Wheeling Gull Isle moubeda

for a long while she thought about what she had told bartholomew, that the island of sweetharbor was her love. and the longer heda held that thought in her mind, the more it began to scintillate and glow with a golden hope.
bartholomew had guided her to this place of god. then and now the darkfurred man was a prophet and mentor. but it was this land which healed, which the lord had given them.
why should she not then take it as her companion, truer than any husband could be?
heda had wanted to kiss him or to be kissed; now as she stood amid the palms and listened to the cold wind whisper a song through ice strung between the leaves, she felt the loving hand of their chosen one.
and it was a still small hope, and it had begun to replace the ache for bartholomew that marked the edge of her soul like a bruise. she could love him and love god and love this place, but not all. and not in the same way. and if it did not seem that he would love her, then heda meant to love the hallowed sacred earth and its trees and its clouds, its waves, its flowers, its sand.
she carried armfuls of delicate heather to her home high in the greenhills, and lay it out for a mat. 
and for the first time in a while, heda began to sing a soft and trailing hymn.