Undergraduate Dissertation
Now that I have begun my masters program, I have decided that it would be acceptable to share my undergraduate dissertation with my followers. This just gives a little look into something else that I have written, a nice break from the usual Fledgling reading! I have given this its own tab under Making My Own Path because this is part of my path. This was a piece of work that took my thousands of hours of reading and an entire semester to complete. I am posting it in its entirety, including both the creative part and the expository part. I hope you enjoy it!
ALBA
Chapter 1
Fàilte Dachaidh. Welcome Home.
Her grandparents had given her a small sign upon her arrival with those words scrolled on it, which she now clutched to her chest as she rolled down the window of the old Morris, still painted the same shade of green as when it rolled off the assembly line in the '50s. Her grandfather, Donald, loved his car, as it was the first and only one he had purchased; he had taken good care of it from the day he bought it. Alba stuck her head out, letting the sea-bitten air toy with her russet curls. Just that morning she had been on a plane and now she was driving up the west coast of her namesake country, Scotland.
The scenic drive through the Trossachs and along the west coast always amazed Alba. It was beautiful anytime of the year, but especially around her birthday when spring collided suddenly with summer. Born on Summer Solstice, her grandmother, Catherine, had always told her she was special, but would never say why, just told her to wait until she was older. Alba hoped this year would be the one she would finally know what the big secret was, since she was turning eighteen. From Fort William to Loch Morar, Alba sat just out of the way of the wind whipping in through the open window. She took a deep breath, enjoying the salt sweet air of the sea. She always thought it smelled different in Scotland, but especially in the Highlands. It was a clean smell, clear of smog and other industrial excretion; it was the smell of fresh rain and wood smoke rolling gently out of chimneys, the smell of dew on grass, of brine and fish, of damp, rotting leaves and new growth, all rolled into one. There wasn't really one word to encompass it except to use Scotland as an adjective.
They finally rolled to a halt in front of old cottage situated snuggly into a grove beside the loch. Behind the cottage was a small field in which lived a few sheep, a nag, and a Shetland pony. Beyond that, a sweeping forest, swelling to a green hill resembling the head and shoulders of a sleeping giant. Alba as a child had rolled in the freshly fallen leaves in winter, played in the new growth in summer, but was never allowed to go beyond the stone wall that lain amongst the trees. It was an ancient wall, once used by previous generations to mark some kind of boundary. The wall rose at a mid-point to encompass a wrought iron gate, intricately designed with a Celtic knot tree surrounded by thistle and wild flowers. Now fallen into disrepair, moss covered with saplings growing through the crevices, it looked like something out of a fairytale. Alba never questioned what was on the other side or why she couldn't go there, she simply accepted that she wasn't allowed and played elsewhere.
The cottage itself was two stories high, constructed painstakingly with hand shaped, grey stones, now covered in lichens and ivy, but still standing strong. The roof, once thatched, was brought up to more modern standards with slate tiles. Attached to a side wall was a chicken coop from which emanated endless squeaks and chirps. The main building still boasted a root cellar below the kitchen floor, where Alba, even now, loved to play hide and seek with her grandfather. She thought the children's game was more fun as she got older because she could think of better places to hide, and instead of getting a piece of candy as a prize, she won a couple pounds to buy herself something nice from the shops in town.
She resurfaced from her musings by a high whiny coming from the field.
“Go on then, go see them. They'll have missed you,” Donald said, smiling directly into the face of his granddaughter, now his same height.
Alba was built much like her grandparents. She had Donald's Highland stature and lean physique, along with his strikingly blue eyes. She had her grandmother's dark red hair, streaked with gold and copper, which glistened in the summer sun. As she turned to look at them before heading to the field it suddenly struck her that her grandparents had never changed. She had noticed only a few new wrinkles between them, an odd grey hair here and there, but was sure people in their early seventies should look much older than they did. She shrugged her shoulders and felt grateful to have both of them in her life.
As Alba approached, the oddball group of animals lined up along the post and wire fence. The nag, Blair, a black Highland pony with a white diamond on her forehead, was a birthday present to Alba from Donald. The little Shetland pony, Freya, usually had a temper and wouldn't let anyone go near her, except Alba. Last but not least were the three B's, Betty, Bertha, and Bernard, the sheep. She had always had a soft side for animals, but there was something more to it, she felt somehow more deeply connected to them. Alba had grown up with them and considered them almost like her siblings since she was lacking in any human ones. She brushed the dirt from the knees of her jeans and headed inside, kicking off her high-top trainers as she went.
“How are they then? Did they miss ye?” Donald asked from behind his book, reclined in his overstuffed chair by the open hearth.
“Yeah, they did. Blair especially,” Alba said, her foot on the bottom step leading up to her loft bedroom.
“They get lonely without you, ye ken. Maybe you should visit more often.”
“Och, let the girl get on wi' it, will ye? Poor things probably exhausted after the long journey,” Catherine said with a playful tone of authority in her voice, directing her attention to Alba. “Get yourself settled and changed, I'll call to ye when dinner is ready.”
Alba went to her room where her suitcase was laid out on her bed. It looked like Catherine had begun to put her things away as she had done when Alba was younger, but stopped half way through. She was always forgetting that Alba was getting older. She pulled out a pair of trackies and a long sleeved shirt, the Boston Bruins logo emblazoned on the front. As she surfaced from the entanglement of fabric, stirring in the woods caught her attention.
She crawled across her bed, slowly, peering out her window, cautious not to disturb whatever it was. She lost sight of it for a moment and then it reappeared again through a gap in the trees. It was a blonde woman with a long, thin face clad in shimmery green garments, atop a white horse. Her face was distressed, and her demeanor agitated. Alba realized she was on the other side of the wall and wouldn't approach any closer than a few feet. The woman reigned in her horse and looked straight up at the window. Alba flattened herself against her plush bedcovers; sure the woman couldn't see her. She gazed upwards a second longer and then disappeared into the undergrowth. Alba sat for a moment, confused by what she had just seen, but couldn't think more on it before Catherine was calling her down for dinner.
As she descended the old wooden stairs, she reached the first landing and noticed the intricacy of the inside of the cottage. In between the low beams of the kitchen hung various dried herbs. The beams themselves were heavily knotted and bore deep cracks in places; wounds from hundreds of years of service. The banister and railings looked to have been hand carved. Alba was thinking to herself how there would never be anything like this to be found in American, when her attention was directed to the distinctly smoky smell of Cullen Skink wafting from the open hearth, her stomach protesting extended emptiness. Cullen Skink was Alba's favorite dish and no one could make it better than Catherine. Although the cottage was fitted with modern appliances, at Alba's mother's request, Catherine still preferred to cook the old way, in a cast iron pot hanging over the gently crackling fire, especially when making stews or soups. She said everything just tasted better that way.
The conversation over dinner was ever changing as it had been just over six months since Alba's last visit. Catherine and Donald's soft Highland accents flowed like the burn beside the cottage, lulling Alba into a kind of dream like state; she had almost forgotten about the strange woman she had seen earlier.
“Oh, Nan, I meant to ask you something,” Alba sat back up in her seat, after having slumped down with a full stomach and content heart.
“Aye, what's that then?”
“Well, when I was in my room earlier I saw a blonde woman wearing all green on a white horse. She looked really upset and I was just wondering if you knew her, maybe she needs help?”
Donald and Catherine exchanged almost imperceptible looks of concern, looks that Alba didn't miss but also didn't question.
“I'm not sure, I don't know anyone by that description, and I know everyone from here to Inverness.”
“Aye she does, she does enough talking,” Donald nudged his wife under the table with his foot, partly in a playful way, partly in an attempt to change the subject. Catherine cleared her throat and stood from her seat, beginning to clear the table. Alba was confused by their bizarre behavior but didn't push the question any further; instead she directed her attention to the photographs hung on the wall behind Donald.
A family portrait had been taken each time a new generation was born, beginning all the way back in the 1860s. Donald's family had seven boys, Donald being the seventh, just like his father before him. Catherine's family had eleven children, she herself being the second youngest. As the photos went along, Alba noticed that from her two time great grandparents on, the people didn't seem to display any extreme signs of aging- no grey hair, no wrinkles. Her eyes alighted on her grandparents' wedding picture. Though it was in black and white, Alba could still discern Catherine's stunning red hair and creamy features, stark next to the dark, chiseled man she knew to be Donald.
“Gran Da, how did you guys meet? And when?”
They exchanged another knowing look, but answered Alba's question anyway.
“Well, we met back in the early sixties while we were both on holiday in Spain. I spotted Miss Catherine Glencross from all the way down the beach and just had to speak to her.” Donald said with a sly smile. “She shot me down.”
“Aye, because you were such an arrogant, what's that word ye used earlier, Alba? Och, yes, it was 'creep'.”
“Well, I just thought you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen and I knew right then ye would be mine.”
“Oh, did ye then? And how about when I rejected ye the second time?”
“I still knew. God loves a trier, Alba, and try I did.”
“Yes he did, even followed me back to my parents’ house!”
“Now our house, might I add. Eventually she gave in, and now she's mine- a Glencross turned Fraser- as she has been for fifty years,” Donald beamed, his square, white teeth distinct behind full pink lips. Catherine smiled back, shaking her head slightly.
“You both look the same as you did when you got married,” Alba said, with emphasis.
“Well, thank ye, dear. It’s good genetics, no doubt. You'll have got them, also,” Catherine dodged the real question, bringing the last plate to the deep farmer's sink and dropping it in the soapy water.
“That's probably why people still ask me for my ID when I got to the movies,” Alba said, a smirk on her face, arms crossed over her chest.
“You'll love it when you're older, wee one. Plus, if yer bum looks anything like hers when you're that old-” Donald was cut off mid-sentence by a sudsy projectile hitting him square in the side of the face. He picked it up as if to throw it back at Catherine, but instead launched it right at Alba.
“Oh really, old man? This is how you're going to play it?” Alba ran over to the sink and refilled the sponge with water. Donald caught it with lightning reflexes and a water war began. Shrieks and laughter intermingled as the light outside began to wane.
When the fun was over and they had cleaned up, the trio sat down with steaming cups of tea and homemade short bread.
“Catherine, isn't there something important going on tomorrow?”
“I dinnae ken, Donald, I think it’s just a normal Thursday, is it not?”
“Aye. Alba, do you know of anything going on?”
Alba smirked at her grandparents; they both knew fine well what tomorrow was, as it was the reason for her visit every summer. Not only was it the Summer Solstice, but it also marked the date of Alba's eighteenth birthday. “I think there might just be something on, you know. Like a birthday, a big one, an eighteenth possibly.”
“Really? I was not informed of such an occasion,” Catherine said putting her hand over her heart in faux shock. “Of course we ken it’s your birthday. And you're right, it is a big one, you'll get a special surprise tomorrow. But, for now chicken, it’s very late and we must rise before the sun.”
“What could possibly be happening that early?” Alba inquired, genuinely interested.
“You shall find out then. Off to bed with ye.”
Alba hugged Catherine and Donald in succession and tiptoed up the stairs to the first landing, making it sound like she had gone all the way up, she strained her ears, hoping to pick up some kind of clue.
“Alba, I ken you're still there,” Donald said jokingly.
Alba snapped her fingers and took the final steps to her room. She was just going to have to be patient. After getting into bed, she leaned on both her elbows and stared out the window, her breath fogging up the glass. There was no sign of the lady she had seen earlier, just the deep murk of a forest at midnight, “the witching hour” her grandmother had always called it. She switched off her bedside lamp and drifted into a dreamy sleep, full of fairy tales from her childhood.
Her grandparents had given her a small sign upon her arrival with those words scrolled on it, which she now clutched to her chest as she rolled down the window of the old Morris, still painted the same shade of green as when it rolled off the assembly line in the '50s. Her grandfather, Donald, loved his car, as it was the first and only one he had purchased; he had taken good care of it from the day he bought it. Alba stuck her head out, letting the sea-bitten air toy with her russet curls. Just that morning she had been on a plane and now she was driving up the west coast of her namesake country, Scotland.
The scenic drive through the Trossachs and along the west coast always amazed Alba. It was beautiful anytime of the year, but especially around her birthday when spring collided suddenly with summer. Born on Summer Solstice, her grandmother, Catherine, had always told her she was special, but would never say why, just told her to wait until she was older. Alba hoped this year would be the one she would finally know what the big secret was, since she was turning eighteen. From Fort William to Loch Morar, Alba sat just out of the way of the wind whipping in through the open window. She took a deep breath, enjoying the salt sweet air of the sea. She always thought it smelled different in Scotland, but especially in the Highlands. It was a clean smell, clear of smog and other industrial excretion; it was the smell of fresh rain and wood smoke rolling gently out of chimneys, the smell of dew on grass, of brine and fish, of damp, rotting leaves and new growth, all rolled into one. There wasn't really one word to encompass it except to use Scotland as an adjective.
