The chaos of the past few days had meant longer hours at the Yransea warehouse for Hudson. He and Rhys had agreed to set an extra watch on the warehouse after the day of the riots, despite that the madness had not yet reached Dockside. The increased salary for the guards was balanced when traders came in greater numbers to the island of calm and safety in the midst of the growing disturbances.
But the extra watch meant that either Hudson or Rhys had to be there for the shift changes, at least ? and Hudson was the younger man, more readily able to do without sleep. So longer hours followed, and to be honest those longer hours were a relief. The coming of the holidays was an oppressive weight in the back of his mind that work could distract him from.
It was the still quiet time just before dawn, and Hudson was standing at the water?s edge. The gentle slap of rolling waves against the shore could be heard but not yet seen as the sky only gradually took on light. His plaid was pulled up around his head and shoulders and his arms were crossed over his chest. Black eyes stared out to the sea and he watched immobile as the sun began to creep over the horizon, turning the water to crimson and slate.
The holidays. Hogmanay, and especially, most especially, Yule. Moira had always loved Yule, the decorating and the gifts and the old traditions carried on. Every year he had carved the Cailleach Nollaigh for her, the Christmas Old Wife, and they had watched the oak stump carved into the shape of an old woman burn away to ash. With a sharp pang, Hudson recalled that the Cailleach Nollaigh had failed to burn entirely away the previous year. He had laughed at the tradition, but Moira had taken the omen seriously, and feared.
He should not have laughed. Death had not passed by their house, and his golden Moira was gone. She had shone in the bonfire lights, the spun red-gold of her hair catching the firelight and adding life to her pale face. Her eyes, the same blue-green as the loch in the sunlight, would never smile at him again. Even in this new world, in a new house, in a bed that they had never shared, Hudson still turned in the night and reached for her ? only to wake with empty arms and grief a piercing pain.
The sun broke fully from its watery embrace, and turned the sky to blue and the sea to green and gold. The beginning rattle and clatter of wagons on the streets and shutters opening finally stirred Hudson from his spot by the edge of the water. He let the plaid slip from his head, and re-settled it over his shoulder with an easy drape. The waves were licking at his boots. About to step away, he paused when he felt something bump against his left foot.
A toy boat, small and crudely carved, had drifted up with the tide and now washed back and forth with the waves. Someone had painted it bright colors, once, but now the colors were peeling and faded with wind and salt water. Its miniature mast was broken and the sad remnants of a canvas sail flapped raggedly in the wind. After a moment Hudson bent to pick up the boat, and he carried it with him up to the Yransea warehouse.
They were both cast adrift.
But the extra watch meant that either Hudson or Rhys had to be there for the shift changes, at least ? and Hudson was the younger man, more readily able to do without sleep. So longer hours followed, and to be honest those longer hours were a relief. The coming of the holidays was an oppressive weight in the back of his mind that work could distract him from.
It was the still quiet time just before dawn, and Hudson was standing at the water?s edge. The gentle slap of rolling waves against the shore could be heard but not yet seen as the sky only gradually took on light. His plaid was pulled up around his head and shoulders and his arms were crossed over his chest. Black eyes stared out to the sea and he watched immobile as the sun began to creep over the horizon, turning the water to crimson and slate.
The holidays. Hogmanay, and especially, most especially, Yule. Moira had always loved Yule, the decorating and the gifts and the old traditions carried on. Every year he had carved the Cailleach Nollaigh for her, the Christmas Old Wife, and they had watched the oak stump carved into the shape of an old woman burn away to ash. With a sharp pang, Hudson recalled that the Cailleach Nollaigh had failed to burn entirely away the previous year. He had laughed at the tradition, but Moira had taken the omen seriously, and feared.
He should not have laughed. Death had not passed by their house, and his golden Moira was gone. She had shone in the bonfire lights, the spun red-gold of her hair catching the firelight and adding life to her pale face. Her eyes, the same blue-green as the loch in the sunlight, would never smile at him again. Even in this new world, in a new house, in a bed that they had never shared, Hudson still turned in the night and reached for her ? only to wake with empty arms and grief a piercing pain.
The sun broke fully from its watery embrace, and turned the sky to blue and the sea to green and gold. The beginning rattle and clatter of wagons on the streets and shutters opening finally stirred Hudson from his spot by the edge of the water. He let the plaid slip from his head, and re-settled it over his shoulder with an easy drape. The waves were licking at his boots. About to step away, he paused when he felt something bump against his left foot.
A toy boat, small and crudely carved, had drifted up with the tide and now washed back and forth with the waves. Someone had painted it bright colors, once, but now the colors were peeling and faded with wind and salt water. Its miniature mast was broken and the sad remnants of a canvas sail flapped raggedly in the wind. After a moment Hudson bent to pick up the boat, and he carried it with him up to the Yransea warehouse.
They were both cast adrift.