Thus, Helga began to visit her in order to work for her. Though, not as skilled as Daegan or Indulf, or Cormac for that matter, she did have some potential or so Kenna thought.

  She was quick to correct her mistakes and rarely complained in marked contrast to Cormac or Daegan. When she bent down to work, what was more was that she rarely spoke yet did so until Kenna declared the day at an end.

  There were times in the days that followed that Kenna, sunk back into her macabre depression forgetting that Helga was herewith her at all. Other times a quiet almost austere air filled the shop, one that had not been seen since the days of master Eachann had lived there, teaching Kenna all he knew of his great trade.

  A trade that truthfully was one that was incomparable to Kenna’s mind. There was no other like it, in the whole of the world. Masonry and forging could be used certainly to facilitate the lives of others; however it was more common for them to be utilised in war.

  Hunting was indirectly linked to war also in Kenna’s mind, with only fishing a blameless art. Yet even that was hardly comparable with all the good that came from this womanly craft.

  For it was through stitching that war-wounds were undone and through this art that people were clothed, tapestries woven and ancient deeds immortalised for all eternity. Or so she had come to believe, with the most important part of this sacred work being the magic of how it took her away from herself.

  Left alone, with only her thoughts she might well have sunk into the darkness of her grief. Yet the sound of the loom, the cloth coming together allowed her for a few hours to banish from her spirit the terrifying image of her son lying dead somewhere. Or Daegan or Indulf in a similar condition, or worst… the image was banished as Kenna turned her mind back to the matter of Olith’s dress.

  It was then out of the corner of her eye that she spotted Helga’s mistake.

  “Nay, stop there!” Kenna barked causing the lass to freeze in place, her shoulders jumping a little and her eyes flashing up a little with a bit of fire. “What do you think you are doing there? You are going to tear that dress!”

  “But, I was doing it exactly as you instructed!”

  “You never go against the fabric,” Kenna hissed at her sharply, “You could tear it, on top of which you might tear at the strings on the loom!” For a moment it appeared as though Helga might mulishly resist her words, in place of imitating Cormac’s fierce temper she let slip a breath from between her teeth.

  At which time the older woman pulled the cloth from the loom, “When you do not know how to properly manipulate a loom you must always, turn to your hands to guide the process.”

  “You mean to sew, correct?”

  “In part,” Kenna said only to correct her, “But you must always remember that only the ignorant sew, we guide. We follow the trail blazed by the cloth as surely, as we are to guide it on the path to becoming what it must be. In this case, you are forging a dress from naught, which means that when uncertain pick up your needle and set to work.”

  Helga did as bidden. This introduced Kenna to a new problem; the lass could certainly sew, the difficult lay in that her work was slightly crooked.

  Correcting this flaw of hers and all the bad habits she had developed over the years, could take time. Much as she disliked having to take that time, it would be a waste of good cloth if she did not slow her own process to teach the lass how to properly do the work.

  “Here follow my hands, you must never apply more force than necessary,” Kenna instructed before she added, with a glance at her newest pupil’s hands. “Never more than two fingers and your thumb lass, less you really will always sew crooked.”

  Turning away she plucked from her own loom, the cloth she was working, along with a needle so as to demonstrate to Helga how to properly sew a dress by hand.

  Seated before her, she hewed and cut through the holes and distance that was left to finishing the dress, working almost as quickly by hand as by loom. Helga for her own part stared in awe at the swiftness with which she worked, her mouth hanging open for a time.

  “Now you try,” She insisted.

  Helga nodded, at first with shaky hesitant hands, she gained in assurance the longer she cut and knitted together the mighty, defiant cloth together.

  *****

  The time came for her departure the young lass paused at the door, an expression of apprehension and wistfulness on her face. Kenna who had for a few minutes busied herself with preparations to clean some of the cloth and clothing in the corner of the room, as it was sunny out and it would be a waste not to use such an opportunity to wash some clothing by the sea.

  “Yes?” She asked of Helga, a hint of impatience in her voice at long last. Kenna wondered to herself if the lass was waiting to be paid, as a rule she tended to only pay her apprentices at the end of the week, rather than in the middle of it.

