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It's raining. . . .

The sound of windshield wipers slapping water off the clear surface of glass, allowed the driver a better viewing of the environment laid out before her. The drivers' hands moved to rest at the eleven and one o'clock position along the steering wheel, as the driver waited her turn to drive forwards. Following after a long line of vehicles with flashing hazard lights sitting idle behind one another along a lonesome, cold road. The line of cars were waiting patiently in a funeral procession; in order to escort a deceased person to their final resting place.

A light flashed to life along the surface of a cell phone, which caused the driver to look away from the raining scenery before her to see what message popped up. It was the mapping system, alerting the driver that she had arrived to her destination. Reaching over with her index finger, the driver swiped the map to stop. While diverting her eyes back up towards the car in front of her. There was movement, as the line of cars finally had permission to turn and make entry from a well traveled road to one not traveled often.

The crunching sound of gravel could be heard beneath the weight of the tires, as the driver followed the procession. The driver took note that the cone shaped beams from her headlights gradually became hazy, as the light became hard to see in the thickness of a heavy fog, that appeared to have rolled in from out of nowhere. The fog blanketed the area, settling in among the tombstones and cars. As if everyone's arrival notified the cemetery that the living had come to pay respect to the dead.

One by one, cars pulled up and parked side by side along a packed, Caliche rock that had been pounded down and made into a temporary parking spot. Headlights of all the vehicles were shut off the moment engines ceased making noises. Everything felt like everyone's actions were done in rhythm. In uniform.

As if on cue, the lone female driver pulled her car to an abrupt stop. Leaving her vehicle on idle for a moment as she watched as a sea of black, grays and navy people rise up from individual vehicles moving in a slow dance into the thickness of the fog.

The female driver did not know how long she sat there, with the car idling before switching off the ignition, killing the sound of the car engine. Rain pelleted the metallic rooftop of the vehicle and in a sense the sound filled both ears to a point, that the only thing the driver heard was white noise. What followed soon thereafter was the metallic sound of a car door opening. The sound alone, nullified the sound of the droplets for a passing moment in time. A slow grinding of metal upon metal, as the hinge of the weighted car door slowly swung open. A light from the interior of the car slowly dimmed as the as the female driver stepped out into the elements.



Long rows of ginger hair spilled out along a black ruffled blouse that had a pure wool, Clan Irvine blue, green, white and black tartan fringed sash, draped across the lady's upper torso. A polished silver Clan Irvine emblem, laid pinned along the sash. Pinned along the traditional celtic kilt of the lady's clan colors was a polished silver Clan Irvine highlander sword pin that rested along the hip of her kilt that adorned her figure. Finalizing her attire was traditional Scottish ghillie shoes.



As the droplets of rain, rained down upon the individual, the droplets never once became absorbed by the clothing. In fact, it was if the the attire repelled the water. The rainfall by now was nothing like it was on the drive into the cemetery. It was more of a nuisance to those who began to take their seats along the velvet draped chairs surrounding a casket at the burial site.

The ginger haired individual did not appear to budge from her stance and approach the crowd. She appeared to be looking for someone in particular among the sea of people.



Upon identifying just whom she was looking for, she turned her head to the side as she moved her body away from the crowd and towards the backside of her vehicle. Opening up the back door to the passenger side, she reached in and removed what appeared to be a medium sized packed messenger bag. Applying the strap over her left shoulder, she used her right hand to shut and lock the door to her vehicle. Fingertips idly hovered along the frame of the door for a passing moment as she turned to walk in the direction of the sounds of sadness filling the area.

Clutching onto the strap of her canvas bag, her free hand dropped down towards the opening of the bag. Slender fingertips' moved downwards further into the depths of the bag, seeking out something and in the process, the tips of her fingertips idly brushed against not one... but two hidden instruments hidden within.

Slowly measured footsteps were made as a Scotswoman made her approach towards the large gathering that stood tall in lengthy rows of black. The foggy, rainy scenery almost made it difficult to make out in the individual outlines of every person present in the gathering.

. . . . The sound of rain droplets pitter pattering along the surface of the ground could be heard over the endless sound of tears.

