When the night was dark and the moon hovered over the flat Texas horizon like a giant white ball, Shamus MacNeil told his son of his homeland, where ancient ghosts still roamed the castles, where wee people hid inside bluebells or under stones, and where a great “beastie” lived in a loch of immense depth.
Young Fletcher had hung onto every fanciful word. He heard high tales of his two uncles who lived back in Castle Sheiling on the Isle of Hedabarr. Stories of their prowess with the bow and rifle made Fletcher practice his bow until he could do it with his eyes closed. Tales of their bountiful fishing made him cast his line for hours. All that Shamus MacNeil had done as a lad, he passed on to his son. To die and leave behind no remnant of Scotland would mean the MacNeils had no past.
Only when his father spoke of lineage and inheritance did Fletcher’s mind wander to subjects more interesting, like tracking a bear or watching an eagle soar overhead. At the tender age of nine, Fletcher’s world was Shamus. There was only the two of them.
Then his father remarried, and everything changed.
Fletcher, Maker of Arrows, pressed one knee into the grass beside his father’s grave and rested his forearm on the other. He had thought he would weep; he could not. His sorrow went deeper than tears.
Under this pile of loosely packed earth was Shamus MacNeil, the man he loved more than anyone else in his life. He had guarded that love possessively, even jealously.
Soft footsteps sounded behind him over the coarse, dry grass, stopping close by.
“He forgave you long ago.” The old man slowly lowered himself to the ground beside him.
Fletcher could hear the creaking of his grandfather’s ancient bones. “And now I will never forgive myself.”
The old man gazed up into the clouds. Fletcher studied his profile—hawk nose, sharp cheekbones, both of which Fletcher had been granted. He resembled his mother’s people more than the other siblings.
Grandfather spoke. “I was not happy when my daughter married a white man. It took me time to discover what Gentle Dove saw in him from the very beginning. Shamus MacNeil was a kind man, a gentle man who knew that although we were different from him, we were equal. He lived as we did, embracing our ways, but he never forgot where he came from.” Grandfather continued, his voice holding humorous warmth, “And he spoke unlike any white man I had ever known, his words sliding and gliding across my mind long after he had stopped talking.”
Fletcher remembered his father’s Scottish burr, the gentle humor he found in life, the kindness in his heart. All of the things Fletcher had abandoned when his own small, petty pride made him leave home so many years before.
“When your mother died, I was saddened. No father should outlive his children,” Grandfather was saying. “But when your father followed tradition and married my other daughter, I knew that he was a man who believed in the strength of family.”
Fletcher had received the news of his father’s and stepmother’s deaths only days before. Running Deer had been washing clothes at the river. Fletcher’s grandfather and Shamus went to check on her and had found her floating face down in the water. His father swam out to get her and after pulling her body ashore, his chest seized and he fell over dead.
“I was always unkind to Running Deer,” Fletcher admitted. He had been jealous when his brother and sister, Duncan and Kerry, were born and he had to share his father. But when Shamus rescued and adopted Gavin after a raid on his family’s ranch, Fletcher had felt completely abandoned. “I didn’t want to help care for them; I wanted to hunt and fish with my friends.” He had been so young and so selfish. “I wouldn’t do my chores; instead, I did what I pleased. When I returned, he would ignore me. That hurt more than anything, to be ignored by him.” Fletcher had overheard Running Deer defending his antics, explaining to his father that it was only his age that made him distant, surly, and unruly. Emotion made him disinterested in the stories his father now told his brothers and sister.
“You were young, and hurting.”
“That was no excuse for my behavior, Grandfather.”
“No, but it is the truth.”
Not long after his fifteenth birthday, Fletcher turned his back on his family and left. Until today, he had not returned. Foolish pride had prohibited it.
“What will you do now?” Grandfather asked, using Fletcher’s knee for support while he attempted to get to his feet.
Fletcher helped him up. He’d come to a decision, albeit grudgingly. “I will stay.”
Grandfather’s rheumy eyes were shrewd. “Is that what you want?”
Fletcher’s gaze slid away. “Of course it is.”
“You feel guilty, but that shouldn’t be your reason for staying. We will be fine. You have your job with the army. Go, my son.”
Fletcher’s relief could not dissuade his guilt, but he would have to live with that. He glanced at the house one more time. It looked solid, like it wasn’t in need of any repair, but it wasn’t home anymore. His brothers and sister played nearby. They hadn’t recognized him when he returned. At least they would remember him now and his job with the army would guarantee they would have food and shelter. They didn’t need him to stay, either.
“I will send you my army pay.” Fletcher pulled out his buckskin money sack and handed it to his grandfather. “This should help you for a while. I’ll send more.”
Early the next morning, Fletcher waved goodbye to his family and rode away.