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brief acquaintance, I felt some innate kinship with Torf-Einar. For all his profligate ways, he was still part of the clan, and we did for him what we would do for any family member.
    We sang a Psalm while the monks undertook to shovel the dirt into the grave. The deep hole filled up quickly, and a single flat stone with his name scratched onto it was raised upon the mounded earth, whereupon we went back to the hall to drink and eat a meal in Torf’s memory. As we reached the hall, I glanced up and saw two stars shining over the steep thatched roof—one for Torf, and one for Skuli, I decided. In the same instant, the monks began singing again, and it seemed to me that the stars shined more brightly. “Farewell, Torf,” I murmured to myself. “May it go well with you on your journey hence.”
    We feasted in Torf-Einar’s memory that night and, after the ale had made several rounds, Murdo rose to his feet and spoke briefly of his brother. He talked about their life together growing up in Orkneyjar, and his father’s love and admiration for his first-born son. I could not help noticing, however, that he breathed not a word of their sojourn in the Holy Land. By that I knew the old wound had been reopened in my father’s heart.
    That night, Rhona and I clung to one another in our bed, exulting in our loving, and celebrating the life running strong in us.
    Next day, the mundane chores of the settlement resumed. The awaited ship arrived with its cargo of cut stone, and we began the sweaty task of unloading the ship and draggingthe heavy blocks up to the site of the new church. Murdo put as many men to the chore as could be spared from other duties, but it was hard labor still. By day’s end we were well exhausted each and every one, and Torf’s death and funeral were of no more account than the ripple of a pebble tossed into the sea.
    As the weeks passed, however, I found myself thinking about some small thing or other Torf had told me about the Holy Land. Once, I asked Murdo for farther explanation, but he just told me that whatever Torf had said was best forgotten. “The ramblings of a sick man,” he declared flatly. “He is dead and that is that. I will not speak of it again.”
    Of course, this only served to increase my appetite the more. All through the rest of the summer and the harvest season, I fairly itched for some word of the Great Pilgrimage and its many battles, but little enough came my way. No one on the estate or any of the other settlements had taken the cross, or made the journey—save Abbot Emlyn and Murdo. When I asked the good abbot what happened in the Holy Land to make my father so close-mouthed on the subject, he replied, “One day, perhaps, he will feel like talking about it. No doubt it is for the best.”
    Toward the end of harvest that year, Rhona told me that our child-making efforts had borne fruit also: we were to have a baby in the spring. I remember, Cait, looking at you when my lovely lady wife told me the glad news. You were sitting by the hearth stirring a bowl of water with a wooden spoon which your mother had given you so you could cook with her.
    â€œDid you hear, little one?” I shouted. “You are to have a brother!”
    Oh, I was so certain the child would be a boy, and I would have a son at last. We dreamed this happy dream all through the long, cold winter. As Rhona’s belly swelled, she often remarked she had never carried a child so large and heavy—a sure sign that a man-child would be born in the spring.
    At winter’s end, we awaited the appointed time eagerly. One morning, we awakened to the sound of the snow melting from the roof into puddles below the deep, overhangingeaves. I felt Rhona stir beside me and turned to find her watching me. “Did you sleep well, my heart?” I asked.
    â€œHow am I to sleep?” she replied. “This son of yours gives me no rest at all. He kicks and