They finally rolled to a halt in front of old cottage situated snuggly into a grove beside the loch. Behind the cottage was a small field in which lived a few sheep, a nag, and a Shetland pony. Beyond that, a sweeping forest, swelling to a green hill resembling the head and shoulders of a sleeping giant. Alba as a child had rolled in the freshly fallen leaves in winter, played in the new growth in summer, but was never allowed to go beyond the stone wall that lain amongst the trees. It was an ancient wall, once used by previous generations to mark some kind of boundary. The wall rose at a mid-point to encompass a wrought iron gate, intricately designed with a Celtic knot tree surrounded by thistle and wild flowers. Now fallen into disrepair, moss covered with saplings growing through the crevices, it looked like something out of a fairytale. Alba never questioned what was on the other side or why she couldn't go there, she simply accepted that she wasn't allowed and played elsewhere.
The cottage itself was two stories high, constructed painstakingly with hand shaped, grey stones, now covered in lichens and ivy, but still standing strong. The roof, once thatched, was brought up to more modern standards with slate tiles. Attached to a side wall was a chicken coop from which emanated endless squeaks and chirps. The main building still boasted a root cellar below the kitchen floor, where Alba, even now, loved to play hide and seek with her grandfather. She thought the children's game was more fun as she got older because she could think of better places to hide, and instead of getting a piece of candy as a prize, she won a couple pounds to buy herself something nice from the shops in town.
She resurfaced from her musings by a high whiny coming from the field.
“Go on then, go see them. They'll have missed you,” Donald said, smiling directly into the face of his granddaughter, now his same height.
Alba was built much like her grandparents. She had Donald's Highland stature and lean physique, along with his strikingly blue eyes. She had her grandmother's dark red hair, streaked with gold and copper, which glistened in the summer sun. As she turned to look at them before heading to the field it suddenly struck her that her grandparents had never changed. She had noticed only a few new wrinkles between them, an odd grey hair here and there, but was sure people in their early seventies should look much older than they did. She shrugged her shoulders and felt grateful to have both of them in her life.
As Alba approached, the oddball group of animals lined up along the post and wire fence. The nag, Blair, a black Highland pony with a white diamond on her forehead, was a birthday present to Alba from Donald. The little Shetland pony, Freya, usually had a temper and wouldn't let anyone go near her, except Alba. Last but not least were the three B's, Betty, Bertha, and Bernard, the sheep. She had always had a soft side for animals, but there was something more to it, she felt somehow more deeply connected to them. Alba had grown up with them and considered them almost like her siblings since she was lacking in any human ones. She brushed the dirt from the knees of her jeans and headed inside, kicking off her high-top trainers as she went.
“How are they then? Did they miss ye?” Donald asked from behind his book, reclined in his overstuffed chair by the open hearth.
“Yeah, they did. Blair especially,” Alba said, her foot on the bottom step leading up to her loft bedroom.
“They get lonely without you, ye ken. Maybe you should visit more often.”
“Och, let the girl get on wi' it, will ye? Poor things probably exhausted after the long journey,” Catherine said with a playful tone of authority in her voice, directing her attention to Alba. “Get yourself settled and changed, I'll call to ye when dinner is ready.”
Alba went to her room where her suitcase was laid out on her bed. It looked like Catherine had begun to put her things away as she had done when Alba was younger, but stopped half way through. She was always forgetting that Alba was getting older. She pulled out a pair of trackies and a long sleeved shirt, the Boston Bruins logo emblazoned on the front. As she surfaced from the entanglement of fabric, stirring in the woods caught her attention.
She crawled across her bed, slowly, peering out her window, cautious not to disturb whatever it was. She lost sight of it for a moment and then it reappeared again through a gap in the trees. It was a blonde woman with a long, thin face clad in shimmery green garments, atop a white horse. Her face was distressed, and her demeanor agitated. Alba realized she was on the other side of the wall and wouldn't approach any closer than a few feet. The woman reigned in her horse and looked straight up at the window. Alba flattened herself against her plush bedcovers; sure the woman couldn't see her. She gazed upwards a second longer and then disappeared into the undergrowth. Alba sat for a moment, confused by what she had just seen, but couldn't think more on it before Catherine was calling her down for dinner.
As she descended the old wooden stairs, she reached the first landing and noticed the intricacy of the inside of the cottage. In between the low beams of the kitchen hung various dried herbs. The beams themselves were heavily knotted and bore deep cracks in places; wounds from hundreds of years of service. The banister and railings looked to have been hand carved. Alba was thinking to herself how there would never be anything like this to be found in American, when her attention was directed to the distinctly smoky smell of Cullen Skink wafting from the open hearth, her stomach protesting extended emptiness. Cullen Skink was Alba's favorite dish and no one could make it better than Catherine. Although the cottage was fitted with modern appliances, at Alba's mother's request, Catherine still preferred to cook the old way, in a cast iron pot hanging over the gently crackling fire, especially when making stews or soups. She said everything just tasted better that way.
The conversation over dinner was ever changing as it had been just over six months since Alba's last visit. Catherine and Donald's soft Highland accents flowed like the burn beside the cottage, lulling Alba into a kind of dream like state; she had almost forgotten about the strange woman she had seen earlier.
“Oh, Nan, I meant to ask you something,” Alba sat back up in her seat, after having slumped down with a full stomach and content heart.
“Aye, what's that then?”
“Well, when I was in my room earlier I saw a blonde woman wearing all green on a white horse. She looked really upset and I was just wondering if you knew her, maybe she needs help?”
Donald and Catherine exchanged almost imperceptible looks of concern, looks that Alba didn't miss but also didn't question.
“I'm not sure, I don't know anyone by that description, and I know everyone from here to Inverness.”
“Aye she does, she does enough talking,” Donald nudged his wife under the table with his foot, partly in a playful way, partly in an attempt to change the subject. Catherine cleared her throat and stood from her seat, beginning to clear the table. Alba was confused by their bizarre behavior but didn't push the question any further; instead she directed her attention to the photographs hung on the wall behind Donald.
A family portrait had been taken each time a new generation was born, beginning all the way back in the 1860s. Donald's family had seven boys, Donald being the seventh, just like his father before him. Catherine's family had eleven children, she herself being the second youngest. As the photos went along, Alba noticed that from her two time great grandparents on, the people didn't seem to display any extreme signs of aging- no grey hair, no wrinkles. Her eyes alighted on her grandparents' wedding picture. Though it was in black and white, Alba could still discern Catherine's stunning red hair and creamy features, stark next to the dark, chiseled man she knew to be Donald.
“Gran Da, how did you guys meet? And when?”
They exchanged another knowing look, but answered Alba's question anyway.
“Well, we met back in the early sixties while we were both on holiday in Spain. I spotted Miss Catherine Glencross from all the way down the beach and just had to speak to her.” Donald said with a sly smile. “She shot me down.”
“Aye, because you were such an arrogant, what's that word ye used earlier, Alba? Och, yes, it was 'creep'.”
“Well, I just thought you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen and I knew right then ye would be mine.”
“Oh, did ye then? And how about when I rejected ye the second time?”
“I still knew. God loves a trier, Alba, and try I did.”
“Yes he did, even followed me back to my parents’ house!”
“Now our house, might I add. Eventually she gave in, and now she's mine- a Glencross turned Fraser- as she has been for fifty years,” Donald beamed, his square, white teeth distinct behind full pink lips. Catherine smiled back, shaking her head slightly.
“You both look the same as you did when you got married,” Alba said, with emphasis.
“Well, thank ye, dear. It’s good genetics, no doubt. You'll have got them, also,” Catherine dodged the real question, bringing the last plate to the deep farmer's sink and dropping it in the soapy water.
“That's probably why people still ask me for my ID when I got to the movies,” Alba said, a smirk on her face, arms crossed over her chest.
“You'll love it when you're older, wee one. Plus, if yer bum looks anything like hers when you're that old-” Donald was cut off mid-sentence by a sudsy projectile hitting him square in the side of the face. He picked it up as if to throw it back at Catherine, but instead launched it right at Alba.
“Oh really, old man? This is how you're going to play it?” Alba ran over to the sink and refilled the sponge with water. Donald caught it with lightning reflexes and a water war began. Shrieks and laughter intermingled as the light outside began to wane.
When the fun was over and they had cleaned up, the trio sat down with steaming cups of tea and homemade short bread.
“Catherine, isn't there something important going on tomorrow?”
“I dinnae ken, Donald, I think it’s just a normal Thursday, is it not?”
“Aye. Alba, do you know of anything going on?”
Alba smirked at her grandparents; they both knew fine well what tomorrow was, as it was the reason for her visit every summer. Not only was it the Summer Solstice, but it also marked the date of Alba's eighteenth birthday. “I think there might just be something on, you know. Like a birthday, a big one, an eighteenth possibly.”
“Really? I was not informed of such an occasion,” Catherine said putting her hand over her heart in faux shock. “Of course we ken it’s your birthday. And you're right, it is a big one, you'll get a special surprise tomorrow. But, for now chicken, it’s very late and we must rise before the sun.”
“What could possibly be happening that early?” Alba inquired, genuinely interested.
“You shall find out then. Off to bed with ye.”
Alba hugged Catherine and Donald in succession and tiptoed up the stairs to the first landing, making it sound like she had gone all the way up, she strained her ears, hoping to pick up some kind of clue.
“Alba, I ken you're still there,” Donald said jokingly.
Alba snapped her fingers and took the final steps to her room. She was just going to have to be patient. After getting into bed, she leaned on both her elbows and stared out the window, her breath fogging up the glass. There was no sign of the lady she had seen earlier, just the deep murk of a forest at midnight, “the witching hour” her grandmother had always called it. She switched off her bedside lamp and drifted into a dreamy sleep, full of fairy tales from her childhood.
Chapter 2
Alba was rudely awoken by cockcrow at around five o'clock the next morning. She pulled the covers indelicately over her head and rolled away from the dawning light piercing the thin curtains of the window. She was about to doze off again when she heard Catherine's steps coming threateningly up the stairs. For someone almost six feet tall, Catherine had the physique and demeanor of a ballet dancer; upright and airy, she glided rather than walked. She tore the blankets from Alba's weakly clutching hands and opened the curtains, singing “Loch Lomond” at the top of her voice. Despite her beautiful singing voice, Alba would have loved for Catherine to take her racket back from whence it came. She cracked one lid, a look of despair in the depths of the singular blue eye.
“Take pity on me, I only got like two hours of sleep,” she said, sitting up and clutching her knees to her chest. She groaned and looked her grandmother over. “What are you wearing?”
Catherine twirled a few times round, her toes deftly sliding across the smooth wooden floor. She was clad in an off white, flowing cloak. She had a tartan sash tied around her waist, the pattern Alba recognized as Donald's clan- Fraser. A crown of wild flowers placed among naturally flowing hair topped off her strange attire. Behind Catherine, Alba noticed a garment bag hanging from a joining pin on one of the beams.
“Let me guess, I have to dress like that too?” Alba said, pointing her finger accusingly at Catherine, who simply smiled with delight.
“Precisely. Get ye up then, get dressed.”
“Should I bring anything?” Alba called to Catherine as she descended the stairs.
“Naught but a free spirit and an open mind,” Catherine replied airily.
Alba groaned and sat on the edge of her bed, contemplating lying back down and pretending she never woke up in the first place, but clearly Catherine had something planned. Out of nothing but pure, morbid curiosity towards what could possibly be so interesting at six in the morning, Alba dawned her own cloak and flowers, her sash being MacIntosh instead of Fraser. She looked in the mirror, tilting her head slightly, thinking there was something eerily right about it.
She took the steps two at a time. Upon reaching the bottom a flash went off in her face.
“Was the necessary!” she yelled as a statement more than a question, receiving only a chuckle from Donald. “It’s so early and you're really going to accost me with pictures?”
“Well, I just want to remember your first time, that's all!”
Too irritated to form a sentence, Alba settled for a facial expression to portray her emotions. She turned her less than impressed attention to Catherine who waggled a slim, bare foot from under her cloak.
“You want me to go barefoot, too? What if I step on like a rock or a twig, or like a turtle?”
“You Americans, you worry too much! There's nothin' out there bar leaves and maybe a couple bugs. You need to toughen up,” Donald teased Alba.
She looked defiantly at her grandfather, kicking off her Toms so they fell just short of hitting him. “Fine, you want me to be tough, I can be tough. I'm from Boston, remember.”
The two women departed- stark blanched figures against the new morning. They walked past the field where the sheep were huddled together, Freya in between them, sleeping upright and leaning on each other for support. Blair gave a short, quiet neigh as if she was trying not to wake the others, but still say hello to Alba. Alba waved, feeling silly for doing so, but received an acknowledging head flick in return.
They walked past the barn and into the woods. As they approached the old wall, Alba felt a surge of panic, like someone or something was watching her. She turned her head slowly and swore she saw a flash of gold on the other side of the wall. Catherine sensed Alba's discomfort but didn't acknowledge it; they would discuss that later, one secret revealed at a time.
