Page 43 of An Allusive Love
Ian and Colin had been in the middle of the throng, next to a woman and her baby. When a horse reared, its hoof kicking the child from its mother’s arms, Ian had thrown himself over the bairn. The steed had trampled him before Colin could push his way through the chaos. He had lifted Ian’s crumpled body over his head and plowed through the pandemonium. Brodie knew his cousin blamed himself. But his brother had been a grown man with his mind. No one was at fault except the cowardly mayor who had ordered the assault.
After Colin had finished, they had sat in silence, each man wrapped in his own thoughts. Then Calum had opened a bottle of Ian’s favorite scotch. One memory led to another, and soon they were laughing and remembering how Ian had lived rather than how he died.
“If there’s another world, he lives in bliss. If there is none, he made the best of this,” crooned Lachlan, his cup held high.
Brodie stood, wobbling, but his feet planted firmly on the ground. He was certain of it, but he squinted at his shoes to make sure. Satisfied, he added, “To Ian!”
“To Ian!” echoed Colin, towering above them.
“Bring it down here, Cousin. If I try to reach ye, I could land on my arse,” slurred Lachlan.
They raised their mugs, Colin lowered his, and they clanked, ale splashing over the sides. Calum looked at the spots that now speckled the Axminster carpet. “If Peigi sees that, we’re all dead men. And I’ll no’ take the blame.”
“If Peigi sees ye with a drink in yer hand,ye’rea dead mon,” Colin said with a smirk. “She doesna believe ye choked on a wee piece of meat.”
“It’s time for a tune.” Calum changed the subject. “Shall we keep with tradition?”
“Strings or pipes?” asked Brodie. He and Lachlan both played the fiddle, but his brother had the better voice.
Colin ran a hand through his black hair, smoothed his wrinkled shirt, and wiped droplets of ale from his dark kilt. “I’d be honored to play.” He proceeded to the corner of the room where he’d left his pipes the previous evening. “Brodie?” He held up the violin.
“Aye.” Brodie smiled at his mother and grandmother as they entered the room.
“Ye’re just in time,” declared Calum, swinging his arm and the mug of ale behind his back.
“I think I’m a wee late.” Peigi inspected the state of her husband.
“Ye’ve a suspicious mind,mo chridhe.”
“Ye’re a sloppy sneak,” she said, her eyes fixed behind Calum.
Brodie followed her gaze and saw the splashes of ale mysteriously falling from his grandfather’s back. He also recognized the gleam in his grandmother’s eye. She wouldn’t scold her husband this day.
“We were about to sing ‘The Parting Glass’. Ye’ll no’ ask me to toast to Ian without a wee swallow.” He gave her his most charming smile. “Will ye?”
“The Parting Glass” was a time-honored song at many funerals and always ended in a mandatory toast of whatever the dearly departed would have preferred. The first time Brodie heard it was at a great-uncle’s funeral when he’d been only six. It had been his first taste of whisky.
“Shall we join them?” Glynnis asked Peigi.
“They may need us to remember the words in their condition.”
Lachlan poured six tumblers of Ian’s favorite scotch and arched an eyebrow at his mother.
“Lissie is sleeping, and Brigid is in the stable.”
“No, I’m no’, and yes, I’ll partake,” Brigid announced as she came to stand by her mother.
Colin readied himself in front of the hearth. He adjusted the drone and tested the chanter with several practice blows. Taking in a deep breath, he filled the bags, and the first keening notes pierced the room. Brodie positioned the fiddle under his chin and laid the bow to the strings.
Lachlan began the song, his voice deep and resonant. The familiar lyrics combined with his brother’s deep, resonant voice brought a smile to his face and tears to his eyes. He joined the next chorus.
So fill to me the partingglass
And drink a health whate’erbefalls
Then gently rise and softlycall
Good night and joy to youall
