Ayrshire Survival
A new scene for you showing both Lucky Loki and Wise Loki.
Tissue warning. Have them ready…
Loki woke up with a sneeze, hitting his head on the top of the weathered crate. Hell, but it had rained half the night and he was soaked. He needed a tarp to cover the crate, though he would soon outgrow the meager shelter. He had to find something to keep him dry overnight through the damp spring.
He blew his nose on his hand and wiped it off on a nearby stone, hating his life. At times like these, he would spend half the day trying to recall anything about his parents.
Why had they given him away?
Had he done something to make them hate him?
Father Adair had told him some families had too many children to feed so they gave their bairns away or even sold them.
Was he just pushed out the door, or had they traded him for something?
But the priest had also reminded him that his parents could have simply passed on from illness.
Every night when he went to bed, he said a wee prayer for God to let him dream something about his parents or his family.
He had to know. It was an ache deep inside him that would not be eased. That hollow place in his chest was worse than the emptiness of his belly.
After taking care of his few belongings—the pot, his extra tunic and trews that were too small but he kept anyway, and the few linen squares he’d stolen to wash his face and hands when they were covered with dirt—he got to his feet and stretched.
He leaned against the tree he kept his crate under for extra shelter from both the elements and some of the unsavory characters in the area.
Sadly, his belly no longer grumbled. It was too used to being empty.
It hadn’t been a good week. He’d had little too eat, hadn’t been able to find any coin, and Father Adair, his only friend, had gone on a journey of some sort. He could usually count on obtaining an apple from the priest, but not this day.
He groaned and pushed off from the tree, the rain letting up enough for him to head to town. This day he had purpose.
He would search for a tarp or length of thick canvas to keep his sad home dry.
And a piece of bread.
Mayhap he’d beg a stale loaf from the local bakery, though they usually only threw crumbs at him to make him leave. One baker was kind and would feed him a hardened crust on occasion, but only what they couldn’t sell.
Selfish pignuts.
As he entered the center of town, his gaze searched the area to make sure the evil bastards who liked to tease him were not about. He stopped when he caught sight of something more important.
Behind one of the market stalls, a large piece of tarp had been set across a row of bushes to dry now that the rain had ended.
Loki needed that tarp. He took a few steps toward the stall, but the owner appeared so he walked away, vowing to keep checking on the prized fabric.
He trudged down the way and into the center of the burgh where more market stalls began to open up.
He could feel a rumbling against his foot through the hole in his boot as he walked; soon a sound rose up to match the vibrations.
It sounded like thunder, and he could see everyone else around the market felt the same.
They all wandered about looking puzzled until the source of the din appeared.
If it were a usual day, the cloud of dust would have been visible first.
But this was not a usual day in the burgh of Ayr.
A group of riders on the biggest horses Loki had ever seen raced down the main road toward the castle.
He gaped at the spectacle of warriors dressed in red and green plaids galloping through Ayr.
Each man had a massive sword strapped to his saddle or his back, sheaths and hilts gleaming in the sun just breaking through the clouds. He ran over to get a closer look.
Who were they?
He listened as two vendors began to discuss the sight.
“King Alexander said a couple of the clans from the deep Highlands would be coming to his aid. Haakon said he’s attacking with a fleet of galley ships.”
“How many ships?”
“I heard two score.”
Another man called out. “I heard four score. That’s why the savage Highlanders are here. Let’s hope they protect us.”
The man closest to him said, “Those warriors are from Clan Grant. Everyone knows the red plaids. They’re the strongest clan in all the Highlands. I’m glad they’re here.”
Loki took three steps closer until he could look the warriors in the eye.
That was what he wanted—to be so bold and brave and to have a whole clan around him.
What would it take to be a Grant warrior?
He wished to be on one of those giant destriers, riding a majestic beast for all to see, his arms the size of tree trunks.
One warrior smiled at him and tossed him something.
He caught it, surprised to see it was an oatcake.
He was so hungry that he nearly swallowed it whole before he recalled his manners, choked the food down, and called out, “My thanks to ye.”
There were more horses than he’d ever seen. Once they were gone, he moved closer to the three men chatting.
“How far did they come?” He had to know, because that was his new goal in life, to make his way to Grant land to become a warrior.
A savage Highlander.
