“Dad! Dad! The trader’s here!” Lee pounded up the path, his boots flailing, and he vaulted into his father’s arms. "Can I get something this time? Please?“
"Perhaps,” Keane chuckled, lifting his boy onto his shoulders, “if you behave.”
They headed down the steep path, Keane’s sure feet stepping over the pebbles and loose shale with confidence. Soon, he could see the shape of the small cart and equally small mule hitched to it, the driver perched on a box with his head thrown back to the sun. Keane’s brow twitched. It was someone new. The usual trader was a grizzled old man from even higher in the Highlands, of foul breath and constant bottle.
This man was a vision. His hair was lush, a golden brown, thick but tight against his head in restless curls. His eyes, which lit up when he looked down and saw them, were an impossibly clear green. A lump rose in Keane’s throat and he swung Lee off his shoulders.
“Run along,” he said hoarsely. Lee gave him a pitiful look, but his father was unmoved. "Go!“ he grunted, indicating with a hand his precise amount of amusement at the boy’s defiance. Lee scampered away the way they had come.
"Ho, traveler,” Keane said when Lee’s dust cloud faded.
“Ho, friend.” The trader touched the bill of an invisible cap. "Come for my wares?“
"Come for more than that,” Keane grunted, attempting a smile, but the man’s beauty was blinding. He looked down at his hands. "I’m sorry. We get few travelers this far north. It is – unexpected to see another face.“ The words tumbled awkwardly from his tongue.
The man was looking sideways at him, and at this last he smiled and turned back to the sun. "My mule will wait a while.”
He stretched out his hand for Keane to help him down. The bigger man took it, his arm burning where the other touched him. He met the trader’s beautiful eyes. "So will my wife,“ he said.
A knowing nod. "The trader comes but once a year,” he said, then laughed and added, “and so he does.”
The trader dropped softly off his cart and pulled Keane to him. Keane tasted distant lands, strange bazaars, foreign women and men. He drank in the kiss and returned one that told of the powerful Highland winds, the winters with only family for comfort, the slaying of the wolf that had pestered the flocks.
They broke away, their hunger piqued, and without losing touch walked without a word to the nearby stone formation. Boulders worn smooth by time welcomed and sheltered them as they lay curled into one another, moving without regard to time, the mountain whistling around them.
