A Game of Sorrows by S. G. MacLean

wore a headdress of many folds of white linen, and her thin neck and bony wrists were bedecked in more chains of gold and beads of coloured glass than I thought seemly. But for all the strange clothing, the extra thirty years of life she had lived that had been denied her daughter, there could be no doubting that this was my grandmother. My throat was dry and I did not trust my tongue to move in my mouth.
    Sean did not go to her, but addressed her from where we stood. ‘And so, Maeve, I have done what you asked of me. I have brought Grainne’s son to you. And now I must go to my grandfather.’
    He made for the gallery steps but Maeve’s voice stopped him. ‘Sean! Stay a moment. There are things we must talk of first.’ There was nothing pleading or wheedling in her voice: it was a simple order from one who was accustomed to give them.
    ‘All that can wait. I must go to him.’ He had his foot on the stairs and had not even turned to look at her.
    ‘Sean,’ she said, more insistent this time. ‘Your grandfather does not know.’
    He stopped where he was and turned slowly to look at her.
    ‘He does not know?’ The colour was draining from his face.
     
    ‘Do not tell me I have travelled all these weeks, these hundreds of miles, dragged my cousin in the night practically from his own bed, and he does not know?’
     
    ‘Come and sit,’ she said. ‘Eat something.’
    ‘Eat?’ he asked, incredulous. ‘Woman, do I understand you right? That you have not yet told him, even now, that he has another grandson, that his daughter lived?’
    Her eyes were hard. ‘Do not think to judge me,’ she said. ‘I will not be judged. To have told your grandfather before you returned, before I could know that you were not both lying dead on the sea bed, would have been to kill him. And besides, the priest is with him. Sit and eat, calm yourself. And then you will come with me, and we will tell him.’
    Sean’s anger did not subside, but he did not argue with her further, and did as he was bid. She put her hand to his face a moment. ‘You have been away from us too long.’
    ‘Where is Deirdre?’ he asked.
    She let her hand drop. ‘She is where she has chosen to be. Kept like an English housewife in some hovel in Coleraine.’
    I could see by the widening of his nostrils that he was struggling to keep his temper. ‘And have you even told her?’
    ‘She will be told, when the time comes.’
    ‘She should have been here,’ he said, slamming down his hand.
    My grandmother’s face became as fixed as granite. ‘Time enough when he has gone: she would bring him no comfort, and I will not have her husband’s people under my roof a moment longer than I must.’
    And now, at last, she spoke to me. Her eyes, like green stone, had hardly left my face since we had entered the room. ‘Alexander Seaton.’ She nodded slowly. ‘This is why Grainne left; this is what was meant to be.’
    ‘I do not understand you.’
    She held out her hand towards me, beckoning. I walked towards her. She was not tall, but something in her presence gave an impression of stature. Beneath the white linen headdress some wisps of hair were visible at the sides and at her forehead – a dark slate-grey, no longer black, but far from the white of most women of her years.
    I came to a halt two paces from her – there was no intimation that I should approach any closer than that. She searched my face. Her mouth smiled though her eyes did not. ‘You are no Scot. Your mother ran as far as she could from her own people, but she could never have got far enough. She carried them in every part of her being and she gave birth to them in you. It was meant to be.’
    I looked to Sean for some explanation but he, ill at ease, said nothing.
    ‘Are you saying Andrew Seaton was not my father?’
    She shook her head impatiently. ‘Andrew Seaton was the name of the man she abandoned her home and name for, and he was your father, no doubt, for she fancied herself in