Chapter 12
12
Saoirse’s cheeks were damp from trekking through the mist that hung in the air. There wasn’t a lick of wind, which was odd for this time of year. Though technically spring, February was typically marked by pounding rain and the continued gale-force winds of winter. But not today. It was as if nature herself was making a peace offering for the turmoil of recent weeks. Either that or it was the calm before the storm. Saoirse pressed her eyes closed and pulled her shawl tight. May it not be so.
She squinted as she entered the dim interior of the weaving shed. Though Owen had lit a lantern, the muted morning light offered little to no help, making the inside of the shed seem almost black. After a moment, her eyes adjusted and Saoirse could finally see that Owen was leaning against the loom, his ankles crossed and his right arm laid over his left at his middle. She also realized she’d been staring at him this whole time while she waited for dark to become light.
Neither one spoke for a long moment, as his eyes bore into hers, and she wondered if he could hear her heart beating against her chest from where he stood. She couldn’t tell if the intensity of his gaze was merely due to the intensity of the blue in his eyes or if his expression was as emotionally charged as it appeared to be.
“If this is going to work, you must do exactly as I say,” he said at length, his voice low. Measured.
She swallowed hard and nodded.
“Alright. Now...” He seemed about to give his first piece of instructions when he stopped short. “Where’s Aileen?”
Saoirse turned and peered out the still open door. “I’d say she’ll be here any moment.”
Owen’s forehead creased and he said only, “Mm.” He mumbled something Saoirse couldn’t quite make out, though it sounded vaguely like Aileen likely finding an excuse not to come. Then, after a moment, he stooped and picked up a ball of thread. “First things first.” He motioned with his head for her to join him, and she obeyed.
“The weaver’s knot,” he began. “The entire foundation of a good tweed rests upon a solid weaver’s knot. You hafta be able to tie and release it with one hand.”
Saoirse’s eyes widened. “You can tie a knot with one hand?”
“Aye,” he said. He pointed to the set of threads hanging up and down, perpendicular to the flat threads stretching the length of the loom. “Those are the heddles. They don’t actually go into the weave. Instead, the warp”—he gestured to the flat threads—“runs through small loops in the heddles. And they are secured with weaver’s knots.”
Saoirse bent to get a better look. “There must be hundreds of these threads.”
“Thousands,” he replied. “This is a double-width loom.”
She puffed a breath through her lips. “That’s a lot of knots.”
He nodded matter-of-factly. “Then,” he continued, moving around to the front of the loom, “you attach the weft—that’s the threads you actually weave back and forth with—to the first thread of the warp with the same type of knot so the yarn doesn’t go all the way through when you pass the shuttle from side to side.”
Saoirse’s head spun. She’d tied many a knot in her day but never knew there were multiple kinds. And she’d never attempted to tie one with one hand. She didn’t see how it was possible. “So ... how do ya do a weaver’s knot?”
Owen unraveled a bit of lavender thread from the shuttle and tugged one strand of warp to the side to create space between it and the thread next to it. His movements were a little stunted and clumsy, as he was working with his left hand. But he still managed to drape the lavender piece over the gray warp, and then in some strange feat of witchcraft, flipped his finger around, pulled on a loop, and suddenly there was a knot there. “See? Easy.”
Saoirse laughed. “Oh, yes, very simple.”
The faintest hint of a smile played on his lips. “Here, watch me again. Ya just put this purple over the gray, twist your finger around it, grab the gray with your thumb and forefinger”—his torso contorted as he tried to convince his nondominant hand to function with dexterity—“and pull.”
He turned to her. “Now, you try.” He pulled a spool of yarn from a shelf and unwound some, allowing it to hang down. Then he cut a shorter piece and held it out it toward Saoirse. “Best to practice on something that’s not the loom.”
Equal measures of confusion and amusement swirled in Saoirse’s mind, and she simply blinked back at him. Owen responded by waggling the short length of yarn in the air. At length, sighing, Saoirse took the piece from him and stepped toward the longer strand still hanging from the shelf. She glanced at him from the side of her eye. He’d put his hands behind his back and was waiting.
