torf-Einar's memory that night and, after the ale had made several rounds, Murdo rose to his feet and spoke briefly of his brother. He talked about their life together growing up in Orkneyjar, and his father's love and admiration for his first-born son. I could not help noticing, however, that he breathed not a word of their sojourn in the Holy Land. By that I knew the old wound had been reopened in my father's heart.
That night, Rhona and I clung to one another in our bed, exulting in our loving, and celebrating the life running strong in us.
Next day, the mundane chores of the settlement resumed. The awaited ship arrived with its cargo of cut stone, and we began the sweaty task of unloading the ship and dragging the heavy blocks up to the site of the new church. Murdo put as many men to the chore as could be spared from other duties, but it was hard labour still. By day's end we were well exhausted each and every one, and Torf's death and funeral were of no more account than the ripple of a pebble tossed into the sea.
As the weeks passed, however, I found myself thinking about some small thing or other Torf had told me about the Holy Land. Once, I asked Murdo for further explanation, but he just told me that whatever Torf had said was best forgotten. 'The ramblings of a sick man,' he declared flatly. 'He is dead and that is that. I will not speak of it again.'
Of course, this only served to increase my appetite the more. All through the rest of the summer and the harvest season, I fairly itched for some word of the Great Pilgrimage and its many battles, but little enough came my way. No one on the estate or any of the other settlements had taken the cross, or made the journey-save Abbot Emlyn and Murdo. When I asked the good abbot what happened in the Holy Land to make my father so close-mouthed on the subject, he replied, 'One day, perhaps, he will feel like talking about it. No doubt it is for the best.'
Towards the end of harvest that year, Rhona told me that our child-making efforts had borne fruit also: we were to have a baby in the spring. I remember, Cait, looking at you when my lovely lady wife told me the glad news. You were sitting by the hearth stirring a bowl of water with a wooden spoon which your mother had given you so you could cook with her.
'Did you hear, little one?' I shouted. 'You are to have a brother!'
Oh, I was so certain the child would be a boy, and I would have a son at last. We dreamed this happy dream all through the long, cold winter. As Rhona's belly swelled, she often remarked she had never carried a child so large and heavy-a sure sign that a man-child would be born in the spring.
At winter's end, we awaited the appointed time eagerly. One morning, we awakened to the sound of the snow melting from the roof into puddles below the deep, overhanging eaves. I felt Rhona stir beside me and turned to find her watching me. 'Did you sleep well, my heart?' I asked.
'How am I to sleep?' she replied. 'This son of yours gives me no rest at all. He kicks and squirms the whole night through.'
Placing a hand to the bulging dome of her round stomach, I said, 'It is only because he is eager to come out and meet his family.'
'It is because he is his stubborn father's son,' she replied sweetly, stroking my hair with her fingertips.
Little Cait awakened and scampered into bed with us. She snuggled down between us and proceeded to wave her feet in the air while singing a song about a fish. It was a fine and happy moment with my best beloved and I revelled in it. Looking back now, I cherish it all the more-knowing the dark, unendurable days which lay ahead.
FOUR
The birth pangs came on her early the next morning, but Rhona continued with her ordinary chores until midday when the pains grew severe. I ran to alert my lady mother, who came with one of the older women of the settlement who often served as midwife, and one of her serving-maids to help. They took matters in hand, and Ragna sent me off to the church to help Murdo with the building, promising to fetch me as soon as the birth drew near.
I was still there when Ingrid, the serving-maid, came running a short while later. 'Lord Duncan, you must hurry.'
'What,' I said, climbing down from the scaffolding, 'is my son born already?'
'My lady said you were to come as fast as you can,' she replied, wringing her hands in her apron.
I took her by the shoulders to steady her. 'Tell me what has happened.'
'It is your lady wife,' she said. 'Oh, please, come now. Hurry.'
My father heard the commotion below and called down to know what was happening. I explained quickly, and he sent me off, saying he would find Abbot Emlyn and follow as soon as he could.
I raced down the hill to the dun, through the gate, into the yard, and to our house. There were several women standing outside the door; I pushed through them and went in. Ragna met me at the bedside, her face grave and sad. 'There is not much time, my son,' she said softly, taking my hand. 'She wanted to see you.'
I heard the words but could make no sense of what she was saying. 'What is wrong, mother?'
'The birth has torn something inside Rhona,' she replied gently. 'She will not live.'