Chapter 7
The sounds of a cockerel woke Mathe, and he opened his eyes slowly, almost reluctantly. He’d been in a pleasing dream involving his wife. He dreamed about her often, although this time it was different; in his old dreams, Lilidh looked like she did when he left six years ago. Still young, fresh as a field of flowers, alluring in her innocence.
In this dream, though, Lilidh looked as she had the day before. Touched by age, but still beautiful enough to tighten his chest. Chin held up with proud dignity. Transformed and yet familiar, and more tragically graceful than he ever remembered. Mathe held the image of her in his mind for as long as he could, until it faded to black and he sat up with a sigh, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. Sunlight filtered through a single window and fell across his face, and he tilted towards it and listened to the sounds of the town coming to life around him.
He looked down at his hands. For such a long time, it seemed that all they knew how to do was kill. To bring destruction. To close into the metaphorical fist of the old laird and smash his foes. Mathe stretched them out and wondered if they could learn to do anything else; to hold a hammer rather than a sword, and to give rather than take away. But despite his words to Fergus, he was unsure. He’d lived for four decades, with a good portion of that spent wearing the guise of MacBrennan; what else did he know how to do in life? Yes, he had worked with wood as a lad, but that was a long time ago. Would it come back to him as easily as he’d claimed?
Mathe figured there was only one way to find out, and no time like the present. And after all, one look inside his coin purse made it painfully clear that he was all out of options. He rose, dressed, then padded downstairs into the common room. It was empty save for young Gil wiping down the tabletops, and the sounds of shuffling and cursing coming from beneath the floorboards under his feet.
“Morning, Mathe,” the young man said. “Sleep well?”
“Aye, verra well,” Mathe replied. “Has Rabby returned?”
Gil tilted his head and fell silent. After a moment, a particularly violent curse erupted from below them and he smiled. “Aye, he most certainly has. He’s just getting something into the storeroom and then he’ll be right up.”
Mathe nodded and took a seat. The sunlight lit up motes of dust that floated lazily through the air, and the room was bathed in a golden glow. More grunts, then Rabby’s head appeared over the counter as he emerged from the cellar. The man saw Mathe and nodded.
“Welcome, stranger,” he said.
“No” quite a stranger, Rabby” Mathe replied, and stood. The innkeeper tilted his head up as he approached and studied his face.
“Mathe MacBrennan,” Rabby said after a moment, his tone disbelieving.
“Aye. Mathe MacBrennan.” He could see Gil look up with a slight frown.
The innkeeper shook his head. “Notwithstanding the fact that ye’re dead, ye sure have some baws to come back here.”
“So I’ve been told,” Mathe replied. “And yet here I am.”
“Here ye are. In my inn, as bold as ye please.” The man hesitated. “Mathe, ye and I never had bad blood, but I feel compelled to tell ye I’m somewhat of a friend with Laird Blaine McCaskill.”
Mathe nodded. “Relax, Rabby. Blaine knows I’m here. In fact, the steward popped by last night and we had a drink.”
Rabby looked over at Gil, who nodded. “Aye,” the young man said. “Auld Fergus was here, and they had a blether. It makes sense now why the auld man wanted to keep it quiet.” He looked at Mathe with a frown. “I’ve heard a lot about ye, MacBrennan.”
“It’s Mathe.”
“And what is it ye want, Mathe?” Rabby asked. “I assume ye’re here for a reason.”
“I want to make ye an offer, Rabby.”
“I’m no” sure exactly what it is ye could offer me, but I’m all ears.”
Mathe nudged a chair with his foot. “I want to fix yer chairs. They’re auld and falling apart, and ye’re going to get one of yer patrons injured if ye dinnae do something about them.”
Rabby shook his head. “Unbelievable. If ye had told me this morning that Mathe MacBrennan would walk into my inn and offer to fix my chairs, I would have asked for a share of whatever ye were partaking in.”
Mathe smiled. “And yet that’s exactly what I’m offering.”
