Revenge

Today’s Sunday Scribbling prompt fell right in with a scene I was writing for ‘the novel’, so here’s to the tradition of writing and all the fun and gratification it offers us.

Scotland, 1747

Tradition dictated immediate revenge—a life for a life. Ian glanced over at Alec who sat hunched over his bowl of stew near the hearth. Grief had etched lines in his youthful complexion and he looked grey with fatigue. They were both exhausted and Ian imagined he looked no better. A hard and bitterly cold ride from Oban had been met with the heartbreaking news that they were too late. Uncle James was dead. Knifed down by a McLaren blade, his body desecrated and tortured.

Outside, December winds whipped freshly fallen snow into drifts as icy cold draughts penetrated the thick stonewalls of the castle. Occasionally a particularly strong gust would rattle the tapestries but otherwise all was quiet save scrape of spoon against bowl. It was near to midnight as he and Alec sat vigil with their uncle’s body. The witching hour his granny called it. A time for ghost’s and spirits.

He looked up as his cousin Francie entered the hall, her eyes red and puffy from crying. “It’s up to you Ian. It’s your responsibility,” she said as she sank laboriously into a chair near the hearth. Ian watched as she ran her hand over her belly, heavy with child. Instinctively he hunched lower in his chair. “The clan looks to you now. For leadership. I know it’s not what you were expecting but it’s what’s right and proper.”

He sighed and returned his gaze to the fire. “You know he was like a father to me Francie. I always thought your brother would be laird. I didn’t even aspire to it.” He ran his fingers through his hair, a headache beginning to brew. An overwhelming sadness, coupled with resignation settled over him. Another senseless death—there had been too many. “Did Angus bring a name when he brought the body?”

“Roland McLaren.”

Ian felt the weight of a thousand years of Scots tradition crash down on him at her words. He knew the man. Had raised a pint with him over business in Edinburgh. Liked him well enough to call him friend. He looked to Alec still hunched by the fire before returning his gaze to Francie. “Was Angus sure it was Roland?” He asked.

“Yes.” She replied. “When will you leave?”

“First light, I suppose.” He shut his eyes and leaned his head back in the chair.

“Will you take the men?”

“No. Alec and I will go alone.” He replied his eyes still shut. “Roland’s a friend, Francie. I have to give him a chance to answer the charge.”

“He killed my father in cold blood Ian!” she retorted. “If you won’t do it I’ll find someone who will!”

Ian jerked up in his chair and pinned Francie with a glare. “That’s all I’m willing to give you Francie. I won’t kill a man on an accusation. I want to hear his side before I decide what’s to be done. I mourn our uncle too. If revenge is to be had it’s for me to decide and that’s final.”

Harvest

I wonder if the word ‘harvest’ has much meaning for most Americans in our society today. I imagine that most would envision fall, Thanksgiving maybe, Halloween and pumpkins, autumn colors: green, gold, orange and red. For me and other gardeners and farmers however, the word conjures a completely different meaning. Namely, lots of hard work.

My grandfather was a farmer. He grew wheat, potatoes, mint, alfalfa, flowers and gardens. For my grandfather, harvest was a backbreaking, never-ending, daily grind. As a child, I remember harvest times as great fun. Mint harvest was my favorite. It meant riding on the combine behind my grandpa, watching great rows of green as they were picked up and shot into the truck we were towing. April would drive the truck and sometimes she would let me ride with her. I felt so grown up riding with her because she let me shift the truck as we slowly wound our way up and around Haystack Butte to the mint still. I remember the sharp, eye burning, nose tingling, overpowering smell of mint when you went in the still, the ancient refrigerator where everyone kept their lunches and the drizzle of gold coming from the trucks into great metal barrels. One summer, my aunt and uncle stayed in a travel trailer out back of the still. They had a cocker spaniel puppy named Tuffy who loved to bite my toes. That summer my aunt and I painted the still doors a lovely pea green. I was six. It was 1974.

My grandfather has been dead for many years and harvest has new meaning for me. I’ll probably never know it as the chore it was for him, but I can now more fully appreciate the work it entails. The harvest work that links me to every ancestor who harvested before me is part of my family’s legacy. It links every mother, father, grandmother, and grandfather who harvested, canned, or froze the fruits of a summers’ garden. It links my family as we get together to share the labor of canning salsa and shucking corn with all those who came before. And despite all the hard work, I realize how lucky I am to have such a wonderful gift from them.