Thistle and Thyme by Sorche Nic Leodhas Page B

door and stood aside to let him go in. When he had gone in, she shut the door and left him standing in the room on one side of the door and herself outside on the other. But not a word did she say the while.
    The soldier looked about the room, and saw at the far side a man who was taking a web of cloth from the loom.
    â€œIs it yourself that’s the weaver?” asked the soldier.
    â€œWho else would I be?” asked the man, starting to fold the cloth.
    â€œThen I’ve come to ask about your daughter.”
    The man laid the cloth by, and came over to the soldier. “What would you be asking then?” he asked.
    â€œâ€™Tis this,” the soldier said, coming to the point at once. “I like the looks of your lass and if you’ve naught to say against it, I’d like to wed with her.”
    The weaver looked at the soldier, but said nothing at all.
    â€œYou need not fear I could not fend for her,” the soldier said. “She’d want for naught. I have a good wee croft waiting for me at home and a flock of sheep and some bits of gear of my own. None so great, of course, but it would do fine for the lass and me, if she’d have me.”
    â€œSit ye down,” said the weaver.
    So the two of them sat down at either side of the fire.
    â€œI doubt ye’ll be at the inn?” the weaver asked.
    â€œWhere else would one from a far place stay?” asked the soldier.
    â€œOch, aye. Well, happen the folks at the inn were telling you about my lass?”
    â€œWhat could they say that I could not see for myself?” the soldier said. “Except that she doesn’t talk o’ermuch. They told me that.”
    â€œO’ermuch!” exclaimed the weaver. “She doesn’t talk at all!”
    â€œNot at all?” the soldier asked.
    â€œOch, I’ll tell you about it,” said the weaver. “She went out to walk in the gloaming a year or two ago, and since she came home that night, not a word has come from her lips. Nobody can say why, but folks all say she’s bewitched.”
    â€œTalk or no,” said the soldier, “I’ll have her if she’ll take me.” So they asked her and she took him.
    Then they were married, and the soldier took the lass away with him to his own croft.
    They settled in, she to keep the house and look after the hens and do the cooking and baking and spinning, and he to tend his sheep and keep the place outside up good and proper.
    The lass and he were well pleased with each other and all went well for a while. Though she did not talk, she was good at listening and it took a time for the soldier to tell her all about himself. Then she had a light hand with the baking and a quick hand at the spinning, and she kept the house tidy and shining clean. And she had a ready smile that was sweet as a song. The soldier was off and away most of the day, tending his sheep or mending his walls or working about the croft. When he came home to the lass, the smile and the kiss he got from her were as good as words.
    But when the year turned toward its end, and the days grew short and the nights long and dark, the sheep were penned in the fold and the soldier was penned in the house because of the winter weather outside. Then ’twas another story. The house was that quiet you’d be thinking you were alone in it. The soldier stopped talking, for the sound of his own voice going on and on all by itself fair gave him the creeps.
    She was still his own dear lass and he loved her dearly, but there were times he felt he had to get out of the house and away from all that silence.
    So he took to going out at night just to hear the wind blowing and the dead leaves rustling and a branch cracking in the frost or maybe a tyke barking at some croft over the hill. It was noisy outside compared to the way it was in the house.
    One night he said to the lass, “The moonlight’s bright this night. I’ll be going down the