She took hold of the long thread in her left hand and used her right to drape the shorter piece over it. She stared at them for a long moment, trying to recall what Owen had done. Then, after a deep breath, she let her fingers fly. When she gave a final tug, the spool of thread fell from the shelf, and bonked her in the forehead before crashing to the floor with a muted thud. She held up her hand only to discover she hadn’t been successful in tying the weaver’s knot at all. Not even close. Instead, she’d managed to tangle both strands of yarn around her right index finger, the tip of which was turning red and was quickly on its way to a deep purple color.
“Well, that’s one way to do it,” Owen said. “The wrong way, but it’s somethin’.” A low chuckle began in his chest and built up until it burst through his mouth. His robust laughter filled the small shed, and Saoirse found it completely impossible not to join in. As they laughed, Saoirse tried to pull her finger free, but to no avail. When she bent to pick up the spool that had fallen, Owen went at the same time, and their heads cracked together, sending them into an even heavier fit of laughter.
They both fumbled through guffaws, simultaneously apologizing, asking if the other was alright, and rubbing their hands on the offending spots on their own heads. The dull throbbing in Saoirse’s finger grew more intense, and her laughter died down as she tugged on the end of one of the strands. Big mistake. The vise tightened to an almost unbearable level.
“Eh, Owen,” she said, her face contorted. He was still wiping his eyes. “Owen, my finger ... it’s getting cold. And I can’t ...” She found another end and started to pull.
“No, no. Ná dean é sin .” He reached for her hand. “Don’t do that,” he repeated. “Ye’ll make it worse.” He held her hand, palm up, and examined it as he turned it over and back again.
“Step closer to the light.” He pulled her gently toward the door. “Open your fingers flat,” he said, then he dragged the fingers of his left hand over her palm to move hers out of the way.
Panic began to set in. The end of her index finger had gone from cold to numb. Her breath came in jagged huffs and a tear escaped and slipped down her cheek. “Please hurry,” she cried. “It hurts.” She bounced her knees in an effort to keep from fisting her injured hand up against the pain.
“Hey,” he said, his voice soothing, low. “I’ve got you.” He inclined his head closer to hers so she’d meet his gaze.
When she did, the stoic calm she found there instantly released the tightness in her chest.
“Okay?”
She nodded.
After inspecting the tangled mess another moment, he gently tugged on a new strand. Saoirse sucked in a breath. “Sorry,” he said, then dropped that piece.
He bent his head closer to her finger, and Saoirse could see his eyes tracing the path of the yarn. Then he set to work, and a few seconds later, one loop loosened over her finger. He continued working, the pair of them silent. Occasionally, a stray strand of his hair would tickle Saoirse’s face, he was that close. His steady breathing was the only sound other than Saoirse’s heart beating in her ears. She tried to watch his hand as it worked, his other one, still bandaged, cradling hers tenderly. But her eyes kept drifting up to his face. As his fingers traced the path of the yarn around hers, her gaze traced the contours of his cheeks. The strong line of his jaw. The intense azure shining through his lowered lashes.
When he looked up at her, Saoirse’s breath caught. “Better?” he whispered.
She couldn’t bring herself to look away or speak so she merely nodded.
Movement in the corner of her eye broke her trance, and she glanced over to see that the two pieces of yarn were dangling from his fingertips. “Oh, thank you.”
Now he nodded, then bent over her hand once more. He brushed his fingertips where the thread at been, the skin a bit swollen and red. He closed his good hand around hers.
“It’ll be sore for a bit, but the skin isn’t broken, so ye’ll be grand out before teatime.” He met her gaze again, then reached up and wiped the track of tears from her cheek.
When he let go of her hand and stepped away, cold air rushed in to fill the space and Saoirse shivered.
“C’mon, then. Let’s try again,” he said.
Saoirse shook her head. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“ Tsk! Tsk! ” He wagged his head. “Ya gotta get right back up on that horse.”
