| Stop The Music |
The crofter's hut appears suddenly like a dark lump looming out of the snowstorm and the rolling whiteness of the moors. Built of peat sod and slabs of turf, it's crevices watered with mud and it's walls half buried now with the snow banked against them. It's a crude sorry dwelling, but far away better than no shelter at all!
Inside crackling logs in the hearth are ablaze casting dancing shadows upon the crude walls, clean reeds are scattered upon the earthen floor and young Catherine takes her seat on a small stool, her expression intent, absorbed as she gracefully arranges her clothing. She is wearing a kirtle of topaz, a rich tawny shade over which, for a cloak she wears a length of fringed green and red plaid.
Torchlight
the Kings of our proud land" She said softly but clearly ~
the Isle of Iona, where our great Kings, Kenneth MacAlpine, murdered Duncan, Macbeth, and all their loyal forefathers now asleep, but waiting for the day of judgement, when they rise again to glory." Her long fingers flex, then suddenly flow over the gilded harp and the instrument seems to come alive, the sound is liquid and sweet, akin to the rush made by the waves breaking on the sandy shores of Islay, or perhaps on that distant, fabled Isle of Iona. Catherine sings in a trembling sorrowful voice ~
there let him lay his noble head, sleep the deep sleep of the royal dead, on the magical Isle of Iona.
Anoint his pale brow with the holy oil,
Though kings mae die and be laid tae rest, As I hear the sad song of the sea, I can imagine the mournful cry of the gulls wheeling o'er head . . . The rise and fall of the proud funeral barge as it is lifted and dropped . . . lifted and dropped to carry the dead Kings of Scotland to their hallowed burial place. My cheeks are dampened by tears of sorrow, so powerful is the spell that has been woven with her lament . . . The mood once jolly and loud with good cheer and festive yuletide spirit, has become a melancholy one. Then . . suddenly, the wind sets the flames upon the hearth to dancing with a wild pagan joy, their colors of amber, scarlet and blue, twisted about each other like braided ribbons of a maypole. A shepherd picks up his bagpipes and there is a shrill that warms the inner linings of my heart, another takes up the rhythm of the song upon a small drum. Soon the MacDonald clan is dancing the most beloved border reels, and tartan kilts and shawls are flying. Songs of loyalty, love and death have been sung and the festive spirit has again filled everyone. Dawn is not far off . . . Gayety of the music lilts out through the window into the crisp clear night sky, which is filled with stars . . .
Catherine MacDonald was my great grandmother ~
'Twas The Beginning . . . so |
winks off her right shoulder which displays an oval brooch of a golden color bearing a black enameled raven with it's wings spread with the red lion rampant of Scotland on it's back. Settled, Catherine flings back the folds of her cloak to free her arms before placing the kneeharp across her lap. It appears to be an ancient instrument, concentrating she tries it and finds that despite its great age the harp's voice proves true, mellow and achingly sweet ~
