Chapter 14
14
Saoirse was in the weaving shed before Owen the next morning. All the previous night’s conversations were monopolized by wee Dubhín —the name Saoirse had secretly given the new lamb. While hardly tiny by typical lamb standards, adding the diminutive “-ín” onto the Irish word for black just seemed to fit the wee fella with whom Saoirse was completely in love.
The moment he’d been born, Saoirse had been overcome by a sense of joy and accomplishment like she hadn’t felt in ages. She was so grateful the lamb had been born safely, especially after the ordeal Owen and the ewe had been through to bring him to that point. To Saoirse’s mind, Dubhín was nothing less than a symbol of God’s grace. But to Owen and Aileen, he was a harbinger of death.
And while Saoirse failed to see how such a sweet wee thing like Dubhín could be anything other than a joy, she couldn’t shake the impending sense of dread and doom she’d carried with her from Westmeath. She felt as though the touch of her hands first gripping his wee hooves suddenly transformed him from a fleecy white to a coal black because of her past transgressions. And with last night’s conversations still hanging in the air of the house, mingling with Saoirse’s own doubts, the cottage felt suffocating and oppressive. So she’d hurried out to the weaving shed as quickly as possible this morning.
She moved about the small space, lighting the few lanterns scattered in the corners of the room, and double- and triple-checking the heddles and warp in preparation for her first day of true weaving.
When Owen’s silhouette darkened the doorway, equal measures of excitement and dread washed over Saoirse. Excitement to endeavor to do something new, something that she now found extremely fascinating. Dread because she couldn’t live with herself if she managed to destroy what little of Aileen and Owen’s livelihood remained. God, please help me.
Owen entered and closed the small red door, taking most of the morning light with it. It was simply too cold, wet, and windy to leave the door open. “Ready?” he asked, brows raised.
Saoirse heaved a deep sigh. “As ready as I’m going to be.”
Owen scanned the length of the loom as he approached. “Me too,” he muttered.
So, he held the same reservations she did. Perfect. Saoirse willed the burning in her cheeks to dissipate.
He moved around to the foot of the loom and motioned for her to join him. “Now,” he began, “once this thing gets going, it’ll be too loud for any talking. So, I’ll have to explain now, and then you’re just goin’ to have to give it a go.”
She nodded and fixed every ounce of focus on his hands and feet as they reminded her of the process he’d talked her through the other day. She watched the heddles rise and fall, the pedals get pressed one by one, the handle pull in opposition to the pedals, and the tapestry beater move back and forth in a dizzying dance.
“Ye’ll be goin’ much faster than this, of course,” he was saying. “I can’t do it very well with just the one hand.”
Saoirse rolled her lips inward. Of course. “I see.”
“Take it away, maestro,” he said and stepped aside.
With another cleansing breath, Saoirse took her place and mumbled the poem Owen had taught her. “Pedal for the heddle, pull for the wool. Shuttle crosses over, then beater takes over.”
Owen hummed his approval and nodded for her to start.
Slowly and clumsily, not unlike Dubhín had been in taking his first steps yesterday, Saoirse completed one full round of the process. After the beater had tugged and pushed the weft into place, she released the breath that had been building in her chest and looked to Owen, certain every bit of uncertainty shone clearly on her face.
His face was taut, brows pulled together as he bent to look at the first stitch she’d done. Saoirse’s heart raced faster by the second. When he straightened and looked at her, his stance and visage softened. He chuckled. “Not bad,” he said. “But we’ll have to work on that speed.”
After giving her a couple of pointers, he set her off again. When she started to look back at him after one stitch, he shook his head. “Carry on.”
Saoirse continued on for about five or six stitches. Already her arms burned from pulling the handle above and sliding the beater back and forth, and her left leg protested from holding all her weight on it as her right foot worked the pedals. She stopped and shook her arms.
“You do this for ten hours a day?” she said, disbelief lacing her voice.
He smiled, light dancing in his crystal blue eyes. “Aye.” He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “A little more involved than ye expected?”
