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The lament of the widows echoed around the hills, an eerie backdrop to Maggie’s journey to the kirk. She was late, deliberately—she’d wanted to avoid the mingling and small-talk—but now her cheeks burned as she realised every eye would be on her.
She slipped between the heavy oak doors, weaving her way through the bystanders to see the row of men laid out before the altar. Abigail kneeled at the front, her children clinging to their grandmother’s skirt. Beside Abigail were eleven other women, the wives of the others lost. At the end of the row was an empty shroud, for Hamish.
Maggie felt a gentle push from behind and turned to see Eilidh standing there.
‘Off ye go, lass. Grieve your man, so he can move on to the next realm.’
Maggie stumbled forward, kneeling beside the keening-woman. She closed her eyes, picturing Hamish’s smile, the laughter in his blue eyes. Beside her the keening-woman started again, a cry emerging from somewhere deep in her chest, a visceral sound that pulled at the emotion in Maggie, tugging it out of the place she’d squashed it into when she saw how strong Abigail was.
Maggie didn’t want to let go, reliving the shame she’d felt when she realised everyone else could hold their emotions better than she. But the keening-woman’s skill didn’t allow for any holding, and soon tears drenched Maggie’s cheeks and chin as the loss of her dear Hamish bubbled up from inside. As the wails of the other women rose around her, Maggie began to rock back and forwards, her tears turning into howls as she pulled at her hair and scratched at her face. Hamish was gone, not even his body remained, and now there was nothing and no one to say goodbye to.