  “It occurs to me that you did not sing to-day Kenna,” Helga murmured shifting from foot to foot almost guiltily.

  This remark drew a small laugh from the seamstress, “Sing? Why would I sing when there is work to do?”

  “It is just that, you used to always sing when working when I was a little lass.”

  The revelation was another surprise to the seamstress. The thought of singing as she worked had not occurred to her in years.

  For some reason against her will, Kenna felt a small chortle escape her lips, one that came as much at that moment from surprise as from the memory of how she worked ten years ago.

  Trained in weaving by master Eachann, who had never ceased to sing holy psalms of Meret the goddess of music, he had had a deep baritone one that had made the ordinarily feminine songs almost sound ridiculous or took on a different meaning.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Prayer, I am praying when I work,” He would always say, only to add, “As we shan’t always go to Temple to pray, we must pray and work all at once Kenna.”

  In her youth, Kenna had taken this lesson well to heart, and had after his death just before Cormac’s birth for years sung as she worked. It had given her such joy, had filled her with warmth with Cormac and Indulf often joining her in songs, even Daegan when she was near had taken to joining her. Her voice the loveliest of all of them, so that many were those who had passing by the seamstress’s home paused to listen to them.

  After Murchadh had disappeared at sea though, all joy had left Kenna’s work, and her dream of escaping to Sgain always a passing fantasy had taken on a life all its own. All songs were banished from her home, so that they took to their work in silence.

  I wonder if mayhap, this is what drove Cormac away from the shop over the years? The question was one that she had never thought to ask herself, though in hindsight it now appeared quite apparent such was certainly the case. This worsened the feeling of guilt that seemed to hang over Kenna, almost perpetually in recent days.

  “I have not sung in almost ten years, Helga I am not so certain I know how anymore,” Kenna admitted with a small wan smile, seeing how the lass looked prepared to object to this she hurriedly added. “Now off with you, doubtlessly your father will worry if you stay out any later, and I have clothing to wash in the sea.”

  With Helga ushered out, Kenna reclaimed command of her house with the seamstress swift to hurry thither to the shore, her laundry carried in a rounded alder-wood basket. One that Bungo had made for her some three years ago, claiming that he fancied her so.

  This was two years after he had been widowed, with the seamstress having accepted the gift from the carpenter though she had little interest in him. Once he found that out, he had transferred his affection to another lady, something that had annoyed Ida who had complained for weeks.

  This habit of hers led to Kenna scolding her sharply at one point, for she had no true irritation towards the carpenter. He was a good man, and she had spurned him, due to her own continued grief for Murchadh.

  The thought of singing crossed her mind as she began to wash some of her dresses in the nearby water, by the quay. It had been a long time since she had last cleaned clothe herself, having in the past often dolled it out as a punishment to Daegan or Cormac. Indulf had never given her cause to punish him, so he had almost never done it, though he sometimes pleaded so that he could share a lunch with Trygve and the Salmon.

  The memory of all the times Indulf would secretly do it for the two younger children, or would slip away to join them brought, a small smile came to her lips.

  Seeing the boats begin to head back for the shore, Kenna threw herself into washing the clothing next to her all the faster, in the blue sea beneath the quay.

  She had no real wish to speak with the fishermen, not since she had found out from Ida that several of their number had been responsible for chasing away her son.

  The thought of it sent a spark of fury, one that could only lead to her shrieking at them like a harridan. To project such an image, so shortly after her return would only convince others that Kenna had once again lost her wits.

  Gritting her teeth, she picked up the laundry threw it into the basket which she heaved up with a bit of difficulty. The weight of the wet bits of cloths nearly toppled her into the sea, with the seamstress barely succeeding in righting herself.

  By Scota, is this how it normally weighs for Cormac or Indulf? The thought made her question when they had grown so strong physically, and to question when she had grown so old.

  The thought that she was already a crone, at thirty-five years of age was one that made Kenna shake her head in derision. She was getting maudlin and self-pitying, never a good quality for any woman to have, she concluded.