Sighing, Saoirse made her way back over to where Owen was returning the spool to the shelf and preparing another set of strands for her. When he handed her the second short piece, she looked at him, questioning.
“G’on,” he said.
When she took the yarn from him, he sidled up beside her. “Now, put that one over the top of the longer one. That’s it. Now, loop your finger over the short one. Yep, perfect.” He put his hand over hers, pausing her movements. “Now, ye’re gonna wind your finger around and poke it through the loop that you create.”
Saoirse nodded, then turned her attention to her hand. Her tongue poked out the side of her mouth as she efforted to do exactly as he’d instructed. When she did, he continued, “Now, grab hold of the long piece with your thumb and forefinger.”
She did.
He nodded. “Now, pull.”
When she tugged, both strands looped around and around and then came apart again.
“Wrong.”
They both erupted in a fresh fit of laughter, and Saoirse had to hold her hand to her side to quell the aching there. When they managed to catch their breath, Owen leaned his shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms over each other. “Again.”
****
Owen filled his lungs with the damp air, savoring the chill that spread throughout his chest. Adjusting his flatcap, he blew a shrill whistle, and Stout materialized by his side.
“Away to me,” Owen commanded, and Stout was off like a flash to circle the far side of the sheep two hills over in order to herd them to another one behind Owen. Stout’s delighted barks echoed on the afternoon breeze, even though the dog himself could not be seen. Good grief, that dog loved his job.
Owen smiled and made his way down the eastern crest from where he was and up onto the next hillock. It had been far too long since he’d been out in creation with his flock. He scanned the horizon where the dramatic crags of the Seven Sisters rose to the sky, a ruffled patchwork skirt flowing below them in rolling fields. Without even looking, he could picture the peak of Mount Errigal behind him, tugging the clouds low like a blanket. He’d bet there’d be snow atop it in the morning. They’d not had too much snow or ice this winter, thankfully, but February was always a mixed bag when it came to weather. One day could be sunny, warm, and calm, and the next blustering with gale-force winds flinging ice around like shards of glass.
He reached his hands to the sky and stretched, relishing the ability to do so with hardly any pain in his ribs now. He lowered his arms and tugged his jumper back in place, then fiddled with an errant thread, which turned his thoughts back to the weaving shed and Saoirse. He twisted the wool around his finger, triggering a sudden guffaw as he envisioned Saoirse’s first go at the weaver’s knot that morning. She’d looked like a magician trying to distract her audience with fancy footwork, contorting her body this way and that, as if she could guide the thread by bobbing and weaving her arms and shoulders.
But, fair play to the lass, she didn’t give up. She seemed tempted to at first, but she kept going, even after the unfortunate tangled knot incident. In Owen’s mind, it wasn’t too terribly unfortunate an incident, as it gave him an excuse to hold her hand in his and inhale the heather-filled earthy scent of her hair.
He stopped short and scowled. Where had that come from? He had no reason to think of Saoirse in such a way, and certainly no reason to believe she’d return the admiration. No, it wasn’t admiration. It was just ... just ... He didn’t know what it was other than a distraction.
He huffed, tugged his cap lower on his head, and quickened his pace to the crest of the hill where he knew Stout to be headed. As he walked, he tried to make a plan for what Saoirse needed to learn next. And to convince Aileen to learn the craft as well. As he’d suspected, his sister had met him with a mountain of excuses as to why she hadn’t shown up. But it would really help them if she would agree to learn. There was no telling how soon he’d be able to get back to it. A thought that clinched his stomach. He glanced down at his right hand and tried to flex it. It moved but only just. It could just be hindered by all the bandages , he thought. But what if that’s not the issue?
It was imperative both women were able to carry on in the craft if they were to have any hope keeping their heads above water and not get evicted. He absently wondered if Murphy’s would offer an extension of any kind to give them a chance to catch their breath a bit. Surely if they knew the state of him, they’d understand. Or they’d cut you loose for someone who can get the job done.
No, they were best suited to just carry on with their plan and hope the ladies would be worth their salt with the weaving. They had no choice.