The Handfasting by Becca St. John Page B

and laughed. Maggie kicked him.
    “Oh,
Maggie,” he grumbled good naturedly, rubbed his shins to the raucous laughter
of the crowd. “Life never offers guarantees, but it can make promises. You’re a
healthy lass, a surprise blessing to a ma and da that had already born seven
sons. And should you bear me a daughter you’d not see more delight, for there’s
ne’er been a daughter in my line for three generations. Give me a son, or a
daughter, and fail that-- we’ll raise those of our clansmen, and teach them our
ways.”
    He
was more of an opponent than she’d ever faced before. She was fighting for all
she knew, all she wanted in life, and yet he could come in and take it all from
her with one fell swoop of words.
    She
admired him for it.
    She
hated him for it.
    She
willed the tears away, closed her eyes against them, as she fought for the only
argument he had yet to slaughter. “And you cannot wait, one season, for a
priest, a man of cloth, to bind us?”
    Talorc
looked to the ground, muttered to himself, then looked up straight into
Maggie’s eyes. He was well aware that he pressured her, she could see it, and
she knew that he knew, with time she could break this thing.
    If
he’d give her time.
    “Maggie,”
he sighed, and she knew a concession was coming, “in the tradition of old, in
the ways of the Highlanders, we will clasp hands, vow to each other. If you
canna’ make vows for life, then promise yourself for a year and a day. Handfast
me, Maggie.”
    Och, Dear Lord, God in Heaven, Help me. She cried
within, though no answering cry returned. Ian, if you’re there, help me, for no
one else will.
    Talorc
reached out, took her hands in his, “Handfast me.”
    Ian’s
voice failed to ring in her heart.
    “I
couldna’” she tried to pull away, “it wouldna’ be right.”
    “Why
wouldn’t it be right? We are Highlanders Maggie, this is our way. Are you so
different from the rest of us?”
    The
flutter of panic in that poor bird’s wings so long ago, was no match against
the flutter of Maggie’s heart. She was trapped. She could feel it and the panic
overwhelmed her.
    She
shoved the Bold straight aside, looked over at her parents, so she could
confront them, but her Da would not look at her. He looked to his plate in deep
contemplation. Her Ma, oh . . . Maggie’s shoulders slumped with what she saw
there. Her Ma’s heart was breaking. She had wanted Maggie to agree to the
wedding but if not, then even her Ma was willing to push her into a Handfast.
    A
union where, in a year and a day, the Bold could walk out just as easily as
Maggie herself could.
    “.
. . should you still not be certain of the match,” he continued,   “you can
walk away. No holds, no binds, you’re as free as that horse was, once I steered
him away from the fire.”
    “We
know nothing of each other but tales told by others.”
    “Maggie,
the Handfasting is for you, to give you the chance to walk away. ‘Tis not for
me. I’ve made that clear. But, I will also make it clear, should you give
yourself to me, between the end of the Handfasting and now, should you find
that there is no better for either of us, then the priest will bless the union,
whatever season he finds us.”
    “Aye,
Aye”, the men cheered, the women sighed and wept, caught in the thrill of a
courtship unfolding.
    “Ma?”
Maggie tried once more, but her mother only shook her head. It was Maggie’s
decision to make, and no other. In truth, she dinna’ have a choice.
    “I
will think on it.” She hedged.
    Talorc
shook his head. “No, Maggie, my people, our clan, they are waiting. They want
me to bring you back with me, to settle you in amongst us before the Feast.”
    “It
is not possible,” she countered “I have to be here for Fleadh nan Mairbh. I
promised Ian.”
    She’d
startled them all, judging by the mumbles and grumbles of the people.
    “Maggie,”
Talorc watched her closely, “you do not invite the dead to come near.”
    “He
was my