It was in the mornings that Hudson truly missed Scotland. The cold grey light before the dawn almost invariably found him by the water, his black eyes fixed on the point where the sun would creep, blood-red, above the horizon. With the small fishing dory he had been renting put up for the season, there was no real reason to wake so early, but still he would rise in the darkness and walk down to the shore.
The crash and pull of waves against the shore weren't as soothing as the utter stillness of the loch in those moments before dawn. It had its own peace, though, and in this place of turmoil, Hudson used the sea to anchor himself. Inevitably the quiet was broken with first the creak of wood and rope and then with the shouts of the crews of larger fishing vessels coming in to the dock.
Rising so early had another advantage, and with the dory beached he had turned to dock-work to keep himself fed. Aiding in unloading the catch generally brought in a few small coins, enough to keep himself fed, if not luxuriously. Transporting the fish from dock to Market covered the rent, and in the Market he could generally haul boxes and crates for a few more small coins. Those last he set aside, a slowly growing savings for the spring and a small sea skiff of his own.
By early afternoon each day, Hudson was generally prowling the confusing maze of streets. His search for a more permanent place to stay had so far been fruitless. The places he could afford were in areas dangerous or decrepit or both. The places he would have stayed were beyond his means. His room at the Red Dragon began to acquire slightly more personal touches " a piece of sea-glass, violet with an odd copper sheen, worn smooth by the tumble of sand and waves. A knotted piece of hemp rope and a section of fishing net half-mended draped across the dresser.
And so at the middle of a day when the sun had never broken through the clouds and drizzling rain, when the steel-gray light of pre-dawn was all the light there was - Hudson was in the Market. His black eyes widened and reflected the blood-red sunrise that flared from a distance of perhaps fifty yards away even as the noise and blast hit. He staggered back and threw up one arm over his eyes as debris tore and pelted past. There was an instant of stunned silence with the explosion still ringing and echoing through the square; then the screams began.
More than one person was caught beneath rickety stalls that had collapsed with the shockwave. More than one family was torn apart, women and children thrown like rag-dolls. Hudson didn't notice the lacerations on his arms, the long wood fragment in his calf. He threw himself forward, into the aftermath of the devastating strike. His ability to care for wounds little more than rudimentary, instead he turned to lifting rubble, freeing those trapped where he could.
"Bi Bride bhithe bhana leinn, bi Moire mhine mhathar, leinn. Bi Righ nan righ, 's bi Iosa Criosd 's bith Spiorad sith, nan grasa leinn." The prayer tumbled out under his breath as he strained to lift fallen timbers. To support them while others pulled free the living, the dead, the wounded. Far too many wounded. Hudson's strength was not that of bulk and muscle, but of endurance. He worked until the sun sank behind the clouds and the cold, steel-gray light faded utterly. Until his strength ran out, and he limped back to the Inn by night.
Blood-red sunrise and cold gray pre-dawn light. The dawn would find Hudson standing by the sea once more. "Comhnuich mi le comhnadh Chriosd.?
((Note: The first prayer translates roughly as, "The calm fair Bride be with us, the gentle Mary mother be with us. The King of kings and Jesus Christ, and the Spirit of peace, and of grace be with us." The second more simply as, "Save me with the saving of Christ."))
The crash and pull of waves against the shore weren't as soothing as the utter stillness of the loch in those moments before dawn. It had its own peace, though, and in this place of turmoil, Hudson used the sea to anchor himself. Inevitably the quiet was broken with first the creak of wood and rope and then with the shouts of the crews of larger fishing vessels coming in to the dock.
Rising so early had another advantage, and with the dory beached he had turned to dock-work to keep himself fed. Aiding in unloading the catch generally brought in a few small coins, enough to keep himself fed, if not luxuriously. Transporting the fish from dock to Market covered the rent, and in the Market he could generally haul boxes and crates for a few more small coins. Those last he set aside, a slowly growing savings for the spring and a small sea skiff of his own.
By early afternoon each day, Hudson was generally prowling the confusing maze of streets. His search for a more permanent place to stay had so far been fruitless. The places he could afford were in areas dangerous or decrepit or both. The places he would have stayed were beyond his means. His room at the Red Dragon began to acquire slightly more personal touches " a piece of sea-glass, violet with an odd copper sheen, worn smooth by the tumble of sand and waves. A knotted piece of hemp rope and a section of fishing net half-mended draped across the dresser.
And so at the middle of a day when the sun had never broken through the clouds and drizzling rain, when the steel-gray light of pre-dawn was all the light there was - Hudson was in the Market. His black eyes widened and reflected the blood-red sunrise that flared from a distance of perhaps fifty yards away even as the noise and blast hit. He staggered back and threw up one arm over his eyes as debris tore and pelted past. There was an instant of stunned silence with the explosion still ringing and echoing through the square; then the screams began.
More than one person was caught beneath rickety stalls that had collapsed with the shockwave. More than one family was torn apart, women and children thrown like rag-dolls. Hudson didn't notice the lacerations on his arms, the long wood fragment in his calf. He threw himself forward, into the aftermath of the devastating strike. His ability to care for wounds little more than rudimentary, instead he turned to lifting rubble, freeing those trapped where he could.
"Bi Bride bhithe bhana leinn, bi Moire mhine mhathar, leinn. Bi Righ nan righ, 's bi Iosa Criosd 's bith Spiorad sith, nan grasa leinn." The prayer tumbled out under his breath as he strained to lift fallen timbers. To support them while others pulled free the living, the dead, the wounded. Far too many wounded. Hudson's strength was not that of bulk and muscle, but of endurance. He worked until the sun sank behind the clouds and the cold, steel-gray light faded utterly. Until his strength ran out, and he limped back to the Inn by night.
Blood-red sunrise and cold gray pre-dawn light. The dawn would find Hudson standing by the sea once more. "Comhnuich mi le comhnadh Chriosd.?
((Note: The first prayer translates roughly as, "The calm fair Bride be with us, the gentle Mary mother be with us. The King of kings and Jesus Christ, and the Spirit of peace, and of grace be with us." The second more simply as, "Save me with the saving of Christ."))