In the Cool of the Evening
"Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad be I . . .
Merry of heart, he sailed on a day,
Over the sea to Skye . . ."
May Morrison rocked and sang softly beside the open window, the soft breeze blowing the smells of apple blossom and the sea over her and her sleeping daughter. May looked worriedly down at her little girl, who lay curled against her ample bosom. "At least you're sleeping now, little sprite," May said softly.
Little Myrtle sighed and slipped deeper into sleep, and May gently stroked her fever-chapped cheek. Such a time of the year to have a bad cold, and probably a little hayfever as well. Mr. Lennox's wild-cherry-bark syrup had taken care of the nasty cough, but the temperature had not wanted to go down. It had started with a sore throat the day before, which was why the child had been at home drawing hares instead of being in school when the little sergeant had come round to call. Myrtle had been restless and scratchy for a couple of days, and had really gone down that afternoon. She had thrown a massive whinge at having to take the strong infusion of bitter willowbark for her fever, but a couple of spoonfuls of His Lordship's wonderful pear brandy had soothed Myrtle and let her go to sleep, and now she lay snug in her mother's arms in the creaking rocker.
May gazed out of the window, over the tops of the neighboring roofs and over the harbor. Her eye rested on the little blue and white seaplane anchored there, rocking gently in the evening breeze, and her humming stopped. What a day tomorrow would be, she thought. What an event. What a risk we take, and how worth it it will be. Her mind drifted back across the terrible winter, then farther back to the terrifying autumn. Autumn was usually such a marvelous time on Summerisle, full of feasting and festivals, abundance springing forth everywhere, the island
hip-deep in magnificent produce of every kind. Not last autumn, though. There had been almost no apples, and income had been very lean. For once the fisherfolk had done better than the farming folk. Even people's kitchen gardens had done poorly. A lot of food had had to be imported at a great cost. The island had always been prosperous, and there had been help for those who needed it. But if whatever disaster that had fallen on their crops fell again this year, there was no telling what would happen.
The inner circle that dispensed power on the island, Miss Rose and her two priestesses, Willow and Iris, the circle of elders, and of course the laird, had had their heads together for a long time, trying to figure out what was wrong and what to do about it. The laird had gone about pale and silent, poor darling, obviously wrestling in his heart with something very difficult. He had even gone to the mainland several times with the Rose, which was highly unusual. Then the proclamation at the Vernal Equinox about what would be happening on May Day, and after the initial astonishment had worn off, people began to take the idea and run with it.
May's heart swelled to think of it, both with pride that her daughter Rowan had been chosen to participate in the great hunt, and with certainty that they would be successful. Their island would burgeon again. There would be no hunger this winter, no sickness, and no worry that they would have to lose their laird to the Wicker Man. The very thought of that made May feel ill. The islanders of Summerisle loved their laird fiercely and were very protective of him, because they knew he felt the same way about them. Although she knew that if it ever came to such a terrible pass, he would walk straight and steady into the Man's arms, she could hardly bear to think of such a thing.
May both revered and feared the Man, like everyone else on the island, and the thought of climbing up the steps into his belly made her catch her breath with fright, as it would any sane person. She clamped down on the fear that came into her heart at the thought of what would happen to that handsome young police sergeant tomorrow. But to think, that his soul should fly with the Lord Nuada . . .
May sighed, and shook her head to clear it of such thoughts. Then she smiled to hear laughter and running feet in the street below. Informal May Eve festivities were in full swing - the blossoming of spring in the air brought out the urge to run, to laugh, to catch and possess, in all the young people. Not so many years ago she had run in the street and into the field beyond as well, and her beautiful Rowan had been the result of one May Eve's chase through the sweet orchards. May sometimes pitied the people of the mainland, which seemed like another world to her. Those people seemed to have no love, no warmth. They certainly did not run and laugh on May Eve. They did not give and receive plentiful hugs and kisses from friend and family, and seemed so cold and distant, even from those they loved. They lived in fear of their bizarre dead god, and there were strangers all around them. On Summerisle, there was no such thing as a stranger.
There came a knock on the street door downstairs, and a call. "May! Oh May, are ye to home?"