They followed the wall for some time, not speaking, Alba growing too curious for questions. It took a sudden turn and they followed the bend until they reached the bottom of the sleeping giant. They continued to follow the path and Alba started noticing that around every fifth tree were sprigs of wild flowers tied with flaxen twine, marking the path to somewhere unknown. They scaled a steep incline and as they crested the hill, a stone circle came into view. Within the circle were twenty other women clad in the same garments with varying tartans, standing around a pile of kindling and logs. Alba looked questioningly at Catherine, but she didn't turn her head, simply smiled and walked on. As they reached the circle, Alba recognized women from the town. She glanced around and caught eyes with a girl she was sure was named Mary, who shrugged and faced center once more.
Catherine placed Alba between a wizened looking woman and a girl who wasn't much older than herself. Catherine walked to the center of the circle and raised her arms above her head, turning her face to the sky. The clearly more experienced women followed suit, the younger ones simply looking baffled at each other. Catherine looked around the circle, patiently waiting for the girls to catch on, which they did, raising their arms as well.
She smiled and began to chant.
“We swear by peace and love to stand, heart to heart and hand in hand. Mark us spirits and hear us now, confirming this is our sacred vow.”
The older women repeated with Catherine in unison.
“We swear by peace and love to stand, heart to heart and hand in hand...”
They crossed their arms across their chests, clasping their right hands with the left hand of the woman next to them. They all began to sway, like leaves of grass in a breeze.
“...mark us spirits and hear us now, confirming this is our sacred vow.”
The younger girls joined in, and the circle began moving as if by its own accord. Catherine, still in the center, struck a flint several times, lighting the thin kindling sticks. The circle now began to move deisell- with the sun- around the blaze in the center. Alba was still as confused as she was when she arrived, but could feel herself beginning to sink into the ebb and flow of the other women, as if they were truly connected heart to heart.
The circle and chanting ceased with the abrupt halt of Catherine's movements. They released each other and took a step forward, now touching shoulders.
“Elders, step back. Maidens, come forward.”
As the older women stepped backwards, their heads bowed and hands outstretched, the five girls were left standing nervously, cautiously taking sidelong glances at each other.
“Today,” Catherine called out in a booming voice, “is a special day where we welcome our daughters and granddaughters to our Còmhlan. As you all have recently come of age, you may now choose to become active members. We are a chapter of a sisterhood that has existed within Scotland for thousands of years. Though we are a dwindling group of people, there are still some of us who practice and worship our Mother. She gives us life and nourishment, and for this she should be thanked, along with her lunar and planetary sisters. With celestial worship, we also have a respect and admiration for those aspects of life here on earth. The trees, the animals, all things have a spirit within them which we are all connected. If you would like to join in this eternal bond, please now step forward.”
With a moment’s hesitation and a quick glance around the circle, Alba was the first to step forward, much to Catherine's delight.
“Sister Alba, you have chosen to become part of your Druidic heritage,” Catherine lifted her hands skyward once more, Alba doing the same.
Catherine scooped a small handful of ash and earth, signaling Alba to come closer.
“Fàilte,” Catherine said, rubbing a bit of the ash across Alba's forehead, on her chest above her heart, and on the palms of her hands.
Seeing that there weren't going to be any human sacrifices or voodoo magic, the other girls stepped forward, all receiving their ash markings. Once the last girl had stepped back, the elders stepped forward and Catherine led a chant in Gaelic, one that Alba could not have begun to understand. She joined the swaying and dancing, wondering when she too would learn that chant.
The ceremony ended sometime later when the sun was fully in the sky. The women began to depart, speaking of oddly normal things. They were normal people who possessed an abnormal secret passed down to them through generations. Catherine waited at the edge of the circle until the last woman left. She and Alba clasped hands and walked down the hill together.
“So, how was it then?” Donald asked from his usual place in front of the fire.
“I had no idea Nan did all that! It was so cool and now I'm one, too,” Alba replied proudly, sitting heavily in the plush chair across from him.
“Do you know what it is you are then?”
Alba looked sheepishly to Catherine.
“No,” she admitted. “Not really, but whatever it is, it’s amazing.”
“You are now part of a group of women called Druids. There are different levels that ye can achieve, and different practices you can perform. A long time ago, Druids were highly respected religious figures. Now a days, though, we just keep the ceremonies alive,” Catherine ended with a sad tone.
Donald looked between the two women, eyes alighting on Catherine.
“Now that she knows part of her ancestry, I think she deserves to know the rest,” Donald leaned forward, eyes sparkling.
“Yes, of course,” Catherine said a bit nervously, sitting next to Alba, settling her cloak around her legs.
“Is this what I've been waiting eighteen years to hear?”
“I believe it might be. Now, before we begin, you must swear something to us,” Donald leaned forward looking stoic. “You must swear that whatever ye hear today dinnae leave this house. You must accept it without question as we know it to be true, so will you. Your mother was made to swear on her eighteenth as well.”
“I swear,” Alba replied quickly, holding her right hand up.
Her grandparents exchanged a nod of approval and both settled back in the chairs, ready for what was sure to be a long story. Alba was too excited and expectant to truly settle, so she pulled her legs under her and clasped her hands together to keep from fidgeting.
“Where to begin, where to begin. Well, around two hundred years ago, your two time great-grandmother lived closer to the sea than we do, a place where seals would come up on the rocks after dark, shed their skins, and dance in their human form. They are known here about as selkies. Your great-great-gran was curious about these creatures and defied her parents’ wishes, going down to watch them. She did this several times, watching the same dark, handsome selkie. Eventually she fell in love with him. She decided she must have him, so one night she went down to the shore and stole his skin. To her surprise, he had been watching her too, and they agreed to run away together. Long story short, they lived for many years happily and healthy, producing seven sons. Now, there is a lore that says if the seventh son has seven sons; the last of those seven would be gifted with second sight. This is the part where you decide whether you believe or not,” waiting for Alba's reaction, only receiving a wide-eyed stare, he continued, “I am the seventh son of a seventh son and do possess this gift. I have seen many things before they have happened, some horrible- war, destruction, death- but I have also seen many beautiful things, your birth being one of them.”
Alba sat in stunned silence for a moment and then burst out laughing.
“You're trying to tell me that we're descended from seals and you're some kind of fortune teller?”
“Well, aye and no. He was a selkie, which is different from a seal, and I can foresee events, not the same thing as those lousy fortune tellers on the tube.”
Alba looked from Donald to Catherine, waiting for them to admit their jest, but they both looked at her with utmost seriousness.
“You're insane, you're both absolutely insane! The Druid thing I can deal with, this- you are both clearly senile. I just, ugh, I can't.”
Alba stormed away upstairs in utter disbelief that they would try and tell her that her family descended from some kind of fairy tale. How could they be?
She sat heavily on her bed and gazed out her window. She was glaring at the tree tops when she spotted movement below, in the same area she had the previous day. Alba squinted, moving closer to the window. As she suspected, it was the same woman, dressed in the same green garments, riding the same white horse. This time she looked pleasantly up at Alba's window. Alba waved and the woman raised a hand as well. She decided she would go speak to this woman and ran down stairs. Donald barricaded the door, muscular arms crossed indignantly.
“You must not ever go over that wall, do ye understand?” Donald's stern voice echoing in the rafters. He grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her slightly.
“Whatever. Let me go.”
“You must promise me, Alba."
She simply glared and turned away from him, going back upstairs and deciding that night that she would go over the wall, just to show her superstitious grandparents that they were wrong. There couldn't possibly be anything worse than them lurking behind it.
“Take pity on me, I only got like two hours of sleep,” she said, sitting up and clutching her knees to her chest. She groaned and looked her grandmother over. “What are you wearing?”
Catherine twirled a few times round, her toes deftly sliding across the smooth wooden floor. She was clad in an off white, flowing cloak. She had a tartan sash tied around her waist, the pattern Alba recognized as Donald's clan- Fraser. A crown of wild flowers placed among naturally flowing hair topped off her strange attire. Behind Catherine, Alba noticed a garment bag hanging from a joining pin on one of the beams.
“Let me guess, I have to dress like that too?” Alba said, pointing her finger accusingly at Catherine, who simply smiled with delight.
“Precisely. Get ye up then, get dressed.”
“Should I bring anything?” Alba called to Catherine as she descended the stairs.
“Naught but a free spirit and an open mind,” Catherine replied airily.
Alba groaned and sat on the edge of her bed, contemplating lying back down and pretending she never woke up in the first place, but clearly Catherine had something planned. Out of nothing but pure, morbid curiosity towards what could possibly be so interesting at six in the morning, Alba dawned her own cloak and flowers, her sash being MacIntosh instead of Fraser. She looked in the mirror, tilting her head slightly, thinking there was something eerily right about it.
She took the steps two at a time. Upon reaching the bottom a flash went off in her face.
“Was the necessary!” she yelled as a statement more than a question, receiving only a chuckle from Donald. “It’s so early and you're really going to accost me with pictures?”
“Well, I just want to remember your first time, that's all!”
Too irritated to form a sentence, Alba settled for a facial expression to portray her emotions. She turned her less than impressed attention to Catherine who waggled a slim, bare foot from under her cloak.
“You want me to go barefoot, too? What if I step on like a rock or a twig, or like a turtle?”
“You Americans, you worry too much! There's nothin' out there bar leaves and maybe a couple bugs. You need to toughen up,” Donald teased Alba.
She looked defiantly at her grandfather, kicking off her Toms so they fell just short of hitting him. “Fine, you want me to be tough, I can be tough. I'm from Boston, remember.”
The two women departed- stark blanched figures against the new morning. They walked past the field where the sheep were huddled together, Freya in between them, sleeping upright and leaning on each other for support. Blair gave a short, quiet neigh as if she was trying not to wake the others, but still say hello to Alba. Alba waved, feeling silly for doing so, but received an acknowledging head flick in return.
They walked past the barn and into the woods. As they approached the old wall, Alba felt a surge of panic, like someone or something was watching her. She turned her head slowly and swore she saw a flash of gold on the other side of the wall. Catherine sensed Alba's discomfort but didn't acknowledge it; they would discuss that later, one secret revealed at a time.
They followed the wall for some time, not speaking, Alba growing too curious for questions. It took a sudden turn and they followed the bend until they reached the bottom of the sleeping giant. They continued to follow the path and Alba started noticing that around every fifth tree were sprigs of wild flowers tied with flaxen twine, marking the path to somewhere unknown. They scaled a steep incline and as they crested the hill, a stone circle came into view. Within the circle were twenty other women clad in the same garments with varying tartans, standing around a pile of kindling and logs. Alba looked questioningly at Catherine, but she didn't turn her head, simply smiled and walked on. As they reached the circle, Alba recognized women from the town. She glanced around and caught eyes with a girl she was sure was named Mary, who shrugged and faced center once more.
Catherine placed Alba between a wizened looking woman and a girl who wasn't much older than herself. Catherine walked to the center of the circle and raised her arms above her head, turning her face to the sky. The clearly more experienced women followed suit, the younger ones simply looking baffled at each other. Catherine looked around the circle, patiently waiting for the girls to catch on, which they did, raising their arms as well.
She smiled and began to chant.
“We swear by peace and love to stand, heart to heart and hand in hand. Mark us spirits and hear us now, confirming this is our sacred vow.”
The older women repeated with Catherine in unison.
“We swear by peace and love to stand, heart to heart and hand in hand...”
They crossed their arms across their chests, clasping their right hands with the left hand of the woman next to them. They all began to sway, like leaves of grass in a breeze.
“...mark us spirits and hear us now, confirming this is our sacred vow.”
The younger girls joined in, and the circle began moving as if by its own accord. Catherine, still in the center, struck a flint several times, lighting the thin kindling sticks. The circle now began to move deisell- with the sun- around the blaze in the center. Alba was still as confused as she was when she arrived, but could feel herself beginning to sink into the ebb and flow of the other women, as if they were truly connected heart to heart.
The circle and chanting ceased with the abrupt halt of Catherine's movements. They released each other and took a step forward, now touching shoulders.
“Elders, step back. Maidens, come forward.”
As the older women stepped backwards, their heads bowed and hands outstretched, the five girls were left standing nervously, cautiously taking sidelong glances at each other.
“Today,” Catherine called out in a booming voice, “is a special day where we welcome our daughters and granddaughters to our Còmhlan. As you all have recently come of age, you may now choose to become active members. We are a chapter of a sisterhood that has existed within Scotland for thousands of years. Though we are a dwindling group of people, there are still some of us who practice and worship our Mother. She gives us life and nourishment, and for this she should be thanked, along with her lunar and planetary sisters. With celestial worship, we also have a respect and admiration for those aspects of life here on earth. The trees, the animals, all things have a spirit within them which we are all connected. If you would like to join in this eternal bond, please now step forward.”
With a moment’s hesitation and a quick glance around the circle, Alba was the first to step forward, much to Catherine's delight.
“Sister Alba, you have chosen to become part of your Druidic heritage,” Catherine lifted her hands skyward once more, Alba doing the same.
Catherine scooped a small handful of ash and earth, signaling Alba to come closer.