“And what would ye want in return? Or would ye simply be doing it out of the kindness of yer heart?”
“I would, if kindness could feed me, and put a roof over my head.”
“Food and lodging, then.”
“Aye,” Mathe replied. “Food and lodging. I’ll fix all of yer chairs, strip them down and start again when I have to, reinforce them all, and in return ye let me stay here with three meals a day. I’m happy to take a smaller room or whatever ye have to spare.”
“Why, Mathe?” Rabby asked. “Why are ye back?”
Mathe looked down. “Let’s just say I have a lifetime of wrongs to set right, and I need to start somewhere.”
Rabby looked at Gil, and Mathe saw the young man give a slight shrug.
“The chairs are in a bad state,” Gil said. “And food and lodging works out less than an outright payment for services.”
Rabby nodded slowly. “Aye, ye’re no” wrong. About the cost, and the state of my chairs.”
“So ye agree?” Mathe asked.
“No” so fast,” Rabby said. “I might no” have the tools ye need, and I’m certainly no” paying for them. And ye’ll need a space to work, I presume?”
“No” a large space,” Mathe said, “but, aye. I could do it outside if I have to.”
“Until it rains, and my chairs get the rot,” Rabby answered. “I’ll tell ye what. There’s a stall at the back of the stables that I dinnae use anymore. I’ve just been storing odds and ends down there. Why dinnae ye look and tell me if it’s suitable? Any tools that I have will be out in the stables as well, so see what ye can dig up, and if it’s enough.”
Mathe nodded. “Aye, I’ll do that now. I’m sure it will be fine, and I can make do with whatever ye have.”
“Let’s no” be too hasty,” Rabby said, “unless ye like banging in nails with the palm of yer hand.”
The stables were dark and cold, and Mathe made his way slowly to the end stall with his arms outstretched, feeling his way as much as seeing, His fingers stumbled with the window shutter until it unlatched and he threw it open, letting in both sunlight and warmth.
He looked around. The end stall was a mess and had clearly been serving the purpose of a general dumping ground for anything in the stable that didn’t have a designated place. Mathe rolled his sleeves up and set to work, clearing everything out, and then began the hunt for tools. His search took him all over the stables and into every stall as he found the basic things he would need; a hammer, a saw, and even an old scraping plane. Everything looked slightly wobbly, but Mathe figured it was the best he would get.
At least there was plenty of wood; long and short planks, thick and thin. More than enough for repairs, and to even build himself a small worktop. He gathered them all up and laid them upright against the back wall next to his stall.
There was only one problem; he couldn’t find any nails. He looked on every shelf and in every stall, but it wasn’t until he glanced down and kicked at the old hay under his feet that he caught the glint of an old iron nail. He kicked more hay and uncovered two more nails, then looked around him with a frown. Every stall was covered in old hay, with who knew how many nails hidden inside. He crouched down and sifted out a dozen more nails and carried them back to his stall; it was enough to get started, at least.
The far door opened and Rabby emerged with a chair in his arms. “Any luck?” he called.
“Aye,” Mathe replied. “There’s enough here to get on with.”
“Good. And here’s yer first chair. This one actually fell apart last month, so I’ve been keeping it in the cellar where it’s just getting in my way.”
Mathe took it from him and inspected it with a frown. One leg had split in two and the whole thing twisted alarmingly. “Aye, this is certainly throwing me into the fire.”
Rabby smiled. “Relax, Mathe. I’m no” expecting the world.”
The innkeeper left and Mathe looked around, suddenly unsure. It was one thing to convince the man to give him a chance, and another thing entirely to actually go through with the work. What if he simply couldn’t remember?
Mathe breathed out heavily. No, he told himself. This is what he needed to do to help Lilidh, so this was exactly what he would do.