From those seated to standing, upon observation of the ginger haired Scotswoman on approach. It was quite possible that anyone could have taken notice of the fog that settled thickly in the air and along the ground seemed to part ways away from the Scotswoman on approach. Perhaps those who did take notice looked onwards with superstition? With surprise? Or perhaps it was their senses were so dulled and numb from the emotional crisis overload that they were experiencing a hallucination or it was a figment of their imagination that the fog was dispersing away from the person heading their way. Could this be ...magic? Or science at play?

The lone ginger was lost in her thoughts on her approach, when she took notice with every step that she took had a natural rhythmic pattern. Every step, felt as though she was pressing her fingers down along the keys of a piano. Playing a unique melody. That melody became tied with what would soon take place upon that grassy knoll she moved towards. Other than the melody playing in her head, she couldn't help but realize that the fog that had been hanging high above her stature, floating thickly surrounding her body and fluttering beneath her feet began to part ways. Dispersing away from her. The fog took on the appearance of " melting " away. Either by the warmth of terra causing the fog to melt into the ground or by the " air " which caused the fog to evaporate. None of the fog remained around the Scotswoman, nor followed in her wake. The closer she approached the gathering, the fog in the area seemed to withdraw away as if allowing the light to make entry into the dark.

There was a slight uneasy feeling among those that had been standing, as one person shifted in their stance, several others followed in suite. Which caused a domino effect, causing a reaction out of one person in the thick of the crowd. To see something, that others did not, or could not see with eyes alone. Palored, tan features shifted somewhat towards the presence of someone new making entry. Dark ebony-brown hair that once had a sheen color of night horizon itself appeared dull in appearance. Covering the distant eyes that had been staring off into the unknown. The air felt less... dense than before. As if this person could finally have an opportunity to breathe without feeling crowded by the masses of people seeming to hover. The people weren't hovering, they were showing their respects and doing their best to comfort the one whom was still living.



Casting their dull, listless gaze in the direction of the ginger haired woman's approach. Strands of hair got caught up in a passing breeze, that parted the hair away from the individuals' face, revealing a dark line... a mark of paint that darkened the features of a woman. As if the paint itself was to mask their true identity. Long feathers could be seen threaded in and along individual thick strands of ebony-brown hair; fastened to the hair were long feathers attached to strips of leather, that had been braided with beads. Upon closer inspection of the painted features, the lines painted across the woman's face had arrows, stars from the heavens and pools of water that acted as windows. Blue dyes from plants, grays and charcoal from fires well spent, red earth and white sands had spiritual representation of the departed.



As the Scotswoman reached her final destination, she turned her body slowly to face the gathering. Her long woollen skirt, moved precisely with the steps that she made as her ghillie shoes appeared to follow a silent ballet dance across the blades of grass beneath her feet. In that moment of turning, her darkened green eyes appeared to meet simultaneously with all whom were present.

As if on cue, a man of the cloth stepped forwards, speaking words of final prayer that could not be heard but could be understood. As the as the man, reached down to his side to remove what appeared to be a clear vial. Twisting the top off, with several small sprays of liquid rained down upon the open burial ground. It was obvious that the clothed man was using, holy water to bless the ground. Once he was done, he pocketed the vial raised his hands in symbolism. When he was finished, he gathered up the holy book and turned to look towards the Scotswoman.

The Scotswoman was not waiting for the holy man's cue, she was waiting for hers. Her friend. The holy man did not represent the beliefs of a particular individual who had painted symbols across her features, he was there for the one whom was fallen and was being buried that day.

As the liquid had rained down, the silent tears seemed to pour from the others. Seeming to cause a stirring of the one with painted features. Remaining silent, all she could do was stand as silent as the grave. The moisture off of the holy water landed against the backside of her hand. Knowing fully well that if she had even made the attempt to wipe the substance off she would never hear the end of it from relatives present. So the moist presence remained, along the backside of her hand. Along with her heterochromia eyes; one blue eye and one green eye staring at the crumbling ground before her, where a wooden casket lay in wait to be lowered away. The woman's two different colored eyes have been known to shift colors in the moonlight skyline. The reaction appeared to cause a golden galaxy shimmering effect. Having two different iris colored eyes was completely rare to her bloodline. Which made her unique to her kin, that the stars had some kind of fate written and laid out for her. She knew not how long she stared at the wooden casket, only to take notice that whispers began to rise up slightly above the falling tears. Looking upwards, she couldn't help but feel as if the whispers were directed towards her. It mattered not. Their words would not sway her towards blame and fear. The sound of whispers seemed to rise further, until she looked off to the side towards the ginger. When their eyes locked, did it feel as time came to a slow standstill.

