For Christopher Lee, my Lord Summerisle . . . "A heathen, conceivably, but not, I hope, an unenlightened one."

The Wicker Man

May Eve

This story, "May Eve", is based on the extended, 102-minute cut of "The Wicker Man", which is the best available in the United States. It examines May Eve, the night before the Day of Death and Rebirth, the thoughts and feelings of some of the islanders, how they spend this strange evening, and the struggle of emotion experienced by the island's leader as he prepares to pass the point of no return. Everything takes place between the scenes on May Eve, except for the epilog, which takes place some number of weeks afterward. All the characters herein were created by Robin Hardy and the late Anthony Shaffer and are owned by whoever owns copyright to "The Wicker Man". This story and its situations were created by me, purely for my own enjoyment, with no interest in or expectation of compensation of any kind.

I have made a few small additions: First of all, I have assigned Broome, Lord Summerisle's piper and houseman, the last name of Lennox, to Miss Rose I have given the surname of MacKinnon, an appropriate Hebridian name, and to the Librarian, tall and slender beauty, I have given the name of Iris.

I also took the liberty of giving a first name, Bay, to Lord Summerisle. Many people on Summerisle are named after trees. The bay laurel tree is a very beautiful and useful tree, a steadfast friend to man, and its leaves, in the form of the laurel wreath, have crowed champions for centuries. Its Latin name is "Laurus nobilis". I thought it a very appropriate name for a strong character who must champion his people in a very difficult way.

Chapter One: The Laird and the Lady

Lord Summerisle strolled back to the piano as the policeman's angry footsteps receded toward the front hall. He reseated himself at the keyboard and began to play again, knowing the music would follow the sergeant mockingly out. The great doors slammed shut with a hollow boom, and Lord Summerisle and Miss Rose winced in unison. Summerisle stopped playing as the echo of the slamming door died away . . . Miss Rose stopped keeping time with her goblet. Summerisle's hands lay idle on the keyboard of the piano, and he looked at Miss Rose with a grim smile. "There he goes, striding intrepidly out into the darkness."

Rose pushed her bright hair off her shoulders and raised her goblet to her lips again. "May it cool him off. That's a long chilly walk back to the village."

"Oh, he's well set for it. He's seething so badly he'll be halfway there before his ears have time to get cold." Summerisle closed the cover down over the piano keys and got up from the bench, standing with hands on hips and looking down at Rose. She held out her free hand and he settled down crosslegged on the fur rug Rose was reclining on. He arranged his kilt properly, and propped his chin on his hand. "No more music, my lord?" she asked innocently.

"No. I'm tired of "The Tinker of Rye", although, it did set our sergeant on the boil, didn't it?" They laughed, but after a moment Summerisle sighed and looked down at his hands. "You know, leading the hunter is one thing, but it's wrong of us to tease him and laugh at him," he said softly. "This gift that he will give us . . . we should be carrying him on our shoulders back to the village. Both of us were at our pompous worst just now, and he deserves our compassion, not our derision." Rose reached over and took her lord's hand, a little ashamed of herself. He was right, as he had a way of being.

There was a tap on the library door, and they both looked up. "Yes?" said Summerisle. The door opened halfway and Broome, Lord Summerisle's houseman, stuck his head into the room. Broome paused for a moment, smiling at the sight of these two community leaders of mature years sitting on the floor and holding hands like teenagers. Then he said, "Pardon, m'Lord, Miss Rose, but I was just wondering if you'd be needing me any more tonight."

"No, that's all right, Broome. Are you heading down to the Green Man?"

"Aye, m'Lord, and will probably stay in the village tonight, with your leave."

"Of course, Broome. It's the eve of our greatest May Day. Enjoy yourself."

Broome touched his forehead and started to close the door, then hesitated. "By your leave, Miss Rose," he said, "It's lovely to see you back again." He glanced at Summerisle, and said with a twinkle, "Isn't it, Your Lordship?"

His Lordship gave Broome a long, level look. "Yes," he said forbiddingly. "Have a lovely night, Broome." The houseman flashed Miss Rose his pretty smile, and she blew him a kiss. Then Broome closed the door behind him. Rose and Summerisle looked at each other and Summerisle pursed his lips. Rose laughed and patted Summerisle's knee. "He loves you, my dear. He doesn't like to see you alone."

"Yes, yes. I know."

Rose looked down, drew a spiral pattern with her forefinger in the fur of the rug. "It's not so late, my lord, but suddenly I feel a little sleepy. It must be the excellent wine." She lowered her eyelids at him over the top of her goblet.

