The sun was sinking red as the horse pulled the wagon alongside the singing river. A trout jumped and the splashing waters sparkled like wine as the river wound along its ancient path to the salt sea. The fragrant air came to us softly from the fresh-cut fields and the wooded hills rose gently from the fertile valley. The black reins came back to my hands and the thick leather felt good.

        “Play us a tune,” demanded the horse boss, his strong hands cradling a glass of black rum. The drink swirled in his glass, as the wagon rocked and creaked like a lobster boat on a gentle sea. Mary got out her fiddle, pulled back her fair hair over her shoulder, and tucked it under her chin. The old tune came from her heart, through the strings, and into our hearts. Duke’s tail swayed rhythmically to the pure strains as we followed the flanks of the noble rushing river. Deep scarlet was the sunset and our spirits rose with the music.

        Duke’s head suddenly jerked up and his white blaze pointed across the river. There in the verdant pasture, a herd of cattle had stopped grazing. Water dripped from the chin of the big bull, who had been drinking from the life-giving river. Broad were their brows and deep were their chests, and with their graceful eyes, they curiously watched us, for, in this day and age, a horse and wagon is a sight not often seen. Some of the calves went back to their mothers’ teats and their mouths were white with the rich, creamy milk. 

      But before this soil grew grass, it grew tall majestic trees. It was these dark forests that the Gaels met if they survived the long rough ocean crossing on boats with no engines. Into these foreign forests, they disappeared with a few iron tools and their dreams. Man, woman, and child battled for their survival, together hewing, hacking and burning a small clearing in the deep forest. Food, shelter and warmth had to be gleaned from the forest, and they drank from the river.

       Their hearts thumped and their blood pumped and the sweat flowed from their brows, soaking dark the earth beneath their shadows. They had but a few short months before the north winds drove the snow sideways and shrieked through the trees like some ungodly beast. The work was unbelievably brutal, but, when the sun went down and they washed the soot, dirt, blood and sweat from their fly-bitten bodies, they looked back on their day’s work with fierce pride.

       As the smoke rose from the black, smoldering piles of brush, a clear flame was kindled in their hearts. That flame was the flame of freedom. They were free—free from the tyranny of the landlords who had bled them dry and sucked the marrow from their bones; free from the taxes and brutality that drove them into dark poverty and made their stomachs hollow and blackened their hearts.

       Proud in the old country, but powerless against the tide that had turned, these strong-willed Gaels had left their ancestral lands with grief for unknown shores. The huge challenges of survival slowly shrank the grief and gradually it turned into joy as the blossoms of liberty unfurled under the pure skies. Day followed night, and the strong sun shone down, and the green grass grew tall between the charred stumps next to the clear and cleansing river.

       Now it was dark and the first stars came out. On the silky air, we could hear a deep and rhythmic pounding. Slowly the valley broadened and we came to a wide intervale cradled by the gentle old hills. On those hills were a few farms that looked down on the buildings below. The sound of fiddles filled the vale and the deep pagan pounding came from the hall.

        We passed the new church, rebuilt after the old one was torched by a spurned lover gone mad. The young man went on a fiery rampage through the valley setting churches and barns ablaze. In the chaos, black pillars of smoke rose into the night sky. We passed the graveyard, where many bones lay under stones that were carved deep with the names of ancient clans. Many salt tears had been shed into the dark earth alongside the river.

        Past the proud stones, we approached the hall, which was bursting with music and light. From the windows spilled yellow light and the curtains were cinched at the waist and looked like summer dresses. Through the open windows, against the tartans on the wall, the smiling dancers bobbed and weaved in nimble mirth. The fiddle soared and, as everyone’s feet hit the floor as one, the walls shook. 

        “Whooaa,” I spoke gently to Duke. We stopped at the front of the hall, where there were two older men. One was dabbing his sweating forehead with a white handkerchief and the other was smoking a pipe. As my friends jumped off the wagon, the old boys knowingly inspected the horse, harness and wagon.

       “How is the new knee?” I asked Maclean of the Lake. 

       “Gooood. Goood,” he said, stretching out his vowels and his legs at the same time. “It hasn’t gave out yet.” He laughed and his eyes twinkled.

       I drove Duke around to the back of the hall and tied him loosely to the apple tree and gave him his oats. I shared a cold beer with my friend, a MacLellan, who lives up on the hill with his young family. Most all of his ancestors are buried next to the hall and he told me enthusiastically, “I already have my plot picked out and it’s a beauty!” We laughed as the horse deeply munched his oats.

       Duke and I left the music-filled hall by the back path. The moon rose over the hills and its pale light spilled across the valley. Enlivened by his oats, Duke was champing at the bit, raring to go, as a horse always steps higher on the road home. I spoke to him and, as he powered into the collar, the traces strained and the wagon leaped forward. Down the road, we thundered towards the graveyard, the horse’s feet pounding his own shadow into the dirt. The dust billowed up behind us. 

         Over the graveyard, fireflies were courting and they blinked and twirled above the stones. Up they whirled in the gentle air, up they twinkled to the stars. It seemed the spirits of those deep in the rich earth were alive and danced again with fire against the night sky.

        On we charged. Duke’s mane streamed back and his powerful haunches pumped and rippled under the moonlight. Up ahead the road was shadowed dark under the overarching trees. I eased Duke back to a trot, then a walk. “Good boy,” I softly told him, as my heart calmed. He snorted with pleasure and tossed his worthy head with a flourish. 

        Before us lay a wooden bridge. Duke stepped onto it and his hooves made a deep and pleasant sound. “Whooa,” I whispered and we came to a stop in the middle of the bridge. A cold clear brook tumbled down the wet rocks from up high. The air was luscious and cool and we breathed it deep into our lungs. I tied the reins to the bridge railing and went down to the brook with the water bucket. As the pure water filled the bucket, my spirit near overflowed. I hauled the water up to Duke, who stood proudly on the bridge. As I lifted up the bucket, he lowered his noble head and drank deep the water with great long draughts. I leaned my head squarely against his white blaze. My breathing slowed and I closed my eyes. The strong beat of my heart deepened and pulsed to the rhythm of the horse’s great draughts. As the horse drank, a salty tear rolled down my cheek and fell, sparkling, into the sweet life-giving water.

         Under us, the brook rushed down into the swirling breast of the trembling river and their melodies melted into one song. Together they flowed with one gracious will to the sea. Gliding under the moonlight, past the graveyard with the whirling fireflies, past the bright hall alive with dancing and music, past the calves nursing from their mothers who grazed upon rich grass, and past the lobster boats at the estuary where the seagulls slept. Here, the river first tastes the salt of the deep-bosomed sea. Here, the sweet river forever pours into the salt sea and together they now run with the tide, sparkling under the silver light of the moon.