The match had been struck, as the fuel became lit instantly with the white noise of whispers upon the hill. The sound of anger. Hate. Sadness seemed to roar to life, as the wind appeared to be taken from the one that locked eyes with her. In unison, both parties took the same breath at the same time. While one person seemed to relax somewhat, the other began to breathe deeper. As if preparing to get a second wind. It was at that very moment that song broke free. The sound of singing began to make its place known as the white noise of whispers began to gradually fade as the beautiful Scots Gaelic notes filled the air above. The strap of the bag that had once been resting upon the Scotswoman's shoulder was lowered to the ground, as some kind of wooden instrument was removed from the canvas bag. What soon followed with the song, was the sound of strings being plucked upon a hand carved hand-held lyre harp, as the Scotswoman began to sing.



All while the Scotswoman sang, the time provided the man of the cloth to allow family to say their final farewells to approach the casket before it was laid to rest. One by one, several family members along the front row rose up and moved forwards, placing single stemmed roses along the surface of the casket. The woman with the painted features never budged from where she stood, as people would move past her. Some would reach out and place a consolidating hand along her arm before passing her by. As the family members began to thin out, friends then began to say their final goodbyes moving away from the grave.



It was at the ending of the song and the lyre harp strings stilling, that fate had finally heard to wailing cries and swelling tears from those who were present. That the storm decided to increase the humidity within the air. Causing large formations of darker clouds to merge with the soft wispy greyed clouds, warning the gatherers of an impending storm on approach. The sounds of the thunder rolling and rumbling up high among the clouds and the lightning forking across the sky, should make one think that the time to depart was now. Instead, people seemed gather in groups and converse among one another. And while the gathering appeared to linger, others looked skywards in a skeptical manner towards to lightning streaking along the backside of the clouds.



With the Scotswoman's hand stilled across the strings, she could feel something moist begging to trickle down along her cheek. Reaching up with her free hand she wiped away a fresh droplet of water. Noticing how the droplet of water seemed to follow along the lines of her hand as if following a path. When the droplet made it over the edge of her palm and down her forearm, the Scotswoman craned her head back to cast a glance up at the sky. Seeing the lightning making a promise of a storm rolling in. Time was running short. Her duty was not yet complete. She needed to get the crowd of people to disperse and head towards shelter. Glancing down from where she stood, she could see the man of cloth standing among the sea of black. His starch white robes and green and golden priest stole, made him stand out along the crowd. He seemed to be in no hurry, as he took the time to speak with everyone.

Kneeling downwards towards her canvas bag, she placed in the wooden lyre harp carefully within and withdrew her secondary instrument. It looked like a velvet bag was withdrawn, that had two reed pipes that were tied to the bag. Slipping on the instrument, she readied herself for the final piece. Standing back upright, she filled up the bag with a breath of air placed along the mouthpiece to the pipe as she began to sound a drone. A sustained tone, that was in a low pitch. Those whom had ears tuned to music would recognize what was about to be played.

Amazing Grace

As the Scotswoman's fingers played across the pipe, the winds of the storm had begun to pick up as the tree limbs began to sway. Several of the gatherers began to realize the imminent danger of being outside in the storm that was starting to make its presence known. Some raising up umbrellas to shelter those in place, whereas others began to make their departure to their parked cars. The wind was beginning to howl by some point, as a loud ground pounding thunder echoed not just along the darkened skies but the vibrations could be felt beneath the funeral processions feet.



Rain began to fall, at the sametime the casket was being lowered into its grave. Those who had raised their umbrellas, huddled together doing their best to stay as long as possible. While others began to run and seek the shelter of their cars. The bagpiper didn't react to the downfall of rain at that point. And honestly, it appeared as if she was not being drenched unlike the others.

The painted woman took note of this. As people brushed past the painted woman in haste, she stood still at the grave site. Looking onwards towards the bagpiper. There was an expression of slight surprise among her two toned colored eyes, recognizing the tell tale signs of someone with an ability but is unaware of what talents they possess. There must have been some kind of a barrier, protecting the Scotswoman. The painted woman's expression shifted back naturally so she did not give others the idea to look at the performer oddly. Taking note to herself, she could see an outline of light surrounding the woman's body, as the water repelled away. The light that was around the individual seemed to spill out along the ground and move out further. In seeing this, she gasped slightly. The rain that had been pouring down among the gathering seemed to cease. Confusion riddled her expression, as something told the painted woman to look up. That was when she received her answer.