Saoirse huffed out a laugh. “Very much so.”
He shrugged and pushed himself to stand. “Ye’re not doing too bad a job,” he said. “But ya need to find yer rhythm.”
He mimicked weaving and began to sing a song, his movements keeping the beat. Saoirse watched him. When he finished the first verse of the song, he noticed her face and stopped. “What?”
“I bet ye’re a grand dancer.” Heat flushed her cheeks again, and she cleared her throat. “Eh, I mean, that’s great. But I can’t think of any songs.”
“Try the one I was just singing,” he said. “Do ya know ‘I Am a Wee Weaver’?”
Saoirse shook her head. “The tune seemed a little familiar, but I wouldn’t be able to sing it myself.”
Owen nodded and stepped closer. “Okay, I’ll sing, you weave. Aye?”
Saoirse met his intense gaze. It seemed a bit odd and a little awkward to have him stand and sing over her while she tried to figure out this whole weaving rigamarole, but what choice did she have. “Aye,” she said at length.
“I am a wee weaver,” he began, his smooth baritone voice filling the small space. “Confined to my loom.”
Grateful for her long sleeves that hid the goosebumps prickling her skin as he sang, Saoirse began again with the pedals, then the shuttle. The pace of the song was slower than she expected but just right for setting a good rhythm in her movements. But they still felt stilted. Foreign. And as the loom got going in earnest, it drowned out his voice and she lost the flow.
“Ugh.” She groaned. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “It’s a lot to learn, and ye’re really doing grand.”
Saoirse scoffed.
“Tell me, what happened there?” He gestured to the loom.
She shrugged. “The volume of the heddles and beater drowned out your voice, and I lost the rhythm. I’m trying to remember the order of everything, and I just got mixed up.”
Owen nodded and shifted his feet. “Ya hafta remember, weaving is a highly internal process.”
He must’ve read the confusion on Saoirse’s face because he chuckled, and his eyes drifted toward the ceiling.
“How can I explain it?” he said, eyes still focused upward.
Saoirse kept her gaze fixed on his profile while she waited, not wanting to miss a stitch of his wisdom.
“Right,” he said at length. “Weavin’ is like a heartbeat. It’s a part of you. Your rhythm is gonna be different from mine. It comes from in here.” He tapped his chest. “Aye?”
Saoirse mulled over his words. It made sense ... mostly. “But how do I find it?”
He shrugged. “Ya just do it.”
Saoirse turned her palms up toward the ceiling and studied her hands. Could she really do this? Did she even have a rhythm inside her?
As if reading her thoughts, he tipped his head so she met his gaze. “Ye can do this.” He stepped behind her. “I’ll stand a little closer so you can hear me. But I’d wager before long, ye’ll have yer own way of gettin’ the beat.”
Sighing, Saoirse nodded. “Could I have a wee rest, first?” She rubbed her hands up and down her left leg. “I still don’t see how you can do this for hours on end.”
He flapped his hand. “Bah. It’s like anythin’ else in life. You work through the times when the task is difficult . . . when it feels impossible. And before you know it, you’re able to complete it without even thinking about it.” He stepped over so he was just barely behind her. “I’ll take over the pedal for a bit. How’s that?”
Saoirse blinked. “Is that possible?” Her question came out with a laugh.
Owen thought for a moment. “We’ll find out.” A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. “If ya need, just mime the movements with your foot so ya get used to the flow of it. It’s just for a few minutes to give ya a rest.”
He started in on the second verse and pressed the first pedal. “As Willie and Mary roved by yon shady bower ...” His left shoulder was pressed up against the back of her right one, and she could feel his voice reverberate through him as he sang.
She pulled the handle and threw the shuttle through. They repeated the pattern over and over. Forcing herself to ignore the feel of Owen’s side pressed against her and his leg brushing against hers as he moved from one pedal to another, she worked at finding the flow and making sure she didn’t mess anything up. She didn’t want Owen to have to cut the cloth free and start all over again. Eventually, Saoirse let her eyes drift closed as Owen’s singing and the beat of the loom lulled her into a trance of sorts. Before she knew it, they’d gone through four rounds of the full song without stopping.
