Flann comes into the valley

“You’ve been crying,” Flann whispered. The day was gloomy, and Osh stood out of the halo of the candles, but she could see that much.

His worried, uncertain face was brightened by a smile that was no longer so very funny without the funny mustache above it.

“Is that the first thing you notice?” he teased.

“Aye,” she said gravely.

The eyes above the smile began to look as if they might cry again. She hurried to produce a joke.

“Ach! But is it you, Osh?” she gasped.

Then he laughed.

“May I come in?” she asked. “It’s ill luck to be speaking through a doorway when one is neither arriving nor departing.”

“It is?”

“It means one will soon be either arriving or departing.”

He immediately stepped aside.

“Cat told me,” she said simply.

“Paul already apologized.”

“His tail between his legs, I hope! I suppose it’s an earful or two he had from the sister of me.”

Osh tossed his head dismissively, but his eyes had begun to sparkle with the light of all the candles in the room.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “To be the cause…”

“You are not the cause. Do not be sorry unless you are sorry to see my loneliness go.”

“Or your beard,” she smiled and stroked his cheek.

“Oh!” He blushed. “Today I do not scrache you, but tomorrow I think I am dangerous if I do not shave.”

“Won’t you?” she whispered.

She knew that Lasrua had threatened not to kiss him until he had grown a beard again. She also knew that he must have shaved it off for a reason—and not merely to avoid scracheing her.

Flann believed she understood. She herself was possessed with the desire to dig the lock of Brude’s hair out of the depths of her trunk and burn it. If she did not, she thought it was merely because she did not want to deprive Liadan of that one artifact of her father.

Liadan would want to know about Brude, and Paul and Lasrua did not want to let go of their mother. But there was no looking back for Flann or for Osh.

“I shall shave if you like,” he said hesitantly.

“I hope you will.”

“Then I shall.”

They both smiled in relief.

“And if I change my mind…” she blurted.

“You know what you must do,” he concluded.

“We…”

“Must do…”

They stared at one another with wide eyes, like frightened children who had stumbled upon a dilemma bigger than the both of them. Then Flann turned away, her nose high and her step light, as if nothing whatsoever was the matter.

Osh had not invited her into his room since he had taken it weeks before. She had an excuse to look away and study the shadowy mountains and lakes he had painted on the walls, for she had not seen them since he had sketched in the silhouettes of the first hills.

“We shall say it’s coming into your valley I am,” she announced.

“What?” he asked weakly.

“When we talked through the door. It didn’t mean one of us was about to depart, but that I was about to come into your valley. And I see it looks suspiciously like mine, Osh,” she added with a wink.

“That is because they are neighbors,” he explained. “Your valley is behind these hills over here.” He waved at the wall behind his bed.

Flann saw that he was speaking the literal truth. She also realized for the first time how close together they had been sleeping for the past weeks. He could surely hear her crying behind the wall if he could hear Liadan snuffling herself awake from all the way downstairs.

Proud Flann was outraged, but Lonely Flann was grateful. Neither Flann could have borne his eyes just then, however, so she glanced over the walls in search of something on which her own might safely rest.

“What is this?” she cried.

“What is what?”

She tried to squeeze behind a heavy chair for a closer look, until he picked it up and set it aside.

“Do you see an enemy coming down into my valley?” he asked.

“What is this? I think I am not the one who dreams of hills, a lake, and a little lonely house,” she scolded.

“Oh…” He laughed sheepishly.

Flann had always been too intimidated by the beauty of his paintings to touch them, but since he had told her they were full of secret messages for himself, she had noticed how often he ran his own fingertips lightly over a bird or a leaf. Now she could not resist tracing a hesitant finger along the eaves.

She was almost surprised that it told her nothing more than what she could see, as his paintings often surprised her with their deceptive subtlety. With a few flicks of his brush he could paint every leaf on a tree or every blade of grass in a yard. A few strokes could define the densely feathered wing of a bird, and a sheen of blue-​white in its eye was the reflection of an entire sky. One was always tempted to look closer, convinced of details that weren’t there.

Flann caught herself attempting to determine whether the lonely little figure in front of the house had pointed ears, when his head was scarcely more than a wash of gray and the face was picked out with a few lines.

“Who is this brave wee creature here?” she asked slyly. “He looks like he just stepped out of his front door and is surveying his little kingdom with some satisfaction.”

“Or perhaps he is wondering to where his dog ran away again,” he suggested.

Flann laughed. “You don’t have a dog, Osh.”

“Ah! You think this little person is Osh?”

“I don’t know, but you’ve painted him on the wall across from your bed. When you wake, he’s the first thing you’re seeing.”

His long arm reached past her to cover the dim face with his finger. “You are a too clever young lady,” he chuckled.

“Who’s inside the house?”

“Ah! Not so clever as I think. Do you suppose I paint first the inside of the house, and paint then the outside around it?”

“No…” she giggled. She touched the front door, which the little man had carefully closed behind him. “But you were thinking about something when you were painting it.”

“When I painted this house…” He reached around her with the other arm to stroke the door after her. “I was thinking: it is important to be silent so to not wake the pretty ladies who are sleeping.”

“Is that advice for yourself or for that little man?” she laughed. “Were the pretty ladies in the next room or in the little house?”

“The advice is for me, wherever pretty ladies like to lay their pretty heads.”

“And how am I supposed to know where that is?”

“You are a pretty lady.”

“Hmm…” she frowned. “Is Liadan a pretty lady too?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Ach! It’s a relief to me! I am never at peace wherever I am laying my head. Perhaps I shall try Liadan’s favorite place.”

He opened his mouth—perhaps to joke, perhaps only to ask her where it was. But Flann had already pulled him close and laid her head on his shoulder, and he remained silent, as he had advised.