The same glow that she had seen surrounding the individual was now high above them, providing shelter. It wasn't an object, it was as though the air above them had formed an arch in the direction of where the wind was blowing forming a temporary shelter to those along the ground. Tiny sparkles of light could be seen within this air formation hovering above them. If one did not know what to look for, it was possible that the shape of the wind above could be mistaken for something else. Perhaps it was a void pocket of air, that caused the rain to fall elsewhere versus down on the people. It was possible, science had proven this theory.

Dropping her eyes away from the timid golden sparkles of light hanging loosely in the air above her and the others as the painted woman diverted her gaze towards the Scotswoman who had finalized the song. The light remained around the bagpiper and the woman appeared oblivious to the power that surrounded her.

Casting one last glance towards the priest who had stood among the crowd, the two of them shared their differences with one look as the painted woman moved away from the grave and towards the ginger, standing alone along the grassy knoll hill. As she grew closer, she saw that the ginger acknowledged her presence with a quiet, respectful gaze. "That was... very beautiful Bianca... I didn't know if you would be able to attend... nor did I expect you to travel such a vast distance... and I yet I am... forever grateful that you were here to see him laid to his final resting place." The painted woman's voice sounded flat and emotional at the sametime, as she found the energy and courage to speak towards her ginger haired friend.

"Ana, you are my friend. I did everything in my power to be here for you. I was not about to stand idly by while you laid your loved one to rest. I didn't have it in my heart to leave you here... alone." Bianca looked past Ana to see people departing in haste in the background, not seeming to really give a care in the world for the one who lost everything. Dark green eyes shifted back to meet with her friend, "When I make a promise, I keep it."

"Unlike some..."



"That's not fair, he did not mean to leave you like this, Ana. You cannot blame him. He fought a long, hard battle. You were with him every step of the way. I cannot even begin to fathom the depth of emotional overload you are experiencing at your core. He loves you... he loved you, Ana. You were his everything."

"...Bianca.. people like you and I are not meant to be loved. It is not written in the stars. Nor is our fate. Our fate lies elsewhere.. a duty to something else... a duty to someone else."

"Wh-what are you talking about, Ana? How can you say that about the man you loved?"

"His sacrifice was great... but necessary so that I could detach myself away from his spiritual ties from him, in order to find my true purpose."

"Ana. . . ." Her friends words sounded so cold, no emotional attachment to the one she lost. To the man she loved. The two of them could never be separated. Even with their interracial marriage, differences in culture and what they liked. They were always treated as outsiders by their families. As if their union together was never approved, never given room to blossom into something beautiful. His unexpected death, allowed the families permission to turn against one another and in particular.... against her. Making Ana a primary target for their conduit of anger and revenge.

With the Scotswoman's emotions soaring on such a high level, the once aired archway barrier above others vanished and the sound of rain pelleting the ground around them could be heard and yet neither one of them were getting soaked. Bianca was completely unaware that her emotions had awakened something from within and its entity was shielding the two of them from the rainfall. Reaching upwards to unpin her sash, that unraveled into a lengthy shawl. Bianca wrapped the woollen sash around her friend whom appeared far worse off for wear, but her stubborn genes prevented her from shedding the necessary tears of release to help her deal with her loves' passing. In her comforting and warm, Scottish accent, Bianca tried to sway her friend Ana to leave this place. To head towards a place of comfort and familiarity. "C'mon Ana... let's get you out of the rain and ho--." Bianca meant to say the word, 'home'. The thing was... did Ana really have a home to go back too? Did Ana even want to go back to her home? Knowing that the home would now feel forever empty? Redirecting her thought process, as she reached down to collect her canvas bag, placing in her bagpipe in along the lyre harp.

"C'mon on now, m'dear, I have a place where you can rest your head for as long as you need." It took a moment for the words Bianca said to sink in and register within Ana's numb and dark mind.

'Home... I have no home, no place that I feel wanted or loved. I will forever walk this earth... alone. . . . The Gods have made this path known.'