Until We Meet Again

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Sunset strokes its golden fingers across the misty isle, sweet an soft as fae fingers meltin intae sommery hand-spun vanilla ice cream on a blàth grianach day.

As a fae, A cannot be caucht doin such a thin, runnin ma fingers intae frosty cauld desserts. But thon's no the point. Whit's important is sundoon's gone golden i the hichlands! The low poke o gray an dreary is trapped beneath layers o blissful sunlicht.

Dae ye know whit this means? Ryan moment's nere at hand. True love will find the bonnie lass! An forevermore, she'll recount the day for its perfect.

Gather round. Quiet now an listen i. Discover whit unfolds wi a gentle nudge from the fae, bi which A mean me. Gin awthing goes tae plan, A'll graduate tae fou fledgit fae godmother bi mornin!

~*~

Just now Alastair's kilt whoopsy toward naughty, his family tartan giving a wee rise to the Highland's wresting winds, causing his blue-green wools to hula-hoop. But all's well and good. Passersby discover only knobby knees and tattooed cheeky mermaids who swim in stride with every pull of the 70-year-old's hamstrings.

Alastair for the past three days has transported the beguiling Ryan, her older sister Devon, and a dozen of their mates round the Highlands. Private touring in a 20-seater. Windows wide. Mouths agape. Tunes cranked. Good vibes all around.

Already this day, Alastair has escorted the lot across the breathtaking Cuillin mountains. Edged them up against waters rushing wild as Eriskay ponies over the brisk cliffs of Kilt Rock. Flat-footed it across the grassy majesty of Trotternish peninsula. Explored the depths of Dunvegan castle tracking myths and legends forged by the hold fast MacLeod clan.

A joinit thaim i Quiraing.

Quiraing's ma heart song, wi the table an the needle an the prison. An A stayit for the escapades throuch the Fairy Glen, an onto the chartreuse grassy easy climbin cone-shapit crumplit hills. It's juist on thare, overlookin the dazzlin azure lochs, where A wis whan A lost—.

Ah, tisk tisk! A'll no be divulgin ma secrets tae ye lot. An now A'll thank ye tae turn yer focus back tae Ryan, gin ye wouldnae mind.

~*~

A final flourish of selfies snapped, the time arrives to head toward Edinburgh.

Yearning to linger in the amazing Isle of Skye, the crew sighs but acquiesces, allowing themselves to be herded back into the van. Their driver reclaims the oversized steering wheel as his passengers nestle cozy into comfortable seats. They listen excitedly to one another recounting the day's adventures, Neil Diamond, Elvis, Nick Cage, and Frightened Rabbit pouring emotion through the airwaves of the van's crackling radio.

About an hour in, Alastair breathes slowly, winding up, turning down the tunes. "D'wee fowks—d'fae—'re listen'n ta meh nawha, tawlling yaowh lot d'are his'taries ahn smilynn dawhn awn us'awahl."

Thon's me! Alastair's talkin aboot me!

A silver fox with piercing bright blue eyes, Alastair's wiser and fitter than young'uns a quarter his age. During his teens he ran the Yorkshire Dales. By his mid-20's he graduated to the legendary Scottish trails, the Quiraing and Meall na Suiramach loop from Flodigarry, an expert-level bit of nails-hard climbing and struggling fully with the downward hell.

He's kept a runner's routine aw his days. Thare can be na dout the mermaids have seen it aw.

He weaves extra thick yarns for the pretty ladies. Naturally, his Glaswegian dialect pours thickly, often honey-sweet, but today he's putting on a show.

"D'fae fowk, d'are won'darin whent ahw'll ever bay gittin dis gawnforsaken hurl outta d'are bonny fraoch moors!" He gives a wink to Ryan through the rearview. Then turns his eyes back to the narrow roads. Chuckling mightily, he smacks an exposed left knee that refuses to be tucked.

Abruptly he overcorrects, yanking the wheel—"Yaw dafty gowk!"—slamming brakes and cursing. "Get yar dobber bahookie dawhn d'are rathaid!" He hollers after the impetuous cretin who all but ran the van off the road. "Awa' and take a flying focus tae yerself!"

