Inventing a Language: RAGING SEA Ch 1/Sc 2 #SundaySnippets #amwriting #MFRWOrg

Lady harper overlay
Copyright by Kim Headlee
Gràdh  chì  leis  an  cridhe.Gràdh  naomh  chì  leis  an  deò.~ Caledonian Proverb

“Love  sees  with  the  heart.Holy  love  sees  with  the  soul.”
In my excitement to introduce #SundaySnippets on The Maze last week, I forgot to include the dedication quote that I developed for Raging Sea. And when I say "developed," I mean that quite literally, since I know just enough about Scottish Gaelic to be dangerous. Hence I call it a "Caledonian" proverb, the Caledonians--or Caledonaich, as they call themselves in plural form--being one of the ancient British races featured in The Dragon's Dove Chronicles, of which Raging Sea is book 3.

If you missed last week's installment, Chapter 1 Scene 1, click here.


Raging Sea, Chapter 1, Scene 2
©2015 by Kim Headlee
All rights reserved.
SEATED ON the stool beside her brother’s cot, Eileann picked up her small traveling harp. She plucked a few chords but couldn’t decide what to play next.

What a strange young man, whose pain runs deeper than the wounds of his flesh.
 
Most of the other men—those not so badly wounded as to be beyond caring what anyone else did—demonstrated their appreciation for her actions with their smiles and winks and words. That one didn’t appear to want her ministrations, yet he’d seemed to cling to her hand as though it were a lifeline. A lifeline to what, Eileann hadn’t a clue.

Nor did she have a clue as to how she might comfort him, though the odd thrumming of her heart commanded her to try.

“Well, dear sister, are you going to play something else for us? Or do you intend to daydream the hours away?” Tavyn’s tone carried its usual hint of affectionate mockery.

She smiled; her brother had a knack for cutting to the heart of the matter. Play something…yes, of course. All the injured men seemed to enjoy her harping, but that one in particular—the one with a hole in his chest and a hole in his soul—had appeared to be entranced by the music. As her fingers found the right strings, she slid a glance his way and nodded with satisfaction: the warrior’s eyes were closed again, but a faint smile lingered on his lips. She poured her heart into her playing, hoping she could coax that smile to strengthen.

But the next time she chanced to look his way, he had turned his head from her.

When she finished, the applause and spoken praise was greater than before. On any other day, the men’s responses would have pleased her beyond measure. Today, the only person whose response mattered—and it was strange to think of anyone outside her clan in those terms, but it was the truth—remained silent. And that bothered her more than she wanted to admit to herself, never mind to anyone else.

“Daydreaming again?”

Leave it to Tavyn to drag her back to reality. She flashed him a grin and nodded in the direction of the mysterious warrior. “Who is he? Do you recognize him?”

“The one you were speaking with a few minutes ago?” Tavyn turned, and his face tensed. “No, I don’t—wait.” Tavyn’s eyebrows lowered. “Angusel mac Alayna.” The name sounded like poison on Tavyn’s lips. “Now he calls himself Aonar.”

Aonar. Alone.

Then Eileann recalled why: Angusel mac Alayna of Clan Alban had tried to rescue Chieftainess Gyanhumara’s bairn, and his failure had resulted in the bairn’s murder. Gyanhumara had dissolved his Oath of Fealty to her and banished him from Clan Argyll lands. Clan Alban considered him a disgrace, as well. By extension, so did all of Caledon. No wonder his pain had seemed so deep.

And yet as she gazed at his sad and vulnerable-looking face, she could find in her heart no hatred or disgust or contempt or even pity, only profound sympathy.

“Medics!”

Tavyn’s shout broke her reverie. He had sat up and was waving an arm to attract attention. “Tavyn, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”

He gave her an annoyed look. “Of course.” To the pair of medics who scurried over to his cot he said, “Move that man out of this ward. Now.” When one of the medics asked which patient Tavyn meant, he jerked his thumb in Angusel’s direction. “The one with the legion officer’s cloak.” Since the cloak of every other warrior in the ward was woven of a clan’s pattern and Angusel’s was plain scarlet, there was no mistaking whom Tavyn meant. Angusel already had pushed himself to a sitting position. As she watched in shocked silence, he swung his legs over the cot’s side and bent to reach for his boots, reeling and gritting his teeth.

Shaking her head, Eileann laid her hand over Tavyn’s. “You can’t! He’s too badly hurt!”

“He doesn’t belong with us.” The stern eyes that stared back at her were at total odds with those of the brother she knew and loved. To the medics he said, “You have your orders, men.”

“Aye, Decurion Tavyn,” replied both men, saluting.

Although the medics weren’t rough as they gathered Angusel’s few belongings and got him to his feet for the walk to the Breatanach ward, Eileann’s heart went out to him. Yet she couldn’t argue with her brother’s logic or military authority. Angusel no longer held a place in Caledonach society, including the portion of it that resided within Arthur the Pendragon’s mostly Breatanach legion.

Supported by the medics, Angusel shuffled toward the door. Except for an occasional moan from one of the other wounded warriors, and the footfalls of Angusel and the medics, the converted barracks room was silent. Every man able to watch the scene trained his gaze upon the departing trio. Angusel ignored them, keeping his head hung low, as though he were being escorted to the gallows. Perhaps, in his mind, that was where he was going. And it saddened her to know that she couldn’t go with him, even if only to play one last song.

In her mind she played that tune for him, a rousing warrior’s send-off, and bade him a silent farewell.


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