Owen finished the last verse, slowed, and let the last note hang long in the air as they naturally found a stopping place together. They stood still, silence ringing in deafening clangs around them. Neither moved for a long moment, as though they’d break the spell that had fallen over them. Saoirse’s breathing was shallow, and she finally opened her eyes and let her gaze fall onto the loom. She gasped. “I did it!”
Owen’s chuckle thrummed against her shoulder. He stepped to the side of the loom for a closer look. Saoirse shivered at the sudden lack of warmth but couldn’t pull her eyes from the few inches of tweed she’d woven. Nae, they’d woven.
Owen bent until his nose almost touched the fabric. He studied the warp and weft for what felt like ages, then met her gaze again. The approval she found there warmed her to the core.
He opened his mouth as if to speak when Aileen’s voice shattered the air.
“Are ye two comin’ down for lunch or will ye just stand there starin’ at each other all day?”
Owen blinked. Saoirse wasn’t sure if she was grateful for or annoyed by the intrusion.
Aileen stood in the doorway. “C’mon, lovebirds, what’ll it be?”
Owen spun and shot a glare at his sister. What would possess her to say such a thing?
“We’ll be right there,” Owen said, rolling his eyes at her. He glanced at Saoirse, whose cheeks burned as she fiddled with a thread on her sleeve.
“Suit yerselves,” Aileen said, then turned on her heel and bounded away.
“Now, let’s see that weaver’s knot in action,” he said to Saoirse, pointing to the light lavender thread on the shuttle. “Can’t risk anything unraveling while we’re out.”
Saoirse deftly cut the thread and had secured it with the trademark knot in a flash. Owen nodded his approval. “ Iontach maith .”
She smiled. “I’ll see to the lanterns.”
****
Owen nodded and headed outside. Squinting against the midday light, he stretched, the cool air on his face a welcome change from the warmth of the shed ... and Saoirse. Stout sat a few yards away, his back to them, staring far into the distance. That dog would rather be out on the hills with the sheep more than anywhere else. Except maybe curled up on the hearth with a leftover stew bone.
“What’s he doing?”
Owen startled at Saoirse’s voice next to him. She chuckled but kept her eyes on Stout.
“He’s keepin’ watch on his flock.”
Saoirse pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard.”
They were quiet for a moment, both watching the dog. His pure white head stood atop his all-black body, in stark contrast. He was a good-looking beast.
“He’s a beautiful wee thing,” Saoirse said, as if reading Owen’s thoughts.
He nodded.
“I’ve never seen a collie like him.” She gestured toward Stout. “Without a lick of black on his head.”
Owen smiled. “That’s why he’s called Stout.”
Saoirse looked at him, brows knotted.
Owen turned her to fully face the dog. “What does he look like sittin’ there?”
“Mm ... a dog?”
Owen laughed. “Well, okay. Aye.” He nudged her elbow. “Hold yer hand up like ye were gonna grasp him around the middle—like ya would a glass.”
She did and craned her neck to look up at Owen with an expression full of confusion.
“Now, what’s he look like?”
Saoirse turned back to the dog, head bent to the side, and was still for a long moment. Standing behind her, Owen couldn’t see her face but could imagine her squinting in concentration. Suddenly, her head popped up, and she dropped her hand. “He looks just like a pint o’ stout!”
Laughter tumbled out of her mouth and echoed over the hills. Stout turned, tongue lolled happily to one side, and trotted over to them. “Well, aren’t you the clever one,” Saoirse said to the dog, scratching his ear.
“I’m the one who named him,” Owen said, mock hurt in his voice.
“Oi! Come eat, or else don’t blame me if it’s cold!” Aileen shouted from the bottom of the hill.
“Away home.” Stout took off like a shot, leaving Owen and Saoirse to trail behind him.