Summerisle reached over, took the goblet from her, and set it decisively on the floor. Then, moving with a startling quickness usually masked by a deceptively lazy manner, he slid his hand into her hair and pulled her face to his, kissed her long and thoroughly, and then sat back again with a smug smile. "There," he said. "Sleepy, my foot."

He got to his feet and offered Rose his hand. She took it and he pulled her up. Before she could steady herself, Summerisle had seized her up in his arms and had gone for her neck with his teeth. "Now damn it, don't bite," she said, wriggling. "You know it gives me the very gooseflesh when you do that."

He laughed down at her. "Why?"

"I don't know. It just does." She looked him in the eye and brushed her blonde bangs back into place.

"All right, all right. How about this then?" He slid his arm down under her bottom, scooped her up bodily, and started towards the stairs with her. She let her head drop against his shoulder and sighed, pretending to be exasperated. "My dear, you can't possibly carry me up the staircase like this," she said, even though she knew he was perfectly capable of doing so if he wanted to.

"Shall I toss you like a caber?"

She laughed. "Beast. I'll toss your caber for you."

At the foot of the staircase Summerisle stood her on her feet, laughing and slightly breathless. "God, I hope so," he said, grinning rather wolfishly.

Rose blinked up at her lord, wanting to laugh with him, and wanting to make sure it was all right. "Why this sudden jolly turn?"

He blinked right back. "Can I not find cheer in the company of my lovely lady?" he asked, trying on innocence like a new hat that didn't fit quite right. He took her hand and they started up the stairs, and after a moment she slipped an arm companionably around his waist.

At the top of the stairs he scooped her up again, ignoring her laughing protest. "Are you in a hurry, by any chance?" she asked. "Why would I be in a hurry?" he said with a dangerous smile. "It's only May Eve. How else should we celebrate?" He carried her easily, not to his own grand bedchamber, but to a smaller, warmer bedchamber that she had always liked better. It was done in greens and a little brown, and the pretty white-trimmed hearth was already burning nicely. "Dear Broome, he thinks of everything," Summerisle said, pleased. He stood Rose on her feet before the fire, and they exchanged a long embrace. "I missed you," she said softly. He smiled at her in the dim light and very gently pinched her cheek. She reached up to undo the square silver buttons of his black Montrose doublet and untie the lace jabot at his throat. She helped him off with the tight sleeves of the traditional garment, which he hung on the back of a chair along with the heavy kilt belt. Summerisle sighed and rubbed his neck when Rose undid the first few buttons of his shirt. "Beastly collar," he said. Then, "How have I managed for these few weeks without you?"

Rose smiled mysteriously at her lord. "I can't imagine," she said archly, and ensconced herself on the bed. She lay with one arm on the pillow above her head, a feast laid out just for him. "Here comes a candle to light you to bed," she said to him, and he laughed and finished the couplet. "Here comes a chopper to chop off your head!"

Summerisle stretched out on the bed beside Rose and put a hand over his eyes, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. After a moment he rolled over onto his elbow and looked down at Rose in the firelight, his hair falling over his forehead, looking both younger and older than his years. In the hesitant light she noticed shadows under his eyes; she knew he had not been sleeping well of late. This dangerous thing they were planning, it had been preying on the minds of their inner circle for a long time, but Summerisle as their leader had struggled with it most of all. A knot popped in the fireplace; he turned his head toward it for a second, and Rose felt a sudden chill as she saw the flames reflected in his eyes. To distract him she slid her hands under his shirt, running her nails lightly up his ribs. He drew in a sharp breath, and Rose felt with satisfaction that after all their years together she still had the power to make him shiver. Summerisle glanced over at the fireplace again, though, as if seeing the morrow and what needed to be done on the morrow in its softer flames.

"Stop looking at the fire, and look at me. It's May Eve, my lord," Rose whispered, and pulled him down to kiss him. He very deliberately unbuttoned each button of her blue caftan, and leaned down to gather her in his arms and kiss the hollow of her throat and along her jaw before finding her mouth again. His hands wandered over her, knowing from their long experience of her exactly where to go, and her blood began to sing the familiar song it always did for him and no one else, tonight a May Eve hymn. But then . . . Curse it, she thought. Now he's got methinking of it, and of that man who will save us. So by the goddess of the orchard, let us make the magic together tonight to make sure of it. By force she put it out of her conscious mind, anxious for a moment that her body would obey her worry and not her will. But her lord's hands were strong and sure, and his eyes were dark and deep, and for now, all that mattered was the flood tide of May Eve rising to engulf them both.