The Realm of the Sun

The Flag in the Fire

            Lachlan returned at dusk with food and firewood, as he had every evening for the past week. Each night, he was greeted with hugs and kisses from his family and it warmed Tara's heart as much as it made her feel empty. She always averted her eyes awkwardly whenever the children would run to their father or when Saoirse would embrace her husband. Unsure of her place in all of this, she remained seated at the hearth until her new surrogate family rejoined her.

          "You've brought the firewood just in time," said Saoirse as she found her chair beside Tara again and adjusted the baby being cradled in her arms so she could rest comfortably on her lap. A visible shiver overcame her.

          "Aye," he said bending over the fireplace to try and rekindle the flame from dust and embers, "And I thought we had seen the last cold night."

         "I'm not cold," Eamonn bragged.

          "Me neither," Pearse immediately added.

          "Then I fear you both must have some sort of rare condition," Lachlan retorted, smiling covertly at his wife. She bit her lip to keep from laughing. Angharad snuggled up to Tara for warmth and cheered when the fire started up again.

          "Well done," Saoirse said smiling at him with loving eyes. He placed the one remaining log on the floor beside the fireplace and sat in the chair directly across from his wife.

          "I love you, Da," Angharad cooed as she sprung from Tara's side and practically jumped into her father's lap. He laughed in adoration, returned the declaration and rustled her wild curls as he sat her on his knee. Tara smiled. In her sixteen years, she never once wished to have a father. But she knew now that was because she had never seen one before.

          "Ma, can Pearse and I go work on our...project?" Eamonn asked, with a tentative side glance to his father.

          "What project?" Lachlan asked, suspiciously.

          "It's nothing really, Da, we're just building something—"

          "We're building a stick castle!" Pearse cried out, much to his older brother's chagrin, and then changing his expression immediately to one of serious urgency, he added, "May we use your knife?"

          "Pearse," Eamonn moaned with disdain, for his building partner had not yet mastered the art of evading truth.

           "You absolutely may not. Last time you had access to a knife, you tore up one of your mother's good skirts," Lachlan spoke declaratively in his cavernous, authoritative voice.

          "We had to make the mote!" Pearse argued, recalling briefly with pride how he and his brother used the hem of their mother's light blue skirt as the circle of water.

          "It's all right, Lachlan, they'll be careful this time, won't they?" Saoirse mediated, unable to hide the fact that she found Pearse irresistibly funny.

          "Saoirse..." he tried to fight her, but he could see her winking at Eamonn.

          "No knives, but I'll let you use this stone spearhead to whittle..." Lachlan reached into his pocket and handed the sharp stone to Eamonn. Grinning, the boys ran to the ladder and climbed up to the loft eager to resume their project. Angharad sprung to her feet from her father's lap and followed her brothers to the loft with excitement. To punctuate the moment perfectly, Lachlan looked at Tara and sighed.

          "She can't say no to Eamonn," he divulged, shifting his glance between Tara and his wife, "They tore up one of her few dresses to use little shreds of fabric for their 'stick castle' and she still won't say no. She wasn't even the least bit angry."