Grimly, he set to work, almost expecting to fail but determined to go through with it anyway, and was almost surprised to find small things returning to his mind. How to hold the chair so that it remained stable. How to remove the nails and put new ones in without splitting off the wood. How to fashion braces out of the spares pile to reinforce the corners and frame. Mathe lost himself in the work as he remembered old memories, long forgotten, of summer days in the sawmill. He could almost taste the dust in the air and the sounds of his master barking orders at the apprentices.
Mathe’s hands grew gentle as he worked the wood and idly wondered if Fynn would take an apprenticeship. It seemed the boy was forced to stay inside the house all day while Lilidh worked, so surely learning a trade would be good for him?
This, of course, reminded Mathe of Lilidh’s words about the boy being shunned around the town. And all because of him, of course. Because the boy had done nothing wrong other than be born the son of Mathe MacBrennan; a prison sentence that had condemned both the boy and his mother.
Mathe sat back with a frown, thinking of young Fynn inside the house, all alone. Did he deserve such a fate? And what kind of man would Mathe be to sit back and let it happen? With a sigh, he stood and stretched his legs and stepped out of the stables. The sun was now hidden behind a bank of grey cloud and Mathe shivered as he walked. The ice from the previous day had melted, and Lilidh’s house once again sat in the wet mud. He knocked on the door and waited.
“I’m no” allowed to open the door,” a small voice said from the other side.
“Fynn, it’s Mathe.” He paused. “Duine.”
A moment later the door unlocked and Fynn looked out, smiling.
“Hello, Duine,” he said.
“Hello, Fynn. How are ye?”
“Fine,” the boy said. “I’m pretending to cook. But no” neeps, though. What about ye, Duine?”
“Ye should probably call me Mathe. Duine is only a nickname, of sorts.”
The boy nodded. “Mama called ye Mathe.”
“It’s my real name,” Mathe explained.
“Then I’ll call ye Mathe as well,” he announced. “What are ye doing here? Mama said ye werenae going to come back.”
“I wasnae, but then I thought of ye here on yer own, and wondered if ye”d like to help me with something?”
Fynn’s eyes widened. “Help ye?”
“Aye,” Mathe said. “I’m fixing some chairs for someone, and I could do with an assistant. If ye’re up to it, of course.”
“Aye, I’m up to it,” he said excitedly. “I love to help mama with all sorts of things.”
“That’s because ye’re a good lad,” Mathe said. “Throw a coat on and come with me.”
The boy hesitated as he dressed. “Mama says I’m no” to leave the porch.”
Mathe frowned. “She doesnae want ye wandering about the town on yer own. It’s no” safe, is it?”
“Aye, that’s why.”
“But ye’re no” on yer own, are ye?”
The boy considered Mathe’s words, and a smile split his face. “Nay, I’m no”. I’m with ye, so that’s alright.”
“And I’ll try to get ye home before yer mama gets back, so she doesnae have to worry. How does that sound?”
“That sounds great!” Fynn shouted and put his small hand in Mathe’s.
As he led the boy back into the cool stables, Mathe suddenly realised that he had no idea what he would do with him. He’d promised Fynn that he could help, though, so he supposed that was a good place to start.
“I’m helping the innkeeper fix some chairs,” he explained, holding up the first example. “They’re auld and wobbly, so I’m going to make them stronger.”
“Why doesnae he buy new chairs?” the boy asked.
“He might no” have the money to do that. And sometimes it’s best to fix things again, rather than throw them away.”
“That chair looks like it might need to be thrown away,” he said, eyeing it dubiously.
Mathe smiled. “I cannae argue with ye, but let’s see if we can fix it first.”
“What do ye want me to do?”
Mathe thought back to his first encounter with Fynn, hunting for stones in the mud. “Would ye like to play a game?”
Fynn’s eyes lit up. “Aye, I love games.”
“Inside this hay, there are nails hidden. Why dinnae ye try to bring me ten nails?”
“Only ten? I can count all the way up to twenty.”
“Alright, then,” Mathe said. “Twenty nails. Be careful, mind. They could be sharp, and ye dinnae want to prick yerself. Dinnae put yer hands all the way under the hay, but just sift the surface.”
