Page 92 of The Speed of Lightning
Iain, Hector, and Murdoch followed, with a good-looking man two heads shorter than the rest, filling the crammed solar.
Thank God. Freya gave up her seat, squeezing into Calum’s chair.
He wrapped an arm around her and snorted, murmuring out the side of his mouth, “Ask Bob?”
She groaned, burying her forehead into her palm, hissing back, “I panicked.”
Léo clasped the newcomer’s hand. “Eoghan! What are you doing in the Isles?”
The man grinned, blowing into his hands. “Freezing my rump off.”
Calum stood to greet him. “You came. I wasnae sure the missive would reach you in time.”
“It’s not often I get a herald from Colonsay. When I read what you’d endured, I had to come. Anything to tweak the Abbot. First he locks me up, then tries to annul your marriage.” He leaned across the couch and kissed Freya’s hand. “Eoghan O’Gallagher, fought with your husband at Dun Ringill. Saints, you weren’t jesting—she’s gorgeous.”
Self-conscious and unsure how to reply, she shifted quickly. “Were you the one they called ‘Charger’ in the missives?”
Silence fell. All eyes fixed on her. Everyone but Eoghan and Calum looked hard—even Aileen. Sweat pricked her palms.
Hector navigated around the clutter and claimed a stool at the far end of the room. “Calum, I think we need to speak plainly. Give everyone a chance to ask her the questions they’ve been wanting answers to.”
Calum shifted and perched on her chair-back like a menacing gargoyle, one hand heavy on her shoulder. Bog lay his head across her feet protectively.
She nodded. “Ask me anything you like, I will speak honestly.”
Silence met her. The hardness in their eyes told her enough—they all wondered how much of what she had written might endanger them.
Calum’s hand squeezed her shoulder. Freya edged closer to her story, gathering its threads. “Then I’ll start at the beginning.”
“Long ago, in the ancient mists of auld, an island rose in the narrow Sound of Islay…”
Iain scoffed. “Hold oan. I tho’ ye’d explain why Týr MacLean went aff his heid and hired ye tae write tales.”
Freya hesitated, noting the rolled eyes and strained looks.
“Shut yer gob, MacLeod,” Calum cut in.
Aileen signed sharply, incredulous. Calum answered in clipped gestures. She folded her arms, settling into Léo’s side, face unreadable.
Freya drew a deep breath, summoning the bard’s voice she used with the children. She pictured the clan’s bairns gathered around the hearth, eager for their tale, and steadied. Straightening, she opened her eyes. She could do this.
“Long ago, in the ancient mists of auld, an island emerged in the narrow Sound of Islay. The world was young, newly breathed to life. The island gleamed as vivid as an emerald, its form jagged as a dragon’s tooth, cloaked in mists as delicate as Tuatha Dé Danann’s veil.?2 There did Finn MacCool prepare to wrestle, and away did Benandonner flee.”?3
David burst with a snort, and Hector cast him a withering look. Léo and Angus’s expressions softened. Eoghan and Iain leaned forward. Aileen twirled a curl around her finger. Murdoch stroked his mustache, boots propped before the fire. The tension in the room began to ease, and she felt a small spark of hope that her words were finding their mark.
She continued. “Of all the Isles, Jura was cloaked in majesty—and mystery. A wild land of stag and shifting shadows…of peace,” she lowered her voice, “and great violence. Upon its shores, men scarce dared to tread—save for the man whose heart was stout enough to brave the judgment of war and beast—one of the Seven Sons of Cruithne, named Fotla.”
“The father of the greatest Pictish kings,” Eoghan breathed.
Freya nodded. “Fotla’s bloodline rose countless Pictish kings and nobles, yet one alone claimed Jura: the formidable Cù Cogaidh. Branded with the sacred mark of the wolfhound, he reigned as the island’s guardian for nearly one hundred years, driving back every invader. Savage, indomitable, he hewed the peaks of the Sgùrr na Cìche with the swing of his war-axe, etching his legacy on the very bones of our land.”
Hector’s mangled mouth lifted into a half smile. “The great-great-great grandfather of Gillean of the Battle Axe, the first MacLean chief.”
She continued. “Cù Cogaidh was fearsome, yet within him beat a heart of flesh. Each morning from the peaks of his mountains he vowed to protect his clan…
“My name is not my own, it is borrowed from my ancestors. I will return it unstained. My honor is not my own, it is loaned from my descendants. I will give it to them unbroken. My blood is not my own, it is a gift to generations yet unborn. I will carry it with responsibility.”
Everyone in the room bent beneath the story’s power, leaning into every word. A swell of pride rose in Freya’s chest. She held them, drawing each listener into the tale, placing them beside her ancestors.
