Highland Portrait (39 page)

“What is that, Stella?” Robbie pointed to a piece of furniture along one wall so unusual he wasn’t sure of its function.

“A La-Z-Boy, Robbie,” she smiled and waved to her father as he walked out chuckling.

Stella took his hand and walked him into the dining room showing him the table set for a romantic meal.  She had considered candles, but Robbie was so enamored of electricity she thought she would just dim the lights instead.

“I’ve made you dinner, Robbie, those mashed potatoes you liked so much, but first I have a couple of surprises for you.”

She went to the back door and opened it.  Ferghus flew in and jumped on Robbie who dropped to his knees and buried his head in the dog’s fur.  Stella watched him hold the dog close and she knew what he was feeling.  He pulled away, his hands still petting the dog, and she saw that his eyes were wet.

“Och, Ferghus, I’ve missed ye!”  Robbie looked up at Stella as he stroked the dog’s fur. “Did Albert bring him back?”

“Nope, he came all by himself.  I’ll explain later.  But right now I have something else you need to see.”

Stella’s face softened and the tears she had forbidden herself began to press against her heart.  This was the moment that she would introduce him to what had kept her alive when she thought he was dead. Stella took his hand and led him down the short hallway that was covered in paintings and photographs, all framed and smartly displayed.  She stopped at the door and turned to Robbie.

“You remember the stream by my mother’s croft?”  Robbie’s eyes grew warm and he wrapped his arms around Stella.

“Aye, lass, I remember it well.  I am hoping to repeat that again tonight,” he said pressing his need into her belly. She smiled patiently, eager as he to repeat that night, but gently pushed him away.

“Here’s what happened at the stream, Robbie.”  She opened the door and brought Robbie into the darkened room.  She turned on a small light, its glow soft and muted, and Robbie looked into the strange railed bed at a baby sleeping contentedly, his fists punctuating his breathing with little starts.  Stella moved back and let Robbie move forward to meet his son.

“His name is Robert Gregor MacDougall and he has grey-blues eyes, just like his Daddy.”  Ferghus stuck his nose through the crib slats trying to lick his little friend, but Stella pushed him away.  He whined and went under the crib to keep watch lest anybody else try to disturb the young master.

Robbie stood at the crib unable to speak, unable to say what was in his heart, once again, having no words.  The wonder, of all that he had experienced, and was experiencing because of Stella, filled him with awe.  He looked at his son and his heart swelled.

“My son,” he whispered. He reached to touch the infant, feeling the softness of his clothing, unsure if a touch would awaken the sleeping child.  He wanted to hold his boy, feel the weight of him, smell him and kiss the fuzzy blond hair on his little head.  A joy unknown to him shaded everything he was now and he would be forever grateful to the angels in heaven for allowing him these unspeakable blessings.

He wrapped his arm around Stella’s waist and pulled her toward him, holding her close, kissing the top of her head and letting his tears flow, unashamed, as he watched the small token of their union sleeping.

Since the very moment he had met Stella she continually surprised him, going beyond the measure of her person to expand his knowing, to open new worlds of learning and adventure and now they were together again and would not be parted.  They were star travelers, passengers in the flight of life getting on and off the train, but always meeting and renewing and traveling together.

Epilogue

Seven o’clock and the day was waiting for her to do something magnificent,

But her sleep train had passed through a dreamscape too delicious to leave,

So she thought the most magnificent thing she’d do today was lie there and not move for another hour.

She curled up tighter and moved further down into the covers hoping to find that magic sleeping place again.

He stirred beside her, awakened by her movements.  It was his second dawning. 

He was always first to rise, before her or the sun, and begin the day quietly,

Lest he wake her, or the boy, too quickly.

But often the warmth of the bed beckoned him, and as was his wont, he returned hoping to catch a ride on her sleep train. 

He knew she liked to wake to the sound of his breathing, the warmth of his body keeping the Chill of morning at bay.

Now this sleep hobo felt the train slow down and as he prepared to leave he stretched

His long legs, ready to leap from the comfortable berth.

She moved closer to him, her naked body drawn to his furnace.

Like a train pulling into a station spilling out riders to the waiting arms of long ago friends,

He reached out and welcomed her into his sleep heavy arms.

He pulled her closer as he stepped off the sleep train into Morning.

His eyes, heavy with the ride, opened slowly, reluctantly, and he buried his nose in her hair.

In slow easy movements his hand traced love notes on the canvas of her back,

And her face found that special nestling spot under his chin and she breathed in his aroma, rich with man-scent and scratchy from a beard trying to gain purchase on his face.

He reached low on her back and pulled her tight against him pressing his early morning desire Into the softness of her belly, and she smiled.

Still lingering on the train, wanting to be the last one off, she reached around his broad back

And pulled him closer and with a sigh she signaled acceptance of this early morning offering of Communion.

No preambles, no wild passions or fireworks this morning, just a simple love gesture of

Oneness, harmony and a reminder that this is who they were. 

At the intersection of Sleep and Waking he moved comfortably into her and like train cars Coupling, they connected, and in that connection were content and happy, rocking gently like The rhythm of a train moving in a familiar but well-loved track.

They greeted the day at the Sleep Station, and in that moment of greeting renewed, once again, the passion of traveling together.

About the Author

Shelagh Mercedes lives in the woods in Austin, Texas surrounded by combusting cedar trees and hooty owls.  She lives with four dogs, a bucket load of chickens and three goats.  Besides writing she also enthusiastically collects the rarest of porcelains – goat figurines…she has two so far. 

To contact Shelagh, or to tell her where to find more goat figurines email her at
[email protected]