Slowly, the van pulls up, full stop, alongside a 900-year-old dry stacked blue stone wall. An unscheduled stop is never good for business. "Tatties o'wer the side on account a yer! Bampot! Eejit!" He snaps at dust swirling into his windshield.

Spotting silence from his stunned passengers, Alastair slips out, sweeping his slang under the carriage and back onto the near side of proper. He spies a minor issue and sets to fixing his troubles.

Moments later Alastair's back to his charming self. "Leddies, leddies. Meh darewlyhn hens. An yewh gents tae, dinna fash. Ahw'll bay gittin us'awahl 'ome nae time. Less dan four oor. Nae borra."

Nerves settled, mechanical repaired, Ryan and company are on the road again, Skye Bridge firmly in the rearview, bittersweetly Edinburgh bound.

Ryan whispers adieu to the fae

Thon's me!

wishing she had learned the Glaswegian word for farewell, or the Gaelic words for until we meet again, but her mind's awash with lyrics. Her heart's near to bursting. She can feel a spark of magic flitting about her even now.

Isnae she juist the sweetest!

This much-anticipated break from stadium gigs has been the thing to bring the crew, and Ryan, back to life. Everyone, including Devon, is rested, having stretched legs and unburdened arms of amps, cables, drums, guitars, mandolins, violins, microphones, merch, and luggage.

Not that anyone's complaining. Few people can say their wildest dreams have come true. This chance to perform internationally, traveling alongside a distinguished Editor-at-Large, on the magazine's dime no less, all while Ryan decides which of The Big Four's contracts to sign?! It's unimaginable. Once in a lifetime good.

Were she not bum up in the air, supple arms scouring seats, fingers desperately outstretched and hard searching for pen and paper, Ryan would be happy to slouch into her big sister's soft right shoulder. But Ryan's mind won't settle. Her own cell's spotty. And Dev's is no better. No signal. No battery.

Any other day she'd be frustrated. But today Ryan lets it all go.

She'd never admit it, not even to Dev, but Ryan heard the fae whispering to her on the purple heathered moors this very morning.

She knows what she heard. It sounds insane. But she cannot shake the feeling.

Eyes met. Promises were made. She has a fae godmother!

She isnae wrong.

~*~

Four hours and all the light of day lost, Alastair safely stows the van in a dedicated park half a turn up from the rented cottage. It's a lovely meandering stroll along a cobbled road planted with day-blooming beauties and magnificent canopy of beech, fir, hazel, larch, and pine.

Ryan's mates tumble out, tired but happy, buzzing from their experiences. With dinner set for eight, the pack scatters, voices singing, trailing off in all directions.

Only Alastair, Ryan, and Dev hang back—Devon ostensibly to help Alastair. Ryan wants only to conquer her quest. Pen and paper.

"I'm worried about you," Dev caves, not a minute later. She tugs at her bra strap through her shirt, eyeballing Ryan. Her Caribbean blues speak, twisting at the silence.

Ryan's not having it. Lately, all Dev can do is complain, poke, and worry. She insists Ryan's pushing too hard. What if you collapse on stage? What if your heart can't take the excitement? How bad will it get once a contract's signed? You'll be gone. All. The. Time.

Four months on the road have taken a toll.

This experience has been life-affirming for Ryan. But for Devon, it's been difficult. She wants never to repeat any part of this, except perhaps today. Today's been a good day.

But Ryan was made for this. She can't get enough. The road's given her back her truest joy, the open road, limitless freedom. For Ryan, home's not a place tied to a patch of scratched earth, but a wild unspoiled light alive within herself.

"I'm fine," she issues, flatly, uninterested in readjudicating. "Go get washed up, Dev. I'm good. Really." Drop it now hangs in the lull between sentences. "I'll find you later."

Devon needs tae pick her battles. An anyway, poetry's knockin aboot, throwin the one-two punch, impatient tae morph intae lyrics.

Those concerns will abate—they have to—when the tour resumes and Dev sees how vibrant Ryan is on the main stage. The big stage.

Next week, Ryan gets her shot to set the world ablaze. Her first appearance at Glastonbury Festival. Forever she's dreamed of playing her music her way! In the Green Fields. To millions of fans, old and new. Now's her time. Her one big chance to make a name for herself. Even now Eminem's words ring true in her ears:

"if you had one shot or one opportunity | To seize everything you ever wanted in one moment | Would you capture it or just let it slip?"