“Aye,” Fynn replied and set to work. Mathe watched him for a few moments and observed how he crawled around, poking gently, before he pulled up a nail with an exclamation. “Found one!”
“Good lad,” Mathe said. “How many to go?”
Fynn screwed his face up. “Nineteen,” he said at last.
“Nineteen,” Mathe agreed.
As the boy continued his task, Mathe smoothed down the side of a chair leg and watched him. Fynn had a natural curiosity about him, pulling things out of the hay and tilting his head at them.
“What’s this?” he asked, pulling something out from underneath him.
“That’s a horseshoe,” Mathe explained. “Horses wear them under their hooves to keep their feet safe.”
“Like a boot?”
“Aye, like a boot.”
“How do they stay on?”
“Well,” Mathe said, “they’re nailed into the hoof.”
Fynn made a face. “No” much like a boot, then.”
Once the boy had gathered twenty nails, Mathe pulled out a small plank of spare wood and passed him a hammer. “Why dinnae ye hammer these nails into the wood for me.”
“Why?” Fynn asked.
“I just want to see how ye do it.”
“I’ve never hammered anything before,” the boy said with a frown.
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Well, give the first one a go,” Mathe said encouragingly.
Fynn gripped the hammer awkwardly, holding it close to the head, and tapped the nail. It wobbled around on the wood as the boy gingerly knocked it, making no imprint on the surface.
“I’m no” good at this,” he complained.
“Ye”ve just no” been taught, that’s all,” Mathe said, clapping him on the back. “Ye said yerself, ye’ve never done this before.”
“So what do I do?” Fynn asked.
Mathe stood and walked over, sitting next to the boy. He took the hammer from him. “The hammer is a special tool, Fynn. It knows if its owner is nervous or unsure, and will fight back. The trick with the hammer is to grip it tightly, like this,” he took hold of it down near the base of the handle, “and then to strike the nail without hesitation. If ye do this, the hammer will feel yer confidence, and will do as ye ask.”
With that, Mathe placed the nail against the wood and tapped twice to set it. He then withdrew his hand and swung down once, hard, and the nail drove itself down to finish flush with the surface. He ran his thumb over it.
Fynn breathed out. “That was great. Can I try?”
“Aye, although it might take a bit of practice before ye can hammer like that. I’ll tell ye what; why dinnae ye try setting the nails first? Just tap them a few times, holding the hammer like I showed ye, until they stand up in the wood on their own. Set all the nails and then we can practice driving them in.”
“Alright,” Fynn said. He took hold of the hammer, although still too close to the head, and Mathe gently moved his grip further down.
“Careful, now,” Mathe said. “Ye dinnae want to hammer yer thumb, do ye?”
“Nay,” Fynn giggled. “It would be squashed flat.”
“It most certainly would.”
Once again, Mathe returned to his scraping plane and watched Fynn. He learnt quickly and was already up to the fourth nail. It was such a simple thing, knowing how to use a hammer, and yet to the boy it was something new and exciting. Mathe felt a strange feeling deep in his chest as he watched and reflected on the boy being raised by Lilidh on her own, without a father to teach him about things like horseshoes and hammers.
Of course, Mathe didn’t have a father to teach him, but that resulted from war and not absence. His own father had been killed in some minor skirmish when Mathe was still on his mother’s teat, but he had uncles and grandpas and friends and an apprenticeship. And, of course, later in life, the old laird took him in and became somewhat of a father; the one he’d never had.
Fynn didn’t have any of that. Just a mother who loved him, and a town that despised him. Again Mathe was overcome by the guilt of what he’d done to them both, and once again that guilt burned hot within him, turning into an iron resolve to do right by them, no matter what it took.
“How’s that?” the boy asked proudly.
Mathe looked down at nineteen nails sticking out of the plank of wood.
“That’s magnificent, Fynn,” he replied.