The Firebird

Colonel Graeme, as he often did, delayed his answer with a question of his own. ‘And do ye fear the devil, Anna?’

Anna heard again the wicked wailing of the wind, and was not sure. She looked to where her mother and her father stood, and then towards the door that was still blocked by Captain Jamieson, and guarded by the colonel, and it seemed to her that nothing could so easily get past those two men and their swords, and suddenly she knew that she was not afraid. Not really.

So she said as much. And when she asked the colonel, ‘Can your ship outrun him?’ she felt something stir within her, like the thrill at the beginning of a great adventure.

‘Aye.’ His smile came easily, as though he somehow knew what she was feeling, and he looked to Captain Jamieson. ‘My nephew’s child,’ he told the captain, and his pride was obvious as he said once again, ‘She comes with us.’

It was decided, then.

Her mother dressed her warmly, in two layers and a wrap, with heavy woollen stockings that felt scratchy on her legs and Donald’s old boots that were too large for her small feet. ‘Mind the colonel, now,’ her mother said in a brisk tone that sounded nothing like her own. ‘Do as he tells ye, with no argument.’

‘I never argue.’

‘Anna.’

Anna held her tongue, but only for an instant while she watched her mother’s busy hands. ‘Will you be coming after, when the devil’s gone?’

Her mother’s hands fell still. She paused, then, ‘No, we’ll not be coming.’

Anna frowned as she absorbed this. ‘Ever?’

‘No.’ Her mother raised her head and showed a smile that, like her voice, seemed not quite natural. ‘The colonel’s right, the place for ye the now is with your family.’

Anna struggled with a swift confusing tangle of emotions, but through all of it she sought to learn the truth. ‘Do you not want me any more?’

‘Of course I do, of course I want ye. From the first day ye were put into my arms ye’ve been the best and finest daughter I could wish for, but ye never were my own to keep.’ Her mother’s smile began to tremble slightly, but she steadied it. ‘And there are other hearts that have a greater right than mine to claim your love.’ She raised a hand to smooth the hair away from Anna’s face and smiled more brightly. ‘Here now, I’ve a giftie for ye.’

Anna took the little parcel from her mother’s outstretched hand and stared at it in wonder. It was just the size of her own palm, and wrapped in cloth so beautiful she’d never seen its like – a bit of silken stuff the colour of the lavender that grew beside the kitchen door at Slains. At first she thought that was the gift itself, and would have thanked her mother for it had she not been gently told to open it.

Inside, a single curl of hair lay bright against the lovely cloth, its cut ends tightly tied together with a soft blue ribbon.

Her mother gently told her, ‘’Tis Sophia’s hair, the mother ye were born to. Ye did ask for that the day she left, and I have kept it for ye since.’

With one uncertain finger Anna touched the curl. ‘My mother’s hair?’

‘Aye. And where she has gone she has a curl of your hair with her that she took from you that day, tied with that same blue ribbon, so that she may keep your memory close.’ Her mother watched as Anna touched the curl again. ‘Is it not beautiful?’

‘It is a different colour from my own.’ That disappointed her.

The colonel had been listening, behind her. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘ye have the look of your father – the bonny brown hair and the eyes that your mother so loved.’

The mother who’d raised her agreed. ‘She once told your Aunt Kirsty his eyes were the same colour as the winter sea.’

The colonel said, ‘Did she, now?’ Looking into Anna’s eyes he smiled. ‘And so they are. Are ye then ready for a voyage on that sea?’

Her mother held them back a moment. ‘There is one thing more.’ From underneath her own clothes in the low box in the corner of the cottage, she drew out a folded garment made of finest Holland linen, traced with lovingly embroidered sprays of vines and fading flowers. As she rolled it tightly, wrapping it within a square of rougher homespun cloth, she said to Anna, ‘This was made by your Aunt Kirsty for your mother, for her wedding night, and ’twas your mother’s wish that you should have it. It was made with love and carries love, and that will shield ye better in this life than any armour.’ She rebound the bit of silken cloth that held the curl of hair again, as well, and handed both to Colonel Graeme. ‘Will ye guard these for her?’

‘Aye.’ He took them carefully and found a place of safety for them underneath his coat. As he looked around the small room at the faces that were watching him, he asked her father once again, ‘Ye’re certain that ye will not come?’

Her father shook his head, then asked, ‘Where are ye bound?’

‘To Flanders, if the wind allows. There is a monastery of the Irish nuns at Ypres, where I have many times found shelter in the past. I’ll send ye word from there.’

‘God keep ye safe,’ her mother told him, and he nodded in return.

‘And you.’ His hand touched Anna’s shoulder. ‘Say goodbye, now.’

It was hard. She felt the sting of tears as she embraced her brothers and her sisters, and it worsened when the warm familiar feeling of her mother’s arms wrapped round her. ‘Be a good girl, now,’ was all the last instruction she received before her mother turned away again to give her father space to crouch in front of Anna.