Fyskar

Chapter 21

"So, what's in the box?" Seonaid asked the following day after breakfast. Eoin had finished plaiting his hair out of the way, leaving it to hang for the day. He was in his blue breeches, having left his shirt off. The Fyskar despised the Southron garment. It was constricting around the throat and pressed his torc in all the wrong places. His other clothes hung washed and drying at the fire.

He got up and stretched before walking into the second room, followed by Fearchar and Seonaid. He peeled ropes and oiled cloth off the chest. Seonaid gasped. It was immaculately etched with swirling knots and vines. Eoin smiled, fingering a particularly clean swirl. "Bercilack's work?" Fearchar guessed. Eoin nodded as he popped the lid free. His husband had sealed the chest with wax and tar in hopes of keeping water out of it.

The inside of the chest was lined with more of the oiled cloth. The top of the hoard held a leather folio in which was a signed deed to the land. In it was tied a ring. He brushed at the engraving of a fish and hook. He had to fight off another tear. It was the same engraving as the pendant he had left at the grave. He slipped it onto his index finger, disappointed to find it a shade tight. He would put it with his other personal effects later.

He allowed Seonaid to look over the document. Her breath hitched as she read the lines before handing it back to Eoin, her eyes round. Fearchar nudged her, wanting to know what was going on. She swallowed, trying to wrap her head around it. "Ye'r a Laird, Eoin? He practically owns the whole peninsula from the main docks all the way out to the other harbour and all the buildings on that land," she explained to her husband.

Fearchar contemplated that for a moment before comprehending. "Mean 'e owns the land this 'ouse is on?" Fearchar asked. She nodded slowly.

"It goes all the way to the hills on the south end and then some," she shifted.

Won't ask you to pay rent, Eoin joked as he unpacked the chest in earnest.

Packages were wrapped carefully in leather and canvas. He pulled each one out reverently before opening them. Near the bottom of the chest were larger, soft bundles. These were the first Eoin opened with barely contained excitement. A large white wool robe with long flowing sleeves was in the first package. Eoin fingered raised embroidery. It was my father's robe for his marriage, and his great-grandfather's before that. Osla was the one who decided to add the embroidery along the edges, though. He carefully wrapped the garment back in its package and laid it aside.

The next one contained several kilt cloths of pure white and one of light blue, lavender, and white. Ceremonial kilts, one was my wedding kilt. This one, he unfolded the coloured one to trace a line of lavender, was a spare. I forgot I stored it in here. He laid it out on the floor and put away the white cloth.

He proceeded to open up the other packages on the kilt. He arranged strange round and cylindrical carved black stones on it. We use them as predictions to cast future events in the lives of White Horses at their coming-of-age ceremony. My own did not come up with the best of casts. Storms, Upheaval, and Break were all used by my father when he threw my stones. He regarded the rocks with a derisive glare. Hopefully, my sons will have a better cast. Grey stones with shallowly carved depressions and little pouring troughs were unwrapped next. I will have to make the oil for their hair when I get home, he said to himself.

A pair of white feathered fans created from the wings of a young seagull were carefully preserved. Eoin let out a breath of relief. That was one project he had not looked forward to having to make. Intricately pulled gold thread wrapped about the feather shafts, creating a glinting tie to burnished redwood handles. It would have been a chore to find a seagull of proper age at this time of year.