“Fàilte,” Catherine said, rubbing a bit of the ash across Alba's forehead, on her chest above her heart, and on the palms of her hands.
Seeing that there weren't going to be any human sacrifices or voodoo magic, the other girls stepped forward, all receiving their ash markings. Once the last girl had stepped back, the elders stepped forward and Catherine led a chant in Gaelic, one that Alba could not have begun to understand. She joined the swaying and dancing, wondering when she too would learn that chant.
The ceremony ended sometime later when the sun was fully in the sky. The women began to depart, speaking of oddly normal things. They were normal people who possessed an abnormal secret passed down to them through generations. Catherine waited at the edge of the circle until the last woman left. She and Alba clasped hands and walked down the hill together.
“So, how was it then?” Donald asked from his usual place in front of the fire.
“I had no idea Nan did all that! It was so cool and now I'm one, too,” Alba replied proudly, sitting heavily in the plush chair across from him.
“Do you know what it is you are then?”
Alba looked sheepishly to Catherine.
“No,” she admitted. “Not really, but whatever it is, it’s amazing.”
“You are now part of a group of women called Druids. There are different levels that ye can achieve, and different practices you can perform. A long time ago, Druids were highly respected religious figures. Now a days, though, we just keep the ceremonies alive,” Catherine ended with a sad tone.
Donald looked between the two women, eyes alighting on Catherine.
“Now that she knows part of her ancestry, I think she deserves to know the rest,” Donald leaned forward, eyes sparkling.
“Yes, of course,” Catherine said a bit nervously, sitting next to Alba, settling her cloak around her legs.
“Is this what I've been waiting eighteen years to hear?”
“I believe it might be. Now, before we begin, you must swear something to us,” Donald leaned forward looking stoic. “You must swear that whatever ye hear today dinnae leave this house. You must accept it without question as we know it to be true, so will you. Your mother was made to swear on her eighteenth as well.”
“I swear,” Alba replied quickly, holding her right hand up.
Her grandparents exchanged a nod of approval and both settled back in the chairs, ready for what was sure to be a long story. Alba was too excited and expectant to truly settle, so she pulled her legs under her and clasped her hands together to keep from fidgeting.
“Where to begin, where to begin. Well, around two hundred years ago, your two time great-grandmother lived closer to the sea than we do, a place where seals would come up on the rocks after dark, shed their skins, and dance in their human form. They are known here about as selkies. Your great-great-gran was curious about these creatures and defied her parents’ wishes, going down to watch them. She did this several times, watching the same dark, handsome selkie. Eventually she fell in love with him. She decided she must have him, so one night she went down to the shore and stole his skin. To her surprise, he had been watching her too, and they agreed to run away together. Long story short, they lived for many years happily and healthy, producing seven sons. Now, there is a lore that says if the seventh son has seven sons; the last of those seven would be gifted with second sight. This is the part where you decide whether you believe or not,” waiting for Alba's reaction, only receiving a wide-eyed stare, he continued, “I am the seventh son of a seventh son and do possess this gift. I have seen many things before they have happened, some horrible- war, destruction, death- but I have also seen many beautiful things, your birth being one of them.”
Alba sat in stunned silence for a moment and then burst out laughing.
“You're trying to tell me that we're descended from seals and you're some kind of fortune teller?”
“Well, aye and no. He was a selkie, which is different from a seal, and I can foresee events, not the same thing as those lousy fortune tellers on the tube.”
Alba looked from Donald to Catherine, waiting for them to admit their jest, but they both looked at her with utmost seriousness.
“You're insane, you're both absolutely insane! The Druid thing I can deal with, this- you are both clearly senile. I just, ugh, I can't.”
Alba stormed away upstairs in utter disbelief that they would try and tell her that her family descended from some kind of fairy tale. How could they be?
She sat heavily on her bed and gazed out her window. She was glaring at the tree tops when she spotted movement below, in the same area she had the previous day. Alba squinted, moving closer to the window. As she suspected, it was the same woman, dressed in the same green garments, riding the same white horse. This time she looked pleasantly up at Alba's window. Alba waved and the woman raised a hand as well. She decided she would go speak to this woman and ran down stairs. Donald barricaded the door, muscular arms crossed indignantly.
“You must not ever go over that wall, do ye understand?” Donald's stern voice echoing in the rafters. He grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her slightly.
“Whatever. Let me go.”
“You must promise me, Alba."
She simply glared and turned away from him, going back upstairs and deciding that night that she would go over the wall, just to show her superstitious grandparents that they were wrong. There couldn't possibly be anything worse than them lurking behind it.
Chapter 3
Alba waited until midnight when she knew she could flee without being seen. Having only brought summer clothes, she dawned the thick white cloak she had worn that morning to keep her warm in the brisk air of the night. Midsummer in Scotland meant that the darkness wasn't total and Alba's eyes adjusted quickly to the weak light. She sprinted out across the garden, past the field with the sleeping animals and to the wall. When she reached it, she got the sinking feeling of being watched again but ignored it, slowing her pace and walking to the gate. She stood in front of the wrought iron, ignoring the nerves firing in her mind, and pushed it open, afraid it would fall off of its rusted hinges. It didn't, and swung smoothly as if it had recently been used. Alba stepped through and was hit with a sudden rush of light. She stumbled back a few steps, shutting the gate. When she rubbed her eyes and peered around, she couldn't help but let her jaw drop open.
She was assaulted by golden tinged light, which she assumed came from some kind of flood lights overhead. She could hear soft bagpipe music and a man danced by, playing a flute. There were people around her, but there was something different about them. They all wore outfits of green, crushed velvet and had strikingly blonde hair. Their features were long and fair, their movements, to Alba's surprise, were like that of Catherine's- not quite walking, not quite floating, somewhere in between. The people weren't fazed by her abrupt appearance, rather welcomed her, offering cups of a sweet smelling, honey liquid. Alba smiled politely, waving away the offer, along with any plates of unusual food presented before her. They weren't offended by her denial of hospitality. They took her into the center of a group and twirled her round. She wondered if she had stumbled upon a ceilidh, between the music and merriment, but she was sure there wasn't something quite right about the situation. Suddenly, the music stopped and the people around her bowed elegantly in her direction. She looked confusedly around, unsure of their behavior.
“Ahem,” she heard from behind her, and spun around to find herself towering over the small woman she had seen watching her from the woods. Alba screamed partly out of fright and partly because she was hit with such an astounding realization that she could think of nothing else but to run. They didn't try to stop her, so she continued to run. She ran through the gate, past the field, and into the cottage, where her grandparents were waiting for her.
She came up short of the open door, walking through with her head hung. She knew she had done it this time. She walked over to the hearth and sat on the cool stones, her long legs stretched in front of her; they were scratched and bleeding from her blundering escape. She tried to brush the dirt and debris away from the open wounds, but caused more bleeding and irritation instead. Catherine brought a wet cloth over and began to clean her up.
“Ye met the fairies, then, did ye?” Her accent strong with irritation and disappointment. “I told ye to stay away for a reason, Alba. That was the very reason ye came face to face with. She is an evil woman, not of this world, or the next, caught somewhere in between. They are descendants of the Fallen, the remnants of the War in Heaven, trapped here for eternity. There is iron placed amongst the stones in the wall, and the trees that grow close by, the saplings that grow from it, are rowan and elder, all protective measures. The gate isn't there to look pretty; it is the ultimate protection against them. Did ye speak to any of them?”
“No.”
“Did you accept any of their offers?”
“No.”
Catherine sat back on her heels, studying Alba's face.
“Och, well. They cannae hurt ye anyway, you were baptized as a wain,” Donald made a point to say.
“She renounced that protection this morning by accepting the pagan tradition, Don; you ken that as well as I do.” Catherine turned her attention back to Alba with a sudden thought. “Please tell me ye shut the gate?”
Alba looked between Donald and Catherine, realizing now the gravity of what she had done, honestly shaking her head no. Catherine let out a growl of anger, throwing the towel on the floor and storming out the front door.
“Ye've done it now, wee one,” Donald said, shaking his head and lighting a pipe. “You're gonnae be in big trouble when she gets a hold of ye again.”
He puffed at a pipe for a few moments, relaxing back into his chair. All of a sudden he was up like a shot; the pipe fell from his mouth and he rushed over to Alba, grasping her by the arms and pulling her to her feet. As he touched her, the world around her dissolved into a scene that looked uncomfortably familiar. She recognized it as the place she had been only a short time prior. Instead of beautiful people playing music in a light flooded grove, she saw deformed creatures wearing ragged clothes moving slowly, painfully. The vision changed again and Alba saw a palace of sorts, the walls made of trees bent against their will, their intertwined branches and leaves forming the ceiling, letting only a beam of light through. The beam was shining on the beautiful woman, sat on her throne of weaved oak branches. She held a slachdan, a staff of sorts made out of white wood, carved with Celtic designs. She twirled and twisted it with practiced dexterity, manipulating something on the floor before her.
The woman tilted her head menacingly, a smile creasing one side of her lips, thrusting the slachdan in front of her. The thing she had been toying with on the floor came into view, now wearing manacles of roots, blood dripping from the scratches on her face, her arms gouged where the roots held her. Catherine.
She found herself screaming at the top of her voice, eyes streaming, but standing on the hearth, Donald still gripping her by the arms, both for her support and his own. Alba calmed herself slightly, still trembling and weeping uncontrollably, looking to Donald for something, something other than the blank stare he had worn since their return from the vision.
She placed her hands on both of his cheeks, looking into his eyes, trying to find him.
“Gran Da,” she said sucking in her sobs, “Gran Da I need you right now, she needs you.”
He placed his hands over hers, letting a single tear make the journey from the crease of his eye, agonizingly shut tight. He suddenly snapped out of it and stormed off, leaving Alba stunned in the middle of the living room.
She could hear Donald rustling around somewhere, and headed in the direction the sound was coming from. She found him just as his legs disappeared into the loft. She climbed the ladder protruding from the square hole in the ceiling and found herself in a room she had never seen before. It was decorated with tapestries displaying various scenes including a vivid stag hunt. The smell of incense wafted around the place and pillows decorated most of the floor space. She turned her attention to Donald, who with his back to her, was digging through an archaic wooden trunk. He turned round suddenly, brandishing a sgian dubh in one hand and a dirk in the other. His jet dark hair and demeanor were chaotic, and in the moment he closely resembled his Highland ancestors.
Alba stepped back in shock, and Donald lowered his weapons. She stepped forward and hugged him around the waist. With her head on his chest, she could hear his erratic and rapid heartbeat. He was ready for the fray.
“We need to get her back, Alba,” he said, with seriousness in his tone that Alba had never heard before. It made her realize that she should have believed what her grandparents had told her. This was her fault. She felt the stinging threat of tears, but choked them back. Donald needed her right now, Catherine needed them both. She could cry and blame herself later. She took a step back, rubbing the residual moisture from her eyes.
She took the sgian dubh, looking it over. It looked hand-made, crafted with such skill and love; things weren't made that way anymore.
“Yer great-grandfather made it with his bare hands. He was a skilled craftsman and the sgian dubh was, at that time, the only piece of iron available to Highlanders to use as protection. He also possessed certain abilities because of his heritage. He could converse with animals, understand them in ways normal humans cannae, as can I, as can you. That was another thing I needed to tell you. You have a deeply rooted connection with the earth and its inhabitants, even more so than Catherine. Ye could become an extremely powerful Druid someday, Alba.”
“That's why Blair likes me so much,” the realization dawning on her. “Will this...ability, help us save Nan?”
“It should. The Fairy Queen dinnae like black horses, doesn't allow them in her kingdom, fears them like. That's where Blair comes in. Alba...”
“Yes?”
“There are a few things I should tell ye. In the vision, those weren't the people you saw earlier were they?”
“No, definitely not. The people I saw were stunning, and healthy.”
“This is because they use a power of theirs called glamour. They can project what they would like you to see, what you want to see, what you imagine them as. They will do this again, a technique to try and confuse ye. Dinnae believe it, Alba; remember what they are truly like, the horrible, nasty creatures they are. Also, there is only so far I can go; I'm not strong enough to face the Queen. I'll distract the others, but ye will have to go in on your own. You alone have to faculty to face her because of the gifts you possess. You intimidate her.”
“Is that why she was watching from the woods?”
“Aye, she knew that ye were coming of age, that you are a force as great as her own. She has nae use for Catherine. She wants to face you and has probably been planning for this since ye were wee.”
Alba slumped to the floor with her head in her hands. Two days of fairy tales coming true was too much. She let the tears flow now. Donald knelt down in front of her, prying her hands away from her face.
“This is too much, I can't- I can't do this. I just, this is all too, I don't know. I- I...” She stammered and sobbed. Donald lifted her to her feet.
“Alba Catherine look at me,” she lifted her eyes to his. “You must, this is a matter of life, no death will happen today if ye remain strong. Summon the strength; ye have Highland blood in your veins. Do you think the men at Culloden shoogled in their shoon when direly outnumbered by the bloody English? No, they kent what they had to do. They had to fight for country, for themselves, but above all for their families. There is nothing more important or greater than family, I ken ye know that. This is what you were born to do.”