Conceding the battle, Dev vanishes down the winding road toward the tiny white cottage, her frustration engulfed by a slow rising sea fog, the haar, which creates an ethereal film. The haar is a character unto itself, lavishing mystery on every creature and feature of the aged city.

The moment has arrivit. Be holdin yer breath!

Splitting the haar with a confident stride, a figure emerges, separating all that was from all that will be.

After searchin her whole life, richt oot o the haar he'll walk—richt tae her!

The stranger moves apace, directly toward the white van. Toward Ryan and Alastair. His eyes are heavy with interest, slow panning the bonnie lass, smiling and shaking his head in disbelief at his good fortune.

The young man pays no attention whatsoever to the older gent. It's all he can do to resist the intense pull of Ryan's orbit. His gaze beseeches her approval, which she grants without delay.

His smile is salivation. He drinks her in, delicious sloshing newly wet on his tongue. He appreciates her curves and arcs, the lines of her frame, her unending legs. Closer he moves. And closer still, the haar limping in with bated breath.

As he strides he allows his eyes to entangle themselves in the softness of her raven hair. Her mesmerizing hazels invite exploration. She teases, turning her high hip away, allowing her secrets to masquerade behind the haar. He can scarcely breathe. The excitement she creates is palpable.

Always lovely, this night Ryan is effortlessly sexy, cooly self-aware, ready. Black jeans and a casual white tee. A bite of her lip sets his heart alight.

He slows his pace, not hesitating, luxuriating. His eyes know something. Something sacred. Something he alone knows. And suddenly this something is the only thing Ryan wants to explore. Hard won pen and paper, and all that enticing poetry, fall at her feet.

The music in her now turns to a smoldering song they pen together in the spaces in between, the melody, the breath before the touch.

An unspoken agreement is written with every step, every muscle contracting and relaxing, coming closer, and closer, until he's directly beside her, breathing near, close enough to lay hands on flesh. But he holds. Awaiting her signals. Ball's in queen's court.

She can see him clearly, close to her. Rugby's shaped his legs, and his arms are well-toned from outdoor living. Across his shoulders he carries the makings of a strapping young lad, alive with adventure and spirit, flush with curiosity.

A scrumptious spill of chestnut hair waves warm and inviting, splashing from crown to neck, moving gently in the night breeze. His face carries small scars, war wounds, and a once-broken stately nose that speaks to his intensity and calm. His cheekbones set the stage, balanced, ready for all the life yet to come.

And when he smiles,

Oh, whan he smiles! Pitter patter goes ma heart!

his whole heart steps up to bat.

This stranger gives Ryan a jolt. He's jarring. By far the most intriguing soul's she's encountered. And those eyes. In them she sees flickers of wisdom and kindness and hedonism. Those eyes promise the best sex of her life, the greatest intimacy. Even now, his eyes lay hands upon her heart without lifting a finger.

His confidence is alluring.

Her breath comes quickly now. She's into it, every temptation he brings.

Now that he's close enough to touch, he wins. Ryan averts her eyes, however briefly, a warm heat pinking her tender cheeks.

The haar, in his hands, turns to child's play.

Ryan's done for.

"Al sent me." He speaks, nodding at Alastair.

Ryan takes a half-step back. She expected an English or Scottish accent. He sounds nothing like Alastair, or the fae, or the folks she's met all across Scotland.

He sounds familiar.

Didnae expect thon. Lover sounds American!

His hands find Ryan's on a suitcase handle. Electricity shocks them both. He staggers back. She places a hand on his forearms, her eyes finding his through the fog. She helps him regain his footing. He takes full advantage, brushing his muscular ribs against her arm. She allows the touch to linger, the two sharing a breath.

It's magic A tell ye.

Lifting three heavy, awkward bags into his arms, Callum gives the bonnie lass a knowing wink and turns on his heels toward the cottage.

"I'm supposed to take your word?" Ryan smiles broadly, flirting her determined best. "Don't even know Alastair, do ya? Probably saw his name tag—"

"Meh grandson," Alastair interrupts, pleased. His matchmaking prowess remains in tact. "Callum, allow me to introduce--"

"Ryan," the suddenly embarrassed young woman interjects, offering a hand along with her name. Callum drops the luggage and makes his way to Ryan, moving in way closer than is needed, smiling that smile.

