Bruar's Rest

tent intending to spend some time with a half-bottle he’d kept for any such occasions. Before he’d put bottle to mouth, however, Rachel’s voice called out. Putting the bottle back in his pocket, he went over and peeped into her tent. ‘What is it that you want of me?’
    ‘I would like you to be here with us for a moment, my Irish friend, while I say something to my family—oh, and the good doctor too.’
    ‘Now,’ said O’Connor, ‘it’s not necessary for you to be thanking me. Given the circumstances, anyone wad ’ave done the same.’ Clumsily he shuffled from foot to foot and turned to leave.
    Rachel sensed his embarrassment and said quickly, ‘Folks, I now have the greatest pleasure,’ she then lifted up her baby for all to see, ‘in introducing Nicholas Stewart.’
    Big Rory picked the child from his mother’s arms and kissed him, saying, ‘That’s a grand name ye have little fella, but when did it come into your head, Rachel?’
    O’Connor fell onto his knees for the second time that day, and with the edge of a ragged jacket sleeve he wiped a tear from his eye along with the contents of his nose. Then he did the unthinkable. From his pocket he withdrew the water of life and handed it round to each and every one, saying; ‘We’ll wet the baby’s head, folks.’
    Later, when Rachel and her baby had fallen into a welcome sleep, the tiny band discussed the coming war round a warm fire with Doctor Mackenzie. It was with a country they’d hardly heard of, let alone knew where it was. It wasn’t part of their world, so the war must be the concern of others.
    ‘Anyhow, it doesn’t matter who wins or loses a war, tinkers are treated the same everywhere.’ Bruar’s words seemed to take the personal sting from what was unfolding hundreds of miles away.
    All night long they each excelled in the singing of their ancient ballads. O’Connor, now that he had a good reason to feel a sense of pride in himself, sang the heart from ‘Erin’s Isle’. Although big Rory had a heavy fist, this wasn’t apparent in his beautiful baritone voice as he serenaded everyone with northern songs of the sea. He mixed traditional ballads with golden oldies he had learned about bonny babies. Megan’s sweet lovesongs spoke of lost lovers going on faraway journeys, and brought tears flowing freely down the fire-glowing cheeks of the hardy men. Even the hooting owls perched above them in the old gnarled oak joined the ceilidh. A chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ gurgled through painful throats greeted the sun’s first rays, along with a squealing hungry Nicholas.
    Doctor Mackenzie set off after drinking near on a whole pot of tea, promising to let them know how things were taking their course in the wider world, while the three men left to take on another long day’s harvest.
    O’Connor yet again spent a large chunk of the day sleeping off the night before, as Megan helped her sister with the new baby before setting off uphill. She’d her heather scourers to make. Winter money would be stretched further with another mouth, albeit a tiny one, to feed.
    Afternoon was bringing a storm, she could see it forming high above her. Great white fluffy clouds had turned black and were creeping like fat fingers around the brown mountain tops. She sat down to eat a sandwich, and suddenly without any warning a massive stretch of wings swooped down several feet from her. The sandwich fell from her hand as she sat transfixed, watching the King of the Mountains soar so close she could see his fully-feathered legs and square white-tipped tail. Holding her breath, she waited on his barking or ‘twee-oo’ call. What happened then froze her to the spot, as in slow motion the mighty eagle glided so close its eyes met hers in a deep penetrating stare, before silently gliding upwards towards the waiting storm.
    ‘Omen!’ she screamed and ran home as fast as any deer, repeating over and over again, ‘An omen!’
    Rachel, who had risen from her birth bed, was washing at the burnside when she heard her sister’s screams, and hastened to her aid thinking she’d been assaulted. ‘Who’s interfered with you, sister? Wait till Bruar finds him, he’ll cut the hands from his miserable body.’
    ‘Nobody looked my road, it was the “King”—he spoke to me! Well, not as you’d have heard him in words, but, oh my God, Rachel, he was silent above the black clouds. You know, as does every living travelling man, woman and child from