Alba sucked in her breath, trying her best to be confident, she caught her reflection in the blade she still clasped and nodded to it. “I am a Highlander. I will fear nothing. I was born to do this.”
She thrust the blade upwards, as did Donald, clanging together in confirmation of the sojourn were about to embark upon.
Armed with their iron blades, they set out. Donald wore a silver cross around his neck and carried a flask of holy water for extra protection. Alba carried sprigs of rowan.
“We'll bring Blair with us, ye'll need her.”
They worked together to saddle the nag, who stood stock still, head upright, understanding what was needed of her.
“Are you ready for this?” Alba asked her. Blair snorted, nodding her head in agreement. “Alright then, here goes nothing.”
Alba mounted, and with Donald walking beside her, the trio slowly walked towards the gate, knowing what needed to be done, but also not quite sure who would they would face on the other side. Donald pushed the gate open. Yelling like a mad man he ran through, Blair and Alba close on his heels. She sucked in a chest full of crisp air, exhaled her fear, and plowed forward to the unknown.
She was assaulted by golden tinged light, which she assumed came from some kind of flood lights overhead. She could hear soft bagpipe music and a man danced by, playing a flute. There were people around her, but there was something different about them. They all wore outfits of green, crushed velvet and had strikingly blonde hair. Their features were long and fair, their movements, to Alba's surprise, were like that of Catherine's- not quite walking, not quite floating, somewhere in between. The people weren't fazed by her abrupt appearance, rather welcomed her, offering cups of a sweet smelling, honey liquid. Alba smiled politely, waving away the offer, along with any plates of unusual food presented before her. They weren't offended by her denial of hospitality. They took her into the center of a group and twirled her round. She wondered if she had stumbled upon a ceilidh, between the music and merriment, but she was sure there wasn't something quite right about the situation. Suddenly, the music stopped and the people around her bowed elegantly in her direction. She looked confusedly around, unsure of their behavior.
“Ahem,” she heard from behind her, and spun around to find herself towering over the small woman she had seen watching her from the woods. Alba screamed partly out of fright and partly because she was hit with such an astounding realization that she could think of nothing else but to run. They didn't try to stop her, so she continued to run. She ran through the gate, past the field, and into the cottage, where her grandparents were waiting for her.
She came up short of the open door, walking through with her head hung. She knew she had done it this time. She walked over to the hearth and sat on the cool stones, her long legs stretched in front of her; they were scratched and bleeding from her blundering escape. She tried to brush the dirt and debris away from the open wounds, but caused more bleeding and irritation instead. Catherine brought a wet cloth over and began to clean her up.
“Ye met the fairies, then, did ye?” Her accent strong with irritation and disappointment. “I told ye to stay away for a reason, Alba. That was the very reason ye came face to face with. She is an evil woman, not of this world, or the next, caught somewhere in between. They are descendants of the Fallen, the remnants of the War in Heaven, trapped here for eternity. There is iron placed amongst the stones in the wall, and the trees that grow close by, the saplings that grow from it, are rowan and elder, all protective measures. The gate isn't there to look pretty; it is the ultimate protection against them. Did ye speak to any of them?”
“No.”
“Did you accept any of their offers?”
“No.”
Catherine sat back on her heels, studying Alba's face.
“Och, well. They cannae hurt ye anyway, you were baptized as a wain,” Donald made a point to say.
“She renounced that protection this morning by accepting the pagan tradition, Don; you ken that as well as I do.” Catherine turned her attention back to Alba with a sudden thought. “Please tell me ye shut the gate?”
Alba looked between Donald and Catherine, realizing now the gravity of what she had done, honestly shaking her head no. Catherine let out a growl of anger, throwing the towel on the floor and storming out the front door.
“Ye've done it now, wee one,” Donald said, shaking his head and lighting a pipe. “You're gonnae be in big trouble when she gets a hold of ye again.”
He puffed at a pipe for a few moments, relaxing back into his chair. All of a sudden he was up like a shot; the pipe fell from his mouth and he rushed over to Alba, grasping her by the arms and pulling her to her feet. As he touched her, the world around her dissolved into a scene that looked uncomfortably familiar. She recognized it as the place she had been only a short time prior. Instead of beautiful people playing music in a light flooded grove, she saw deformed creatures wearing ragged clothes moving slowly, painfully. The vision changed again and Alba saw a palace of sorts, the walls made of trees bent against their will, their intertwined branches and leaves forming the ceiling, letting only a beam of light through. The beam was shining on the beautiful woman, sat on her throne of weaved oak branches. She held a slachdan, a staff of sorts made out of white wood, carved with Celtic designs. She twirled and twisted it with practiced dexterity, manipulating something on the floor before her.
The woman tilted her head menacingly, a smile creasing one side of her lips, thrusting the slachdan in front of her. The thing she had been toying with on the floor came into view, now wearing manacles of roots, blood dripping from the scratches on her face, her arms gouged where the roots held her. Catherine.
She found herself screaming at the top of her voice, eyes streaming, but standing on the hearth, Donald still gripping her by the arms, both for her support and his own. Alba calmed herself slightly, still trembling and weeping uncontrollably, looking to Donald for something, something other than the blank stare he had worn since their return from the vision.
She placed her hands on both of his cheeks, looking into his eyes, trying to find him.
“Gran Da,” she said sucking in her sobs, “Gran Da I need you right now, she needs you.”
He placed his hands over hers, letting a single tear make the journey from the crease of his eye, agonizingly shut tight. He suddenly snapped out of it and stormed off, leaving Alba stunned in the middle of the living room.
She could hear Donald rustling around somewhere, and headed in the direction the sound was coming from. She found him just as his legs disappeared into the loft. She climbed the ladder protruding from the square hole in the ceiling and found herself in a room she had never seen before. It was decorated with tapestries displaying various scenes including a vivid stag hunt. The smell of incense wafted around the place and pillows decorated most of the floor space. She turned her attention to Donald, who with his back to her, was digging through an archaic wooden trunk. He turned round suddenly, brandishing a sgian dubh in one hand and a dirk in the other. His jet dark hair and demeanor were chaotic, and in the moment he closely resembled his Highland ancestors.
Alba stepped back in shock, and Donald lowered his weapons. She stepped forward and hugged him around the waist. With her head on his chest, she could hear his erratic and rapid heartbeat. He was ready for the fray.
“We need to get her back, Alba,” he said, with seriousness in his tone that Alba had never heard before. It made her realize that she should have believed what her grandparents had told her. This was her fault. She felt the stinging threat of tears, but choked them back. Donald needed her right now, Catherine needed them both. She could cry and blame herself later. She took a step back, rubbing the residual moisture from her eyes.
She took the sgian dubh, looking it over. It looked hand-made, crafted with such skill and love; things weren't made that way anymore.
“Yer great-grandfather made it with his bare hands. He was a skilled craftsman and the sgian dubh was, at that time, the only piece of iron available to Highlanders to use as protection. He also possessed certain abilities because of his heritage. He could converse with animals, understand them in ways normal humans cannae, as can I, as can you. That was another thing I needed to tell you. You have a deeply rooted connection with the earth and its inhabitants, even more so than Catherine. Ye could become an extremely powerful Druid someday, Alba.”
“That's why Blair likes me so much,” the realization dawning on her. “Will this...ability, help us save Nan?”
“It should. The Fairy Queen dinnae like black horses, doesn't allow them in her kingdom, fears them like. That's where Blair comes in. Alba...”
“Yes?”
“There are a few things I should tell ye. In the vision, those weren't the people you saw earlier were they?”
“No, definitely not. The people I saw were stunning, and healthy.”
“This is because they use a power of theirs called glamour. They can project what they would like you to see, what you want to see, what you imagine them as. They will do this again, a technique to try and confuse ye. Dinnae believe it, Alba; remember what they are truly like, the horrible, nasty creatures they are. Also, there is only so far I can go; I'm not strong enough to face the Queen. I'll distract the others, but ye will have to go in on your own. You alone have to faculty to face her because of the gifts you possess. You intimidate her.”
“Is that why she was watching from the woods?”
“Aye, she knew that ye were coming of age, that you are a force as great as her own. She has nae use for Catherine. She wants to face you and has probably been planning for this since ye were wee.”
Alba slumped to the floor with her head in her hands. Two days of fairy tales coming true was too much. She let the tears flow now. Donald knelt down in front of her, prying her hands away from her face.
“This is too much, I can't- I can't do this. I just, this is all too, I don't know. I- I...” She stammered and sobbed. Donald lifted her to her feet.
“Alba Catherine look at me,” she lifted her eyes to his. “You must, this is a matter of life, no death will happen today if ye remain strong. Summon the strength; ye have Highland blood in your veins. Do you think the men at Culloden shoogled in their shoon when direly outnumbered by the bloody English? No, they kent what they had to do. They had to fight for country, for themselves, but above all for their families. There is nothing more important or greater than family, I ken ye know that. This is what you were born to do.”
Alba sucked in her breath, trying her best to be confident, she caught her reflection in the blade she still clasped and nodded to it. “I am a Highlander. I will fear nothing. I was born to do this.”
She thrust the blade upwards, as did Donald, clanging together in confirmation of the sojourn were about to embark upon.
Armed with their iron blades, they set out. Donald wore a silver cross around his neck and carried a flask of holy water for extra protection. Alba carried sprigs of rowan.
“We'll bring Blair with us, ye'll need her.”
They worked together to saddle the nag, who stood stock still, head upright, understanding what was needed of her.
“Are you ready for this?” Alba asked her. Blair snorted, nodding her head in agreement. “Alright then, here goes nothing.”
Alba mounted, and with Donald walking beside her, the trio slowly walked towards the gate, knowing what needed to be done, but also not quite sure who would they would face on the other side. Donald pushed the gate open. Yelling like a mad man he ran through, Blair and Alba close on his heels. She sucked in a chest full of crisp air, exhaled her fear, and plowed forward to the unknown.
Chapter 4
She was assaulted by the same golden tinged light she had seen before. Blair reared slightly, startled as Alba had been. Her eyes quickly adjusted to a scene she was not expecting. Donald was right; the people were beautiful again as they had been when she saw them. She looked for Donald, but he was otherwise engaged; there were a circle of fairies around him and he was spinning to and fro, wielding his iron dirk. One of them was courageous enough to take a leap at him, but met a sharp reckoning at the tip of Donald's blade. The fairy writhed on the ground, lurching into the fetal position while tearing at his chest. He began to disintegrate from the wound outwards, watching himself turn to golden dust. He stretched out a hand to his fellows before succumbing to the pain and finally expiring. The others looked round at each other, none willing to risk the same fate, took steps backwards and fled to the safety amongst the trees.
With the moment of distraction, Donald turned to Alba.
“Go!” He screamed.
She didn't hesitate, kicking Blair with her heels and spurring on. She wasn't entirely sure where she was going but as she continued forward the landscape began to look familiar. She could hear her grandfather's voice yelling Gaelic behind her but she couldn't stop. She had to go on, she had to keep assuring herself that he could handle it; he seemed to know what he was doing. She couldn't believe how many things she didn't know about her family and what a predicament she had got not only herself but them into.
The light began to dim the further she went. She felt as if she had been riding for ages, the minutes dripping by like honey from a frosted comb. As she came to the end of the grove, a sheer rock face jutted suddenly out of the ground ahead of her; there was no sign of the Queen's palace. Alba's confidence began to wane. She slowed Blair to a walk and buried her face in her hands.
“I can't do this. I can't. I wish I had just listened to Nan. Why couldn't I just suck up my pride for once, for God's sake?”
There was a sudden, sharp crack like lightning. Alba found the stone barricade gone and a structure in its place. Alba realized the Queen used glamour to keep the place concealed and she wracked her brain for ways that she could have broken the charm. She tried to remember the fairy tales that the very person she was trying to rescue from, had told her. Then she remembered Donald wearing the cross: they can't stand religion; they can't hear the name of God.
Sliding from the saddle and onto the plush, leafy ground, Alba took hesitant steps towards what looked like the entrance. The walls were made of geriatric oaks, bowed and twisted, their intertwined branches composing the roof. It looked more like a chapel than a palace. The only indications that there was a way to get in were large flagstone steps leading into the entanglement. She tried to pry branches away, tried to bend and break them, but they wouldn't budge.
“Open!” She commanded. Nothing. “Why did I think that was going to work? Okay, let's try something else.”
She stood on the top step, touching the wood with a flat palm. Retrieving the sgian dubh from under her cloak, she turned it over in her hands. She tried imagining the door, willing it open with her mind, but that didn't work.
“In the name of the lord I ask these branches to part!” Still nothing happened. Donald had warned her that the queen was strong. She looked to the small blade of iron, considering what she could possibly do with it. She touched it to the bark of the thick branch in front of her. It began to creak and shudder, slowly bending away from the blade. She pressed is harder, lacerating the bark. The wound emitted a sap the color of molten silver, which dripped and solidified at Alba's feet. The original branch had moved to the side, as did the subsequent boughs. After passing through several layers of younger undergrowth, light began to stream through the growing opening. Finally, the branches curled away and left an entrance in the shape of a Gothic style, arched door.
