are you talking about, ransoming lasses and breedin’ bairns ... ?”
Calum looked at him. “They’ve brought a lass back with them.”
The man’s face lit up like a bloody spark. “A lass? Brilliant! We were just discussin’ tha’, weren’t we, Calum? You won’t be needin’ Jenny Sinclair after all, eh? And I can certainly use the help in the kitchens, wha’ with the laundering and the housekeepin’ ...”
“She’s not that sort of lass, M’Cuick.”
He thought about it a moment. “Well, then what sort of lass is she?”
Calum frowned. “She’s the ‘captive’ sort of lass.”
M’Cuick’s mouth formed a silent “oh,” but the expression on his face showed he clearly didn’t understand. A moment later, however, he turned to Fergus, shaking his head dolefully. “I ken a man’s needs and all, Fergus Bain, but yer a braw-lookin’ lad. Could you no’ find yerself a willing lass? Jenny Sinclair in Durness wouldna have turned you out. Probably wouldna e’en have charged you ...”
“You daft ouf!” Fergus shook his head. “We took the lass because she has the stone.”
“The stone?”
“Aye.
Clach na Bratach.
The Mackay charm stone.”
M’Cuick only looked further confused.
“ ’Tis an old clan legend,” Mungo broke in, seizing any opportunity to justify their witless actions. “ ’Tis the legend of
an maighdean mhara nan MacAoidh.”
M’Cuick translated what he’d said from the Gaelic. “The Mermaid of Mackay?”
“Aye, the verra one. It was centuries ago,” Mungo said, falling into the lyrical voice of the
seanchaidh,
those ancient Gaelic storytellers of yore. “Longer ago than any o’ the living could e’er remember. The Mackay chief was for fishing out on Sandwood Bay when he spotted a bonnie maiden sitting atop a sea boulder. Och, she was a vision, she was, combing her long dark hair with a seashell and singing the loveliest song he’d ever before heard. He was captivated, he was, as much by her beauty as by her enchanting song. He sat upon the shore and listened to her, hour after hour, until the sun began to dip o’er the isles to the west. He was afraid if he left, even so much as turned his head away, he might ne’er see her again.”
Mungo paused, as any great storyteller would, for added effect. The pause worked. The others, excepting Calum, were staring at him, rapt as they awaited his next words.
Calum, on the other hand, was staring into his tea.
“Now,” Mungo went on, “when it seemed the mermaid might have finished with her singing, Mackay called out to her, beckoning her to the shore. But the mermaid, she only shook her head and beckoned him back to her, to the sea. She was so beautiful and the smile that she gave him stole Mackay’s heart. He knew in that moment he had to have her for his wife.”
“A mermaid for a wife,” M’Cuick snorted. “What’d he do? Offer her a nice herring from his fishing net as bait?”
“Nae, you lump,” Mungo went on, cutting the huge Scotsman a glittery stare. Mungo had no patience for a man who didn’t appreciate the telling of a good tale. “Our Mackay was much more canny than tha’. He promised the lass if she’d come to the shore, he would dance with her. Ah, what a heady temptation for the lass it was, for dancing was a thing she cudna do in the sea. And Mackay knew she would have to shed her shimmery tail skin to do it, knew, too, that if he could snatch up the tail and hide it, she would be unable to return to the sea. She would have no choice but to remain his forever.”
“And tha’s exactly wha’ happened,” Hugh piped in, stealing the glory of the story from his father. “She came ashore and she shed her tail skin so that she could dance with the Mackay. They danced and they danced until the moon was shining high in the night sky, glimmering on the waters of the bay like diamonds. After a spell, Mackay let go of the mermaid and stood back to watch as she continued to dance alone,
Calum looked at him. “They’ve brought a lass back with them.”
The man’s face lit up like a bloody spark. “A lass? Brilliant! We were just discussin’ tha’, weren’t we, Calum? You won’t be needin’ Jenny Sinclair after all, eh? And I can certainly use the help in the kitchens, wha’ with the laundering and the housekeepin’ ...”
“She’s not that sort of lass, M’Cuick.”
He thought about it a moment. “Well, then what sort of lass is she?”
Calum frowned. “She’s the ‘captive’ sort of lass.”
M’Cuick’s mouth formed a silent “oh,” but the expression on his face showed he clearly didn’t understand. A moment later, however, he turned to Fergus, shaking his head dolefully. “I ken a man’s needs and all, Fergus Bain, but yer a braw-lookin’ lad. Could you no’ find yerself a willing lass? Jenny Sinclair in Durness wouldna have turned you out. Probably wouldna e’en have charged you ...”
“You daft ouf!” Fergus shook his head. “We took the lass because she has the stone.”
“The stone?”
“Aye.
Clach na Bratach.
The Mackay charm stone.”
M’Cuick only looked further confused.
“ ’Tis an old clan legend,” Mungo broke in, seizing any opportunity to justify their witless actions. “ ’Tis the legend of
an maighdean mhara nan MacAoidh.”
M’Cuick translated what he’d said from the Gaelic. “The Mermaid of Mackay?”
“Aye, the verra one. It was centuries ago,” Mungo said, falling into the lyrical voice of the
seanchaidh,
those ancient Gaelic storytellers of yore. “Longer ago than any o’ the living could e’er remember. The Mackay chief was for fishing out on Sandwood Bay when he spotted a bonnie maiden sitting atop a sea boulder. Och, she was a vision, she was, combing her long dark hair with a seashell and singing the loveliest song he’d ever before heard. He was captivated, he was, as much by her beauty as by her enchanting song. He sat upon the shore and listened to her, hour after hour, until the sun began to dip o’er the isles to the west. He was afraid if he left, even so much as turned his head away, he might ne’er see her again.”
Mungo paused, as any great storyteller would, for added effect. The pause worked. The others, excepting Calum, were staring at him, rapt as they awaited his next words.
Calum, on the other hand, was staring into his tea.
“Now,” Mungo went on, “when it seemed the mermaid might have finished with her singing, Mackay called out to her, beckoning her to the shore. But the mermaid, she only shook her head and beckoned him back to her, to the sea. She was so beautiful and the smile that she gave him stole Mackay’s heart. He knew in that moment he had to have her for his wife.”
“A mermaid for a wife,” M’Cuick snorted. “What’d he do? Offer her a nice herring from his fishing net as bait?”
“Nae, you lump,” Mungo went on, cutting the huge Scotsman a glittery stare. Mungo had no patience for a man who didn’t appreciate the telling of a good tale. “Our Mackay was much more canny than tha’. He promised the lass if she’d come to the shore, he would dance with her. Ah, what a heady temptation for the lass it was, for dancing was a thing she cudna do in the sea. And Mackay knew she would have to shed her shimmery tail skin to do it, knew, too, that if he could snatch up the tail and hide it, she would be unable to return to the sea. She would have no choice but to remain his forever.”
“And tha’s exactly wha’ happened,” Hugh piped in, stealing the glory of the story from his father. “She came ashore and she shed her tail skin so that she could dance with the Mackay. They danced and they danced until the moon was shining high in the night sky, glimmering on the waters of the bay like diamonds. After a spell, Mackay let go of the mermaid and stood back to watch as she continued to dance alone,
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