“Half a day’s fast ride, at least. Probable nearly a day, lad. You cannot walk there. You’d never make it through the mountains.”
“Are the mountains big?”
“They’re a sight to see, for certe. I hope you get to see it someday.”
Loki nodded and moved on, knowing the merchant would only laugh if Loki told him how determined he was to get there. He made his way over toward the stall where he’d seen the tarp, disappointed to see it was gone.
A few moments later, he heard something stirring behind him and whirled around to face the same canvas being tossed over his head.
Someone shoved him, tripping him into the material, and they wrapped him in the smelly wet fabric and tossed him into the air a few times, then tossed him into a tree trunk.
Loki’s neck snapped back, slamming his head into the solid wood.
Stunned, he didn’t move after he landed, but his laughing tormenters unwrapped him, whipping the canvas away.
“You should pay attention, Loki.”
“Bugger off, ye surly arsewipes.”
“Arsewipe, am I?” The tallest one reached over and swung his arm out, catching the side of Loki’s head and snapping it sideways. “I’d keep your words inside or I’ll beat them back into you, wise arse.”
The second one guffawed. “Aye, fool. We saw ye drooling after those warriors like you thought you might have a prayer of joining them. Do you think the Grants would ever accept you?”
“They’d never let you step inside their curtain wall, you’re so dirty.”
“You stink, you’re dirty, and you’re naught but a useless bag of bones.”
“And you’re ugly too.”
The three boys, a few years older than him and much bigger, strode away laughing.
Someday he’d show them. Loki swore it on his mother’s unknown name.
The Parapets, many years later.
Castle Curanta, winter, 1319
Loki Grant sat on a stool on the parapets. While the biting wind made his eyes water, the glistening there was from more than the wind. His face fell into his hands and he set his elbows on his knees and allowed the tears to fall freely.
The door opened and one of his cherished grandsons, Ketill, stuck his head around the corner. “Grandda, Da is looking for you.”
Loki lifted his head and let out a long breath between his pursed lips. “Tell your da I’ll be down in a bit.”
“’Tis cold up here, Grandda.”
“It is, but I’m fine.” He turned to gaze at the young lad of seven years, about the age he’d been when Brodie Grant had found him hiding behind a tree in Ayr.
“Grandda, are you crying? Why?” Ketill moved over and set his hands on his grandsire’s knee and leaned in closer to take a good look at the tears dampening his cheeks.
“’Tis from the wind, Ketill.”
Ketill studied him a wee bit longer, then said, “Nay, I think they’re true tears. Is it because of Great-Grandda Brodie?”
Loki wasn’t about to lie to the lad. He knew the truth of all that had happened. The messenger had arrived two nights ago to tell them that his father, Brodie Grant, had passed away in his sleep at Muir Castle, leaving his dear mother, Celestina, heartbroken.
He nodded and said, “Aye. I miss him already.”
Ketill, sticking to the important facts of life as he knew them, said, “He was nearly ninety winters old. Do you not think that is old? He’s the only one that old, is he not?”
“Aye. Uncle Robbie and Aunt Caralyn, Uncle Alex and Aunt Maddie have all passed on. Aunt Brenna is a few years younger. Aunt Jennie is much younger. She’s still in her seventh decade.
And then there’s Uncle Logan.” He had to think about that one for a bit.
How old was the old warrior? He had to be close to ninety.
“How old is he?”
“I don’t think anyone truly knows.”
Ketill looked over his shoulder and whispered, “I dinnae think Uncle Logan will ever die. Do you?”
Loki chuckled and said, “Someday he will.” He reached for the lad and settled him on his lap, hoping to warm him, but these days, the young ones warmed him.
Ketill scowled and stared at him. “So why do you cry so?”
“Lad, my memories are haunting me. The mind does odd things sometimes.”
Ketill stared up at his beloved grandsire. “Good memories or bad ones?”
Loki chuckled, the child wiser than he ever was. “Both.”
The lad scrunched his face up the way he did when he had to think hard. “From the time you lived in the crate? How did you live in a crate? I would not know how to do that. It would be cold, would it not?”
“Cold and hard and hungry. That’s what it’s like living in a crate. Do you have time for a wee tale or two, lad?”
Ketill nodded, grabbing the fur across Loki’s lap and moving it over his legs, snuggling underneath. “I love your tales, Grandda. Especially the ones about the battles.”