Alba tied Blair's reigns loosely a branch, a sense of safety coming from the familiar action in such an outlandish situation. Stepping further into the entryway, Alba saw that the Gothic style reached beyond the door. She stood at the rear of what looked like a great hall, which boasted natural oak pillars twisted into unnatural, beautiful positions. The floor was composed of the same, granite flagstones of the front steps. Alba's footfalls were muffled by vastness of the place. She took several steps before hearing a shrill voice call from the opposite end of the hall.
“You have returned to my fair kingdom, I see.”
Alba continued stepping forward, gaining courage as she went. “Yes, I have. I want nothing more from you than to let her go.”
“Of who is it you speak, child? I am advanced in my years and thus forgetful,” the woman ended with a cruel smile. She was clearly testing Alba, pushing her patience.
“I'm not playing games with you. You are an evil, godless woman. I've seen your people for what they truly are: miserable, decrepit creatures that you torture and make to do whatever you want. You even bend the earth to your will. But you have no power outside here. You are nothing on the other side, hell you can't even make it past a stone wall. I'm stronger, more powerful than you will ever be. I gained my abilities through inheritance, through the love of generations, of family, you got yours by accident, because you were banned from Heaven and shut from Hell. You are a mistake.”
Alba was inwardly shocked by the stream of confidence flowing from her lips, but she did her best to keep her surprise from her countenance. The Queen sat on her ever creaking throne, fuming at the words Alba had spat at her. She twirled the blanched slachdan menacingly in her hand, clearly debating her next move. She raised the wand above her head and Catherine materialized from below the floor. She looked worse for the wear but managed to force a weak smile from her prone position. She looked like she had been there for weeks, which Alba remembered was quite possible; fairy time went infinitely slower than human time and the few hours between when Catherine was captured to then... Alba didn't want to think about it, feeling all the more guilty.
Alba knelt in front of Catherine, taking her dirt spattered hands. She couldn't say anything, but hoped her expression showed her remorse. Catherine's hands were suddenly torn from Alba's as the Queen brought her to a standing position against her will. Catherine winced, tears making track marks down her soiled cheeks. Alba had rarely seen Catherine cry, and it broke her heart. She had to take action, and quickly. Whatever the Queen was murmuring to herself was causing Catherine unimaginable amounts of pain. Alba recalled something else Donald had told her, “she hates black horses. She's afraid of them like.” Alba knew what she had to do to.
She whistled through her teeth, instantly hearing hooves behind her. She looked to the Queen who had such an expression of cowardice that Alba couldn't believe she had so much power. Blair trotted right up to the throne, unafraid of what her actions might bode. The Queen screamed and squirmed, her erratic movement while holding the slachdan caused the trees to act on their own accord; they began to constrict her, causing her to drop the wand. Alba rushed forward, claiming the wand for without it the Queen was powerless. Immobilized by the branches of the throne holding her down, the Queen looked pleadingly to Alba.
“Please, have pity on me.”
Alba narrowed her eyes, knowing this could be a trick, took an aggressive stance pointing the wand directly at the Queen's heart.
“Only under the complete agreement of the following conditions will I consider letting you go.”
“Yes, yes of course,” she said, unconvincingly. Blair had heard her tone and stamped her hoof close to the Queen's face. She cried out, “yes I swear it, I swear it!”
Alba hadn't preconceived what the conditions would be, so she had to contrive something while the Queen was under her power.
“Oh-okay, well first and foremost you have to release my grandmother.”
“You can do so with the slachdan now in your possession. You shall have the powers of myself so long as you touch the sacred wood,” a quiver resonating through her voice, her eyes locked on Blair's jet coat.
Alba looked down at the wand in her hand and pictured Catherine's release. With a flick and a swish, Catherine was free. Blair stepped over the Queen to Catherine, bowing her head offering support. Catherine grasped Blair's mane gratefully, hauling herself to a standing position.
“Good. Second, you must never torture another human again. Should one stumble into your kingdom, you will show them nothing but traditional Highland hospitality.”
The Queen grimaced but Alba swished the slachdan, inflicting sharp pain. Finally, she acquiesced.
“As you wish.”
“Lastly, you will treat your people with dignity and respect. Grant them free will and the ability to do as they please, within the boundaries of your kingdom.”
The Queen screwed up her face further in malcontent, but consented with a nod. Alba nodded as well.
“I'm going to give you back your wand, but not until we are on the other side of the gate. I'll untangle you now.”
Alba did as she said. As soon as the Queen was free, she lunged at Alba. Alba clenched her fists and closed her eyes, but nothing struck her. She heard a gasp and opened her eyes again. Donald had the Queen pinned to the ground, threateningly holding his dirk in her face. Eyes blazing, he pressed it to her throat, golden flecks falling away from the injured skin. She raised a hand to surrender.
“Never trust a fairy,” Donald said to Alba.
“I got that now, thanks,” she said quietly.
Donald pointed the blade back to the Queen's throat. “If ye try anything like that again, I'll kill ye. Slice ye right across, de ye understand me?”
The Queen could do nothing but give a horrified nod.
“Aye, ye best not. Lead us out of here,” he commanded.
The Queen rose to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster. She brushed her flowing green mantle and stood tall, holding her head high. As soon as she stepped through the doorway, though, her posture changed entirely. Her people didn't bow to her as they usually would. They stood, staring, their eyes boring deep into her. She clutched her hands together, wringing them, whimpering slightly. Alba, still standing in the doorway, felt a sudden pang of sympathy. This was all the woman had. Alba stepped outside and the people suddenly dropped to their knees. One called to the Queen, “bow to your queen!”
The Queen looked at Alba with such a deep rooted sadness that it hurt. She began to bow, but Alba pulled her to her feet.
“I'm not your queen, she is!” Alba pointed to the Queen.
“But you possess the wand,” one was brave enough to say.
Alba looked at the piece of wood, a simple piece of wood causing all this commotion, and handed it back to its rightful owner. “Now she has it. I'm not a queen, I'm an eighteen year old human, I couldn't possibly rule a whole kingdom of make believe.”
The Queen gave Alba a thankful smile. Alba nodded in acknowledgement, a sense of mutual respect emanating between them.
“Take your leave now. You are free to go. I will abide by your conditions as you are a fair and compassionate young woman. You are eternally welcome in my kingdom,” the Queen finished with a bow.
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”
The Queen raised her hand in goodbye and turned back towards her palace. Alba's small party made their way towards the gate, only a few short yards away. As they stepped through the gate, Alba heard a voice from behind her yelling, “There is something I have forgotten to tell you! There is something-” The rest was cut off by a scream.
On the other side of the wall Donald pulled Catherine, writhing in pain, from the saddle. Alba looked on, awestricken. What more could Catherine go through because of her?
“Alba we must hold onto her, dinnae let her go, no matter what happens. Can ye do that?”
Alba nodded and clasped Donald's upper arms, enclosing Catherine between them. She convulsed and squirmed, but the pair held her fast.
“She’s gonnae change!” Donald yelled to Alba above Catherine's cries.
“What do you mean she's-” Before Alba could finish her imminent question was answered.
Catherine changed forms quite rapidly. She first changed to a newt, then into a black adder, to a bear, a roaring lion, and finally to a red hot iron bar. Alba felt the burning of it, but didn't let it go, for it was her grandmother and she owed her this for everything she had been through. Donald retrieved the flask from his pocket, dousing the iron bar with holy water. Alba had closed her eyes against the pain from the burning, but the pain suddenly stopped. The hot iron bar she had been holding had returned to its original, human state.
Catherine hugged Alba, Donald throwing his arms around the pair of them. Alba had done it, she had performed a rescue mission of impossible measures. She made an ally with a mythical person. She discovered a sense of bravery she had never possessed before. She closed her eyes, letting herself slip into oblivion.
“Alba, wee one. Alba,” Donald patted her face lightly.
“Where, I, what?” Alba opened her eyes to find herself staring at the roof of her room, tucked neatly under her duvet. She looked up into the faces of her grandparents, turning her attention to Catherine. “That wasn't a dream was it?”
The scratches on Catherine's face and bruising around her wrists answered that question for her.
“I, I don't know what to say other than I am so beyond sorry for everything that has happened over the past few days. If I had just listened to you, nothing would have happened and everything would be okay and you would be okay and-”
“Alba, I am okay. We are all fine, but I wouldn't have been if ye hadn't been so brave as to save me. You made us both so incredibly proud today; you did your ancestors proud by using the powers and intelligence you've inherited from them.”
“I reckon she got her smarts from me, I'm just sayin'.” Donald smiled, nudging Alba. “Ye did well today. But, let's not tell your mother about this one, I dinnae think ye'd be coming back to see us again!”
“I don't think you have to worry about that. I don't think she'd believe me if I did tell her.”
“Mmm, that's true,” Donald said. A silence fell over the trio, an understanding that what they had been through together had formed a unique bond; they were now comrades in battle, bearers of unspeakable stories, and possessors of immeasurable love.
“Well, who's hungry then?”
Alba and Donald's hands both shot in the air.
“Good, I'll get started on dinner,” Catherine rose to go, but Alba grabbed her hand.
“I don't know what I would have done if I didn't get you. I love you, both.”
Catherine smiled, placing her other hand on top of Alba's. “Dinnae be daft, ye think I could leave you in his care?”
“Oi, I resent that statement!”
As the pair playfully bickered back and forth, Alba glanced out the window. To her surprise, the Queen was looking up to the window. She was sat atop her white horse as she had done before, but this time she waved cordially to Alba, who returned the gesture.
With the moment of distraction, Donald turned to Alba.
“Go!” He screamed.
She didn't hesitate, kicking Blair with her heels and spurring on. She wasn't entirely sure where she was going but as she continued forward the landscape began to look familiar. She could hear her grandfather's voice yelling Gaelic behind her but she couldn't stop. She had to go on, she had to keep assuring herself that he could handle it; he seemed to know what he was doing. She couldn't believe how many things she didn't know about her family and what a predicament she had got not only herself but them into.
The light began to dim the further she went. She felt as if she had been riding for ages, the minutes dripping by like honey from a frosted comb. As she came to the end of the grove, a sheer rock face jutted suddenly out of the ground ahead of her; there was no sign of the Queen's palace. Alba's confidence began to wane. She slowed Blair to a walk and buried her face in her hands.
“I can't do this. I can't. I wish I had just listened to Nan. Why couldn't I just suck up my pride for once, for God's sake?”
There was a sudden, sharp crack like lightning. Alba found the stone barricade gone and a structure in its place. Alba realized the Queen used glamour to keep the place concealed and she wracked her brain for ways that she could have broken the charm. She tried to remember the fairy tales that the very person she was trying to rescue from, had told her. Then she remembered Donald wearing the cross: they can't stand religion; they can't hear the name of God.
Sliding from the saddle and onto the plush, leafy ground, Alba took hesitant steps towards what looked like the entrance. The walls were made of geriatric oaks, bowed and twisted, their intertwined branches composing the roof. It looked more like a chapel than a palace. The only indications that there was a way to get in were large flagstone steps leading into the entanglement. She tried to pry branches away, tried to bend and break them, but they wouldn't budge.
“Open!” She commanded. Nothing. “Why did I think that was going to work? Okay, let's try something else.”
She stood on the top step, touching the wood with a flat palm. Retrieving the sgian dubh from under her cloak, she turned it over in her hands. She tried imagining the door, willing it open with her mind, but that didn't work.
“In the name of the lord I ask these branches to part!” Still nothing happened. Donald had warned her that the queen was strong. She looked to the small blade of iron, considering what she could possibly do with it. She touched it to the bark of the thick branch in front of her. It began to creak and shudder, slowly bending away from the blade. She pressed is harder, lacerating the bark. The wound emitted a sap the color of molten silver, which dripped and solidified at Alba's feet. The original branch had moved to the side, as did the subsequent boughs. After passing through several layers of younger undergrowth, light began to stream through the growing opening. Finally, the branches curled away and left an entrance in the shape of a Gothic style, arched door.
Alba tied Blair's reigns loosely a branch, a sense of safety coming from the familiar action in such an outlandish situation. Stepping further into the entryway, Alba saw that the Gothic style reached beyond the door. She stood at the rear of what looked like a great hall, which boasted natural oak pillars twisted into unnatural, beautiful positions. The floor was composed of the same, granite flagstones of the front steps. Alba's footfalls were muffled by vastness of the place. She took several steps before hearing a shrill voice call from the opposite end of the hall.
“You have returned to my fair kingdom, I see.”
Alba continued stepping forward, gaining courage as she went. “Yes, I have. I want nothing more from you than to let her go.”
“Of who is it you speak, child? I am advanced in my years and thus forgetful,” the woman ended with a cruel smile. She was clearly testing Alba, pushing her patience.