  *****

  The following day went by in the same manner as the one before it, though Helga did not question her on her preference to not sing. It was not until the day after that one, as they sewed together a new tunic for the Salmon (whose daughter had stopped by, to request on his behalf the aforementioned tunic) that Helga sought to ‘correct’ this ‘mistake’ on Kenna’s behalf.

  At first when she heard the younger woman suck in a breath, she paid it no mind yet it was with a jolt that she recognised the song as one of those dedicated to Fufluns. Though she could not read the Canticle (or at all for that matter), Kenna was familiar with it from shortly after her arrival in Glasvhail.

  “The suns had arose beyond yon hill

  Across yon dreary trees,

  When wet and cold we wear no frills,

  Nay, for we do not wish to freeze,

  'Can you tell me,' said Fufluns, 'why I shan’t wear frills?

  Why, it can be wonderfully comfy’

  He laughed, and danced all about as we never could

  Plowing, sowing, and to reap leaves him most-happy,

  Suns are bright, crops are coming so let’s ensure

  This is a harvest to make Fufluns’ merry-foot smile.”

  When she had finished, Helga looked to her expectantly. Kenna pretended not to notice, and so the lass let slip a sigh of disappointment. Evidently she hoped for some sort of praise. The thought was one that brought a frown to Kenna’s lips, a disapproving one.

  That day when the time came to encourage Helga out the door, Kenna did manage to remember to place a few bronze-lions in her hand. “Four coins per day of week,” She then got out if rather uncomfortably, “Feel free to count them yourself.”

  The dismissal was one that Helga accepted with a shallow nod, the same disappointment from earlier carved unto her pretty face.

  Kenna had just to say turned away from the doors, after closing them behind Conn’s second to youngest daughter, when there was a knock. Grumbling beneath her breath, she sucked in a breath to give the lass a thorough tongue-lashing, with the words a mere breathe away from escaping her when she was met not by Helga’s face but that of Ida.

  Looking from some point over her shoulder, to Kenna’s face with a curious expression, Ida asked, “Was that Helga I just saw headed back to her home?”

  “Aye, she has recently apprenticed herself here, at her father’s insistence.”

  “Conn forced one of his daughters to work? Incredible,” The disbelief in Ida’s voice was one that Kenna herself had reflected days prior.

  “Why are you here?” Kenna asked her shortly.

  “I came to deliver some food, and to inform you that there is to be a village meeting tomorrow.” Ida informed her in a hushed voice, a touch of concern in her bright blue eyes.

  This revelation drew a small, tight frown from the seamstress who sighed, “I had expected such a thing.”

  “Why is that?” Ida’s eyes were round as saucers, so that she appeared fairly ridiculous.

  “There have been a great many people who have left our village, so shortly after those disappearances, I am frankly amazed it took Conn so long to call such a council.” Kenna admitted with a shake of her brown-haired head, unable to see how such a buffoon could have fathered so many daughters with such good sense between their ears.

  “Mark my words Kenna; I have an ominous feeling about this council.” Ida warned in a dark voice, her brow furrowing.

  “There is naught to worry about, what could possibly go awry? It will be merely a few hours of Conn posturing, everyone heaping together their fury over Cormac and his friends only to conclude the meeting without accomplishing the slightest thing.” Kenna prophesized aware that Cormac had destroyed his own reputation in recent days, what she expected though, was that as always the highly popular Corin would serve to unite everyone.

  The blacksmith was one villager that they could ill-afford to displease, given the proficiency with which he forged weapons and tools. To lose him, could cost the rest of the village their prosperity, as all knew that the local lairds loved to spill coin after coin upon his works, for they were the finest in the south of Caledonia.

  “I am not so certain Kenna, ever since the lads and Daegan left, I have had this queer feeling that all of this, all that we have built here is near at an end.” Ida murmured a dark tone to her voice as she glanced about behind her, as though she expected some monster or Conn to race along hither to her side, to devour her whole.

  Kenna had no words for her, nor did she try to refute her argument. If she was honest, with herself the widow had to confess to having a certain sense of imminent danger looming upon them herself.