Page 61 of Laird of Flint
“Ah,” her father said, lowering his voice to confide, “injustices like seeing the Boyle brothers get away with lyin’ about the cattle theft.”
Carenza drew in a quick breath. So her father knew they’d lied. She supposed it shouldn’t have surprised her. When it came to outsiders, her father was quite perceptive.
Hew nodded.
Her father wiped his mouth and left his linen on the table. “Now that I’m no longer a young man, I find the road to justice is sometimes windin’ and very long.”
Hew smiled and raised his cup in agreement.
“Speakin’ o’ no longer bein’ a young man…” Carenza tucked her own linen under her trencher. “I fear the wee lads are gettin’ restless to light the bonfire.”
An hour later she and her father led the Dunlop clanfolk, bundled in thick woolen plaids against the chill wind, as they climbed up the frosty hillock to the blazing bonfire. Their offerings of crops and slaughtered fowl were carefully placed on the fire to appease the spirits and guarantee a good harvest in the following year. Tongues of flame licked the black sky, keeping evil souls at bay and reminding winter that the light of spring and new life would return.
At the spring celebration of Beltane the wee lads would be allowed to run and frolic around the fire. But Samhain was a somber time, and with the wall between this world and the next so narrow, most were afraid to incur the wrath of departed spirits. So there was little chatter. Instead, the air was filled with the crackle, roar, and snap of the fire consuming everything thrown into its greedy maw.
As the heat scorched Carenza’s face, the bright flames drew her gaze upward. She saw what appeared to be the dark souls of the dead circling above the bonfire.
“Look!” a young lad cried out. “There they are!”
“Hush!” an old woman hissed. “Don’t look at them or ye’ll follow after!”
Soon the clanfolk began murmuring quiet blessings, while the wee children shivered in fear, shielding their eyes and whispering.
“As the wheel turns…”
“The veil thins…”
“Spirits o’ those departed…”
“Keep us safe from…”
“Take these gifts…”
“Till the light returns…”
“Protect us from those who would…”
“Evil spirits.”
“The souls o’ the dead.”
But Carenza knew what they were.
They were her treasured secret. Her favorite part of Samhain.
And for some curious reason, she felt compelled to share that secret with Hew. She clasped him by the forearm and nodded toward the top of the fire.
He followed her gaze in silence and then narrowed his eyes as he saw the dark forms.
She grinned. “Bats.”
He furrowed his brows.
“The firelight draws insects,” she explained in a whisper. “And the bats feast on them.”
“I won’t tell,” he promised. “Though how can you be certain they aren’t the evil souls of dead bats?”
That made her laugh, which immediately earned her a scowl from her father, standing near the bonfire.