“I'm not playing games with you. You are an evil, godless woman. I've seen your people for what they truly are: miserable, decrepit creatures that you torture and make to do whatever you want. You even bend the earth to your will. But you have no power outside here. You are nothing on the other side, hell you can't even make it past a stone wall. I'm stronger, more powerful than you will ever be. I gained my abilities through inheritance, through the love of generations, of family, you got yours by accident, because you were banned from Heaven and shut from Hell. You are a mistake.”
Alba was inwardly shocked by the stream of confidence flowing from her lips, but she did her best to keep her surprise from her countenance. The Queen sat on her ever creaking throne, fuming at the words Alba had spat at her. She twirled the blanched slachdan menacingly in her hand, clearly debating her next move. She raised the wand above her head and Catherine materialized from below the floor. She looked worse for the wear but managed to force a weak smile from her prone position. She looked like she had been there for weeks, which Alba remembered was quite possible; fairy time went infinitely slower than human time and the few hours between when Catherine was captured to then... Alba didn't want to think about it, feeling all the more guilty.
Alba knelt in front of Catherine, taking her dirt spattered hands. She couldn't say anything, but hoped her expression showed her remorse. Catherine's hands were suddenly torn from Alba's as the Queen brought her to a standing position against her will. Catherine winced, tears making track marks down her soiled cheeks. Alba had rarely seen Catherine cry, and it broke her heart. She had to take action, and quickly. Whatever the Queen was murmuring to herself was causing Catherine unimaginable amounts of pain. Alba recalled something else Donald had told her, “she hates black horses. She's afraid of them like.” Alba knew what she had to do to.
She whistled through her teeth, instantly hearing hooves behind her. She looked to the Queen who had such an expression of cowardice that Alba couldn't believe she had so much power. Blair trotted right up to the throne, unafraid of what her actions might bode. The Queen screamed and squirmed, her erratic movement while holding the slachdan caused the trees to act on their own accord; they began to constrict her, causing her to drop the wand. Alba rushed forward, claiming the wand for without it the Queen was powerless. Immobilized by the branches of the throne holding her down, the Queen looked pleadingly to Alba.
“Please, have pity on me.”
Alba narrowed her eyes, knowing this could be a trick, took an aggressive stance pointing the wand directly at the Queen's heart.
“Only under the complete agreement of the following conditions will I consider letting you go.”
“Yes, yes of course,” she said, unconvincingly. Blair had heard her tone and stamped her hoof close to the Queen's face. She cried out, “yes I swear it, I swear it!”
Alba hadn't preconceived what the conditions would be, so she had to contrive something while the Queen was under her power.
“Oh-okay, well first and foremost you have to release my grandmother.”
“You can do so with the slachdan now in your possession. You shall have the powers of myself so long as you touch the sacred wood,” a quiver resonating through her voice, her eyes locked on Blair's jet coat.
Alba looked down at the wand in her hand and pictured Catherine's release. With a flick and a swish, Catherine was free. Blair stepped over the Queen to Catherine, bowing her head offering support. Catherine grasped Blair's mane gratefully, hauling herself to a standing position.
“Good. Second, you must never torture another human again. Should one stumble into your kingdom, you will show them nothing but traditional Highland hospitality.”
The Queen grimaced but Alba swished the slachdan, inflicting sharp pain. Finally, she acquiesced.
“As you wish.”
“Lastly, you will treat your people with dignity and respect. Grant them free will and the ability to do as they please, within the boundaries of your kingdom.”
The Queen screwed up her face further in malcontent, but consented with a nod. Alba nodded as well.
“I'm going to give you back your wand, but not until we are on the other side of the gate. I'll untangle you now.”
Alba did as she said. As soon as the Queen was free, she lunged at Alba. Alba clenched her fists and closed her eyes, but nothing struck her. She heard a gasp and opened her eyes again. Donald had the Queen pinned to the ground, threateningly holding his dirk in her face. Eyes blazing, he pressed it to her throat, golden flecks falling away from the injured skin. She raised a hand to surrender.
“Never trust a fairy,” Donald said to Alba.
“I got that now, thanks,” she said quietly.
Donald pointed the blade back to the Queen's throat. “If ye try anything like that again, I'll kill ye. Slice ye right across, de ye understand me?”
The Queen could do nothing but give a horrified nod.
“Aye, ye best not. Lead us out of here,” he commanded.
The Queen rose to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster. She brushed her flowing green mantle and stood tall, holding her head high. As soon as she stepped through the doorway, though, her posture changed entirely. Her people didn't bow to her as they usually would. They stood, staring, their eyes boring deep into her. She clutched her hands together, wringing them, whimpering slightly. Alba, still standing in the doorway, felt a sudden pang of sympathy. This was all the woman had. Alba stepped outside and the people suddenly dropped to their knees. One called to the Queen, “bow to your queen!”
The Queen looked at Alba with such a deep rooted sadness that it hurt. She began to bow, but Alba pulled her to her feet.
“I'm not your queen, she is!” Alba pointed to the Queen.
“But you possess the wand,” one was brave enough to say.
Alba looked at the piece of wood, a simple piece of wood causing all this commotion, and handed it back to its rightful owner. “Now she has it. I'm not a queen, I'm an eighteen year old human, I couldn't possibly rule a whole kingdom of make believe.”
The Queen gave Alba a thankful smile. Alba nodded in acknowledgement, a sense of mutual respect emanating between them.
“Take your leave now. You are free to go. I will abide by your conditions as you are a fair and compassionate young woman. You are eternally welcome in my kingdom,” the Queen finished with a bow.
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”
The Queen raised her hand in goodbye and turned back towards her palace. Alba's small party made their way towards the gate, only a few short yards away. As they stepped through the gate, Alba heard a voice from behind her yelling, “There is something I have forgotten to tell you! There is something-” The rest was cut off by a scream.
On the other side of the wall Donald pulled Catherine, writhing in pain, from the saddle. Alba looked on, awestricken. What more could Catherine go through because of her?
“Alba we must hold onto her, dinnae let her go, no matter what happens. Can ye do that?”
Alba nodded and clasped Donald's upper arms, enclosing Catherine between them. She convulsed and squirmed, but the pair held her fast.
“She’s gonnae change!” Donald yelled to Alba above Catherine's cries.
“What do you mean she's-” Before Alba could finish her imminent question was answered.
Catherine changed forms quite rapidly. She first changed to a newt, then into a black adder, to a bear, a roaring lion, and finally to a red hot iron bar. Alba felt the burning of it, but didn't let it go, for it was her grandmother and she owed her this for everything she had been through. Donald retrieved the flask from his pocket, dousing the iron bar with holy water. Alba had closed her eyes against the pain from the burning, but the pain suddenly stopped. The hot iron bar she had been holding had returned to its original, human state.
Catherine hugged Alba, Donald throwing his arms around the pair of them. Alba had done it, she had performed a rescue mission of impossible measures. She made an ally with a mythical person. She discovered a sense of bravery she had never possessed before. She closed her eyes, letting herself slip into oblivion.
“Alba, wee one. Alba,” Donald patted her face lightly.
“Where, I, what?” Alba opened her eyes to find herself staring at the roof of her room, tucked neatly under her duvet. She looked up into the faces of her grandparents, turning her attention to Catherine. “That wasn't a dream was it?”
The scratches on Catherine's face and bruising around her wrists answered that question for her.
“I, I don't know what to say other than I am so beyond sorry for everything that has happened over the past few days. If I had just listened to you, nothing would have happened and everything would be okay and you would be okay and-”
“Alba, I am okay. We are all fine, but I wouldn't have been if ye hadn't been so brave as to save me. You made us both so incredibly proud today; you did your ancestors proud by using the powers and intelligence you've inherited from them.”
“I reckon she got her smarts from me, I'm just sayin'.” Donald smiled, nudging Alba. “Ye did well today. But, let's not tell your mother about this one, I dinnae think ye'd be coming back to see us again!”
“I don't think you have to worry about that. I don't think she'd believe me if I did tell her.”
“Mmm, that's true,” Donald said. A silence fell over the trio, an understanding that what they had been through together had formed a unique bond; they were now comrades in battle, bearers of unspeakable stories, and possessors of immeasurable love.
“Well, who's hungry then?”
Alba and Donald's hands both shot in the air.
“Good, I'll get started on dinner,” Catherine rose to go, but Alba grabbed her hand.
“I don't know what I would have done if I didn't get you. I love you, both.”
Catherine smiled, placing her other hand on top of Alba's. “Dinnae be daft, ye think I could leave you in his care?”
“Oi, I resent that statement!”
As the pair playfully bickered back and forth, Alba glanced out the window. To her surprise, the Queen was looking up to the window. She was sat atop her white horse as she had done before, but this time she waved cordially to Alba, who returned the gesture.
Personal Statement
When one hears the phrase “Scottish myths and legends” what may be conjured up are images of the Loch Ness Monster and men running about the hills wearing kilts with their faces painted blue. Unfortunately for the reputation of Hollywood film directors, there is so much more to the story. Myths and legends have had a long journey, traveling down by word of mouth from generation to generation for hundreds of years. Some started with a historical figure or event, which grew into a magnificent narrative bearing all the signs of a fairytale, others started out of boredom while sitting around a fire, huddled together through cold Scottish nights. Scottish myths and legends encompass a wide variety of things including superstitions and folklore. There has always been an interest in these stories, but with today's technology and the speed with which information is shared, these ages old tales have been given a new life. There have been hundreds of books written on the subject with varying means which authors have attained them, but they were all compiled so that this colorful culture could be shared with the rest of the world.
My first encounter with this wonderful culture was an annual Highland Games held in New Hampshire. My aunt and grandmother, both captivated by our roots, took me when I was twelve. I had never been so amazed and intrigued by something; there were men throwing telephone poles and giant rocks, I couldn't believe my ancestors likely did this as well. I was hooked. From then on it seemed Scotland came up a lot in my life. In high school we did a project on nationalities. As many Americans are from multi-national backgrounds, we were told to choose one- I obviously chose my Scottish side. We had to do research on the country and make a family tree. When going to university I knew I was going to have the opportunity to study abroad, which I did, here at University of Stirling, and I never left. I knew from the minute I stepped off the plane that I was going to stay. As the saying goes, “home is where the heart it,” and my heart is most definitely here. Glencross is my family name, a sept of the clan MacIntosh, and I have even traced some of my ancestors to the Glasgow area. I have had an interest in Scotland itself since I was a young girl. When the opportunity came about to choose a dissertation topic, I knew I had to include Scotland one way or another; I felt I needed to give back to the country that gave me so much.
Every age has had its own living folklore, and, besides this, a residuum of waning lore, regarded as superstitious, and so it is at the present day. When we speak of the folk-lore of our grandfathers and great-grandfathers, we believe we are speaking of beliefs which have passed away, beliefs from which we ourselves are free; but if we consider the matter carefully, we will find in many respects our beliefs and practices, although somewhat modernized, are essentially little different from those of the last century (James Napier, Folk Lore of in the West of Scotland. (Wakefield: EP, 1976) p. 10).
So the question is: where did these legends and myths come from? How did they seep into the already established life of the people of Scotland? One explanation is intrusions by other nations. The intrusions are anywhere from physical conquests to culture drifts. “It will be found further that in the Scottish complexes there are traces of culture drifts from the Continent whence came, by various routes and at different periods”(Donald A. MacKenzie, Scottish Folk-lore and Folk-life Studies in Race, Culture, and Tradition . ([S.I.: [s..n.], 1935). p. vi.), most famously from Norway. These were people known as the Picts whose influence took hold of the Highlands and Islands in around the eighth and ninth centuries and continued on for hundreds of years (Raymond Lamont-Brown, Scottish Folklore. (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 1996) p. 9). The stories from and of these people trickled down, morphing as they went, to the middle of Scotland, and right on down to the Borders. “We find revealed in certain beliefs and customs and in some myths and legends indelible traces of alien cultures that were imported at different periods leaving little or no trace of the carriers and also evidence of the subtle process of culture blending” (MacKenzie, p. 1). It can be seen that a tale from the Highlands may include a similar plot, but have different characters, maybe even a different conclusion. This is something called localization: the restriction of something to a particular place; making something local in character, assigning something a particular place. The idea of localization is so that people from place to place can appreciate the stories within their own boundaries of understanding.
Despite the ever presence of foreigners, there is sufficient evidence to prove that Scotland had the ability to come up with their own myths and stories. “An outstanding characteristic of Scottish lore is the prominence given to female supernatural beings,” (MacKenzie, p. vii) which is completely different from the stories told by, for example, the Irish, which included a vast majority of male figures, or Norway with their all-male Viking heritage. From fairies to witches to Druids, there was an overwhelming presence of women. “Celtic tribes developed their own pantheon of gods, and out of the already established custom of having a tribal shaman they developed their own class of men of religion and learning which the Romans called Druides (Druids). The shamans of prehistory, by the by, were usually female” (Lamont-Brown, 11). The reason for this was quite possibly because women have the ability to reproduce, which brings them closer to nature, closer than man could get as he does not possess this ability. Due to this unique connection with nature, the Druids were consulted on many things including healing and teaching. They were also unique to Scotland in the fact that they were highly respected religious leaders. Even today in religions such as Christianity, women are not allowed to hold elevated positions such as priests and deacons.
