My Own Flesh And Blood
People are Gathering at Leoch.
They've been doing so in ones and twos, or in small family groups for weeks now, of course, but today has been wave after wave of people, new people, from all over Scotland, arriving at Leoch for tonight's Yuletide Feast.
All of the decorations are up by now – all the lights and greenery, wreaths and stockings, paper chains, fake snow, sham icicles, advent calendars, rainbows of striped candies, and tray after tray after tray of frosted sugar cookies. The children, when they haven't been scarfing up the abundant treats, have been playing with whistles, crackers, pop-ups, whizz-bangers, clapper-ats, and dozens more noisemaking toys almost since dawn.
This morning, Jamie declared it positive sacrilege for either of us to go into the office on Yule, and instead positioned us in a convenient corner of the balcony that surrounds the Great Hall, right in the middle of the action. He's been introducing me to this MacKenzie's nephew's step-sister's lad's second wife, and that MacKenzie's third cousin once removed husband's fourth child's niece, and so-and-so MacKenzie's great-aunt's half-brother's daughter's twins all day, straining even my unnatural capacity to remember names and faces.
It is honestly lovely to see Jamie so excited over seeing such a number of his family members he hasn't seen for so long, but I do find myself getting tired of them greeting me with - "Oh, aye, I'd heard Colum had got hissealf a wee Sassenach tae manage t'farm – could scarce beleave et!".
My patient smile and tolerant expression are wearing a bit thin. . .
On the plus side – I have heard more embarrassing tales about Jamie's childhood than I think I'll ever need. I'm still giggling about the one story a priceless old lady told me about a cow and a milk bucket.
The story itself wasn't all that funny, but the way Jamie blushed at the memory was hilarious.
Gwyllyn and the rest of the Cuckoos have been on stage just below us for an impressive number of hours, with only a few breaks, playing what Jamie calls "cèilidh music", for one and all. There is quite a bit of dancing, and several pockets of people singing along. The kitchen staff have been working in droves, delivering so many drinks, sweets and snacks to the multitudes, I don't think anyone has noticed that both lunch and tea haven't happened, to "leave room", as I heard Mrs. Fitz say yesterday, for the grand feast planned for tonight. The connecting doors with the formal dining room have been open all day, and if the looks of the tables are any indication – even the very tiny sliver of them I can see from our position – then "grand" will hardly do it justice, and "feast" seems a mighty small word for what she's planning.
All at once, Fergus appears in front of us – fortunately in a lull between Jamie's introduction sessions - with a hesitant smile, wide, curious eyes, and dressed in very nice, nearly-brand-new clothes, a festive red and green silk handkerchief wrapped around his empty wrist.
"Here the laddie is, then," says Jamie, clapping Fergus on the shoulder, "Dressed tae the nines an' in good time for the biggest meal of the day – jus' like a good boy. We've hardly seen ye since breakfast, lad – where have ye been?"
He sways sideways a little from Jamie's more-enthusiastic-than-usual playful shove, "About with the boys, Monsieur," he says, tamely, "There have been many games today, and Tammas and Hamish and Lindsey and Danny and Davie and Eli all wanted me on their teams for so many things. . ."
Jamie pushes his way past a knot of conversing guests, and comes back with a chair, which he plunks down between the two reserved for us, "Aye, it's a day for good times, lad. Have a seat. Stay wi' us a while."
He blinks once or twice at the chair, and looks around at the crowd a little reluctantly.
"This is a family affair, Monsieur. Am I allowed to sit here?"
Jamie is instantly down on one knee in front of the boy, a big hand on his narrow shoulder.
"Fergus, laddie – listen tae me, aye?"
He nods, minutely.
"First of all – there's far more than family here. Why, practically everyone with any connection at all tae the MacKenzies has sent a representative, at the very least. An Oathtaking doesnae happen evary year, ken?"
Fergus just looks at Jamie, a little dazed, and silent.
"And in your case specifically – weel, ye're my son." He holds up a hand to forestall any protests, "Son of my name, as it may be – or soon tae be so, anyroad – but still my son, Fergus, lad. Chosen family is still family, ken?" Jamie smiles knowingly, "Sometimes more so than any other sort. Sae ye belong here jus' as much as anyone of my own flesh an' blood. Aye?"
Slowly, Fergus nods. Then, he sits down next to me, puts his his chin in his hands, and stares about him, saying nothing, seeming a bit overwhelmed.
I have to agree with him there.
Jamie brings up a nice young couple just then, and introduces them as his Aunt Flora's third cousin's lad, and his wife, and then with a gesture at us, says this is his girlfriend, and our son, and isn't it wonderful that. . .
I tune out, suddenly realizing that Fergus doesn't have his food sack with him. I get up politely, and go in search of some snacks for him. It isn't difficult, and very soon I have a plate of fancy sandwiches, several deviled eggs, a handful of candied almonds, some nameless deep-fried chicken thing on a stick, and a surreptitious bag of crisps one of the kitchen staff handed me after asking if the food was for me or one of the children.
I pause to listen to Gwyllyn a while on the way back, impressed once again at the Welshman's breadth of talent, not to mention fortitude. Dozens of MacKenzies whirl about him as he plays a reel, and hundreds more give a hearty cheer when the song finishes.
Chosen family indeed.
I put the food down on the small table beside our chairs, quite ready for a bit of a rest myself. But before I can ask Fergus about his day, Jamie comes over to introduce a pair of his cousins of his yet again. I get drawn into the conversation this time, however, for the young woman of the pair is also a farm labourer, moved here from Canada three years ago, and is fascinated by the art of food hybridization. She has some very good ideas too, and I learn quite a bit about Scottish farming culture I haven't been here long enough to pick up on my own yet, but are still fresh and interesting facts to her.
I smile over at Jamie, as he talks to the young woman's brother. Or rather, as the young man talks to him. Jamie only smiles and nods sometimes, making soothing noises in the Gàidhlig. Suddenly, it strikes me as odd that I haven't seen Colum or Dougal about much today. Jamie is the only one acting the host, or doing anything Chieftain-like, anywhere on the balcony or in the Great Hall. I did see Dougal around an hour or so ago, but so briefly as to almost not have been here at all. I saw Leticia come down for Colum's breakfast tray this morning, but he hasn't even put in an appearance in the Great Hall today.
Odd. Very odd. For both of them. . .
A young man I recognize as one of Colum's personal household staff comes up to Jamie then, and starts whispering fiercely in his ear.
I am about to ask what's wrong, when I hear a soft thump behind me.
I turn, and the first thing I notice is that none of the snacks I brought for Fergus have been eaten. . .
Then I look a meter over. . .
All sound fades from my hearing, and the world narrows to one chair, and to one small boy, collapsed on the floor beside it.
I am at his side so fast, I don't remember moving. I cradle his head in my arms, and start breathing again when he moans.
"Shh, don't try and speak, darling," I murmur, looking wildly around for Jamie.
Suddenly, he is looking down at us, his eyes grim, his jaw set.
"Hamish is ill too, Sassenach. Come wi' me."
He stoops, and heaves Fergus over his shoulder, and we practically run down to the infirmary.