She stuck her head out the window and saw Iris, one of Miss Rose's two priestess acolytes, standing in the street along with one of the young men that worked on the Rose of Summerisle, Dolph, short for Dolphin, she thought his name was, an older man whose face she couldn't make out, and Periwinkle, one of the elderly ladies who spent most of their time gossiping in the island beauty shop. "Just a minute!" May said out the window. "I was rocking Myrtle . . . let me lay her down." She got up from the chair, grunting a little with her daughter's sleeping weight in her arms, and laid her on her little bed. The child's cheeks did seem cooler now. Sleep was the great healer. May covered Myrtle with her blankets and closed the window, and hurried down the stairs to open the door.
Iris and friends stepped inside. "May!" Iris said. "Let Periwinkle stay here and watch the little girl for you, and you go and enjoy yourself. Here's our man of the bread to squire you, and me and Dolph to see you don't get yourselves into a lot of trouble!" May did see then that the man whose face she couldn't make out was Birch Lovat, who ran the bakery. "Why Birch!" she cried, suddenly feeling merrier than she had in days. "I didn't know you cared!"
The baker grinned and sketched her a little bow. "Well now you do! And lucky I am, to be squiring the mother of the Queen of the May and the handsomest woman in Summerisle!"
May laughed as she retrieved her sweater and touched her hair. "Flattery gets you everywhere, Birch. Are you sure you'll be all right with Myrtle, Peri?"
The elderly lady laughed too. "Yes! You know how many of my own little ones I've raised. I know how to dose perfectly well, and probably won't have to. She'll have naught but a scratchy throat in the morning. Now, my days of running in the orchard are over, but I can do my part to make sure the orchard still gets run in! Go! Go on and show these young ones what May Eve is all about!"
May hugged Peri and let herself be swept out her own door. Iris and Dolph were already running ahead, their eyes full of the wildness of the spring night, the tall, beautiful blonde librarian laughing over her shoulder at the handsome young sailor. They turned to wave at the older couple and disappeared around the corner, and Birch and May both heard laughter floating behind them. They smiled at each other.
"Well, May darling, it's just us old folks then," Birch smiled, offering his arm. She took it and they walked off down the street.
"Speak for yourself!" May laughed. "Where shall we go? I've become a bit too . . .dignified . . . over time to be romping in the orchard."
Birch sighed. "It's hell to get old, isn't it?" He laughed and ducked as she aimed a mock swat at him. "How about a nice pint down to Alder's, and we'll take it from there?"
May smiled up at her escort, wondering what it might be like to be married to him. He was a widower and she had never married, always running her own business and raising her girls. Hmm, if he was interested, well, perhaps it was worth thinking about. "That sounds lovely, although you'll forgive me if I have white wine instead of a pint."
Birch shook his head. "Suit yourself, although the tastes of women baffle me. White wine! Brr!"
They passed an little side alley that led into someone's lovely green courtyard, and saw that they had caught up with the librarian and her seafaring partner . . . they were standing in the shadows there, twined up in each other's arms and kissing passionately. Birch and May both smiled and kept walking. "Ah, May Eve," he sighed. "Magic's everywhere."
May squeezed Birch's arm. "Well, maybe we'll see if we can make some too," she said with what she hoped was a promising smile.
"May!" Birch looked down at her with genuine pleasure and surprise. "What a lovely thing to say," he said. "I really hadn't dared to hope."
Suddenly May felt full of life, buoyed by the splendid spring evening, and laughed delightedly. "Hope springs eternal, my dear!" she said. "Come on, you can buy me that pint after all."
Back at May's home, Myrtle had awakened and cried for her mother, but Peri, who Myrtle knew well, soothed her and made her some hot milk and honey. Peri sat in the rocking chair while Myrtle sat in her lap and sipped the warm milk. The child said, "Mummy was singing about "over the sea to Skye" to me. Do you know that song?"
"Why yes I do, Miss Myrtle. That song was very old when I was a little girl like you are now. There, finish your milk, and I'll sing it." Peri too could see the seaplane from this window, and shivered just a little for the cold chill in her heart. She pulled a blanket around the little girl and began to rock and sing.
"Billow and breeze,
Island and seas,
Mountains of rain and sun,
All that was good,
All that was fair,
All that was me is gone . . .
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone
Say could that lad be I
Merry of heart, he sailed on a day,
Over the sea to Skye . . ."