"Callum." He's toying with her now, but he means it.

He's a goner ower.

Bags at his feet, Callum draws his body close, into Ryan's, taking her hand firmly, intentionally, into his own. He's close enough to share the sea breeze, saffron, and cinnamon that cling to his workman's clothes. The delectable scent of musk he wears is all his own. It's heaven.

Ryan could breath him in for hours, write songs that evoke this feeling again and again... or maybe just give the man back his appendage, you oof!

Aye sae hard on herself.

"Your hands," Ryan deflects, "are freezing!" She retrieves her hand and paces, as if to warm herself against a driving cold. Nervous energy needs its release.

He's gotten under her skin.

Alastair reads the room and follows the haar into the night, leaving the two alone with three suitcases between them. Neither notices Alastair fading to gray.

"Been in the freezer half the day," Callum says collecting luggage and half-winking, looking up, his tawny eyes searching Ryan's, finding hidden treasure. "Party of 20 tonight, I'm told. Some world renowned singer."

He smiles his pleasure. She blushes, again.

"What else have you heard?"

"Just that I wouldn't want to miss it."

Ryan smiles, flattered, hopeful, nibbling at her tongue, looping her raven locks behind her ear.

He's a chef. Christ. Sex on a stick.

She's known this Callum for all of five seconds, and she feels such a stirring. Exactly as the fae had predicted. This feeling is so much more than lust, but whatever it is, it's far too soon to label it.

She's done for. A blithering goner.

One thing's for certain. Callum meets Ryan where her butterflies emerge fully formed, effervescent and emancipated from her first life's chrysalis.

Already, Ryan is without doubt. She wants him. Callum. She yearns to know his touch, his taste, his hands on her flesh. She aches for him as she aches for Glastonbury, both dreams equally pressing.

Give me room tae work ma magic. Here we gae.

It's crazy, but she can see a lifetime together, on the road, exploring the world and one another. She sees herself singing and performing, alongside Callum, wonderful Callum, fulfilled in his own right. Living as a personal chef. Carving a path he's always wanted, too.

A tension arises, bringing a darkness Ryan tries to blink away. They come from different worlds. Different continents. And she's about to sign a multi-million dollar, three-album contract that'll have her traveling nonstop around the globe.

She hasn't even asked him if he likes to travel. What music is his jam. What he wants from his life. Anything!

It's impossible. She's out of her mind. And for all she knows, he's married or engaged, or not that into her.

A dinnae make thaim fall i love. A help thaim see love's value, its meaning, i their life. A make sure thon stupid fear dinnae tak ower the chance o a lifetime. But the choice is aye hers. An his.

She glances at Callum, this magnificent stranger she feels she already knows, giving him the long once-over, taking stock. Workmen's boots, tasteful silver belt buckle, heavy duty denim, black tee. No ring.

"You coming?" Callum tosses over his shoulder. That smile whetting more than her appetite.

"See you at dinner."

~*~

The following morning, sunrise spits gray across the Edinburgh sky, cold and wet as English Breakfast soaking into day-old toast.

Callum and Ryan don't even notice.

They've sharit a nicht o arms!

All inhibitions melted away round 2 o'clock in the morning. When Callum spoke his husky whisper and smiled that smile, the intensity of the moment swept Ryan into his open arms, willingly, peacefully, and so happily eagerly.

She'll be back in England in December, when the contracts are signed and the first tour dates are announced. She'll have Scotland tour dates written in, a nonstarter.

But the choice is his.

One perfect night of arms and never more?

Or discover where life takes them?

As for me? A'm now a fou fledge fae godmother, gin ye can believe thon!

Isnae life sweet? Sweeter, say, than vanilla ice cream?

A'll say!

.

.

.

~*~*~*~

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Copyright © 04/28/2024 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.

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Editor's Notes:

Word count: 2942.

This fiction is written for the Writer's Challenge, Prompted: #4, which specifies each entry elaborate on a poem. I selected, Never More. Links are provided below to the challenge and to the poem. Thank you for reading, especially a piece this long! 💕

Never More:

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