As aforementioned, these stories, legends, and superstitions were held in highest regard. They governed everyday life, affecting everyone from aristocracy to farmers to beggars in the street. In the days when these stories were considered intrinsically true, the general population was not only poor, but uneducated. They believed science to be related to witchcraft; healers well versed in the various uses of herbs, for example, were straddling a wobbly fence between being revered or being burned at the stake. One of the most prominent medical men of the time, Doctor Robert Knox, not only was associated with the infamous body snatchers Burke and Hare, but was to rumored to be in leagues with the Devil, having attended His school in Italy. So, for someone like him to say to a resident of the local town, or even to members of the aristocracy, that the cause of a plague was because of the rancid conditions in which they lived, and not because God was displeased would have got him more than just a few sidelong glances. “Our minds instinctively seek an explanation of the cause or causes of the different phenomena constantly occurring around us, but instinct does not supply the solution...in former ages scientific method of investigation were either not known or not cared for, and some men were satisfied with merely guessing at the causes...” (James Napier, Folk Lore in the West of Scotland. (Wakefield: EP, 1976) p. 17). An example that the author gives is when cholera first hit the United Kingdom. He writes that the people had believed it to be some kind of judgment for national sins or disobedience towards religious laws. Some of the reasons with which people decided the cause to be, by today's standards, were just absurd. “One party discovered the cause in a movement for the disestablishment of religion. Another considered it was a judgment from God for asking the Reform Bill. The Radicals proclaimed it to be the trick of the Tories to prevent agitation for reform, and added that medical men were bribed to poison well and streams” (Napier, p. 27). This did nothing to help the reputations of scientists and people of medical inclinations.
Ideas like this were spread by word of mouth. Gossip at this time had plague-like attributes; any information that people could glean this way spread like the disease, having almost as equally devastating consequences. For example, outing someone as being a witch was a common practice and resulted in upwards of 2,000 deaths between the 16th and 18th centuries. There were also positive things spread in this way, though. The power of speech was employed in the times before internet and television to entertain groups of people as small as a dinner party or as large as a clan meeting. The people who kept the immortalizing stories of clan chieftains and their families alive were men called, in Gaelic, sennachie, in English, story-tellers. These were men professionally employed by the clan chieftains to learn the genealogy and history of each clan and pass it down to subsequent generations. “Scotland's story-telling tradition was primarily an oral one, and story-telling as a form of entertainment at social gatherings retained its popularity, particularly in the Highlands and Islands, until relatively recent times.” Because of this oral tradition, many of the stories have taken on a certain air of grandeur, over generations becoming the fairytales we know today. “In the case of stories that have been built around people and events of the past, the need for historical accuracy has, more often than not, been considered less important than the need to tell a good story” (Judy Hamilton, Scottish Myths and Legends. (New Lanark, Scotland: Waverly, 2009) p. 8). Scots love a good story; even today they enjoy hearing their legends recounted to them. In regards to the research and writing I have done, friends have asked me to tell them the most interesting legend or myth I have heard as they stare off, dreamily nodding along with a tale that their grandparents had told them hundreds of times before. It is truly amazing how the humble sennachie kept their stories alive to the point that they are recognizable today.
Today's technology has almost rendered this class of people nearly extinct. The amount of technological advances, beginning with the printing press, extending to the radio and television, on to film, has brought these stories to life and distributed them all over the world. Folk-lore has evolved over time. In the world of the ancients, these things were real and terrifying; they genuinely believed that fairies would kidnap their pregnant wives or that speaking of a hare while at sea would result in ship wreck. Olden folk-tales more often than not had some deep underlying moral to them. Today, though, folk-lore has become quite sugar coated and exists almost purely for entertainment's sake. One of the best examples of this came in the form of a film called “The Water Horse” released in 2007 ("The Water Horse." IMDb. IMDb.com. <http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0760329/>). The original story of the water horse or as it would have been more commonly known the kelpie, was that he would turn into a beautiful horse and tempt children onto his back. Once he got them on, they would not be able to let go and he would drag them into the depths of a body of deep water, drowning them. The moral of the story, though it may have been terrifying for them, was for children to avoid deep water as it was dangerous. In today's society, most prominently in America, parents do not want to scare their children, so they took the idea of the water horse and made him a cuddly, friendly creature. “The Water Horse” is almost opposite of the original story. The boy makes friends with the creature, goes to deep water to ride it and does not drown in doing so, disobeys his mother to visit the creature, and there is a typical fairy-tale ending where everyone is happy including the kelpie. There is a distinct lack of belief and respect for the reality behind these stories, the reasons why they came into existence in the first place has been almost completely lost for the sake of entertainment. People simply just do not believe anymore.
In saying that, though, two of the best examples contradicting this lack of belief would be William Wallace and the Loch Ness Monster. William Wallace is an example of a historical figure that has been blown entirely out of proportion. Hollywood had a hand in that with “Braveheart”; it was not even Wallace that was called Braveheart, it was his film foe, Robert the Bruce! Hollywood will do anything for a good story, even include extreme historical inaccuracies. Little is actually known about Wallace and his life as it was not documented, but he has reached such historic proportions that there are monuments to him everywhere, most prominently in Stirling. The William Wallace Monument can be seen from miles away and at any point within the town; all for a man that we know carried a five feet and four inches long sword, and little else. Jumping right along to things we know little of, the Loch Ness Monster is another example of a folkloric tale that has not only survived, but evolved and prospers, and continues to do so. Drumnadrochit, the quiet little home town of Nessie, boasts a Nessie shop stocked floor to ceiling with stuffed animals of the beast, and a visitor's center so tourists can decide whether they believe or not. Hundreds of tourists each year make the venture up north to catch a glimpse of her, but turn away from the expanse of water with a slight jab of disappointment for not being the first person in fifty or so years to see Nessie. There have been numerous scientific endeavors to disprove, or prove, that she exists, all coming up empty. Despite all the modernity and technological forwardness of today, people still lean towards simpler times; nostalgia reaches everyone at some point or another.
“Remember your ancestors and be worthy of them” (MacKenzie, p. 2). This is a quote that could encompass the feelings these authors were having towards the nostalgia and the need to get these historic tales on paper. Their means of doing so are varied. Some remembered them from childhood, some gathered them from written documents on shelves of archaic predecessors, or interviewing the older generation. Donald A. MacKenzie, author of Scottish Folklore and Folk Life Studies in Race, Culture, and Tradition, writes on the subject: “I have not only sifted and collated the recorded evidence, but provided fresh material as a collector of many years’ experience and drawn upon my recollections of the persisting folk beliefs in which I shared in my boyhood” (MacKenzie, p. v). These people have lived the folk lore, have been a part of it, have tasted, smelled, and touched it. Author of Notes on the Folk-lore of the North-East of Scotland, Walter Gregor, says it best:
I have stood at midnight on the mountain-top, and heard only the dull sough of the wind, broken by the bark of a fox or the croak of a ptarmigan. Wrapped in plaid, I have crouched beneath a stone on a bed of fresh heather, and have fallen asleep with the music of a Gaelic song and the murmur of the streams falling over the mountain side- the one the counterpart of the other- sounding in my ears. Everything is changing faster than ever. The scream of the railway whistle is scaring away the witch and the fairy, and the water kelpie, and the ghost. To give an account of the olden time in the North, as seen by myself and as related to me by the aged, is the task I have set before me (Walter Gregor, Notes on the Folk-lore of the North-East of Scotland (London: Published for the Folk-lore Society by E. Stock, 1881) pp. 2-3).
The authors of these books see it as their personal mission to get the stories they were told, they know deep within their souls, to the general public. All of the books I have read for this project, all fourteen of them, had authors, some had multiple, a vast majority Scottish. They know these stories back to front and it is as important to them to “give an account of the olden time” and it is to respect their elders. In a way, this is showing their respects, honoring them with words and publications, allowing the world to share in the deeply rooted culture that encompasses Scotland.
The problem that the interest in the subject creates for someone doing research on the subject is that there is a lot out there. I narrowed the seemingly endless expanse of books to just ten, and from those ten, eight divulged information I used towards my writing. After scouring the eight books for as many tidbits as I could, only three were useful for more than a sentence here and there. Some of the shortest sentences were some of the most vital, though. From Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales by Gordon Jarvie I discovered that to rescue someone from Fairyland, the rescuer had to hold onto their target no matter what happened, as the person would transform into various things including a snake and a lion (Gordon Jarvie, Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales. (London: Puffin, 1992) p. 57). Without this, Alba and Donald could not have rescued Catherine from the clutches of the Queen. Raymond Lamont-Brown's book Scottish Folk-lore has been referenced quite a bit throughout this exposition, but without it I could not have known that Druids had a three tiered hierarchy, at the top of which was Catherine welcoming Alba into the bottom rung, or that they had seven sacred trees including holly and oak (Lamont-Brown, p. 18). The Folklore of the Scottish Highlands by Anne Ross had yet another interesting fact about the seemingly mysterious Druids: it takes upwards of twenty years to become a Druid proper, the top tier of the hierarchy (Anne Ross, The Folklore of the Scottish Highlands. (New York: Barnes & Noble) p. 34); it also includes information about second sight which states that if someone possesses the gift touches a fellow seer while seeing, they can share their vision, which Donald did with Alba (Ross, p. 42). Notes and Folklore of the North-East of Scotland also referenced earlier on, helped Alba escape from Fairyland the first time- she didn't eat or drink anything (Gregor, p. 61). Scottish Myth and Legend by Judy Hamilton gave me the idea for Donald's character; he is the seventh son of a seventh son and therefor possesses the ability of second sight (Hamilton, p. 87).
The two most useful books were certainly Scottish Folklore and Folk Life Studies in Race, Culture, and Tradition by Donald A. MacKenzie and The Lore of Scotland, A Guide to Scottish Legends by Westwood and Kingshill. Mackenzie’s book contained hundreds of pages of information with regards to everything from the physique of Scots to the origins of fairies. Although I did not use all of the information on which I took notes, it was still interesting to learn new things as I went. Scottish physique was quite impressive, even by today's standards, but in the time when MacKenzie was writing, which was late 1800s to mid-1900s, there was still much cultural growth going on. Scots, known for their large, muscular physique, outweighed and out measured all of their United Kingdom neighbors by several inches and stones, even some of their continental cousins paled in comparison to them (MacKenzie, p. 21). He wrote quite a bit about female supernatural figures, as aforementioned they are a staple in Scottish folklore, including Cailleach Bheur and Bridget, more commonly known as Bride. Both had similarities, but Cailleach Bheur was far more fearsome of a creature than Bride. She was the guardian of winter and enemy of growth, carrying a wand called a slachdan, she could create frost wherever she went. Unfortunately for her, if someone were to steal her wand, she would be powerless (MacKenzie, pp. 140-191 [140; 167; 188]). The amount of information on fairies really helped to inspire me and create an accurate picture of these enigmatic people. The descriptions of the fairies themselves helped give a sense of reality; “Fairies are small, evenly proportioned, with long yellow hair, wearing a mantle of green inlaid with wild flowers, green pantaloons buttoned with bobs of silk and silver shoes” (MacKenzie, p. 207). I used my artistic license and gave this archaic description a bit of a modern update so it would be more easily imagined my today's readers.
Westwood and Kinghill's book also included information about fairies. There was a bit of physical description, but more importantly there was information surrounding them and their culture. For example, there are certain protective measures that a person can take to protect themselves against fairies. One of these is to carry a piece of iron around with you, brandishing it if you should come across any of them (Jennifer Westwood and Sophia Kingshill, The Lore of Scotland: A Guide to Scottish Legends. (London: Random House, 2009) p. 29). In the Highlands, the most readily available piece of iron was the small sword called the dirk, or the blade stuck traditionally in the top of a stocking, the sgian dubh (p. 6). Another would be to say the lord's name; as fairies quite possibly could be the leftovers of the war in Heaven, they cannot stand hearing the name of God (p. 124). Their glamour is something I wrote a bit about; this is their ability to create magical illusions to trick the eyes of humans or even other fairies (p. 75). Besides extensive fairy information, there were sections about second sight and selkies, both of which made an appearance in my writing (pp. 331; 407).
Folklore has had an incredible history. It sprung from humble beginnings, seemingly out of necessity for entertainment through long nights sat round fires or gatherings. It evolved from simple story-telling to something more complex, including aspects of clan lore and history. The sennachie were truly gifted men with the ability to remember an entire clan's genealogy and legends to go along with each period in time. As the clan gatherings started to disperse and technology has taken root, the stories that started out as simple anecdotes have grown into something so much more. Hollywood has expedited this process with films and television shows. Authors over the years have also taken a deep interest in these tales that they both heard growing up or as adults, and wished to give back to the country they so love. Hundreds of titles have been published all bearing the name Scotland, all with retellings and reworking of these myths and legends. Some have even helped a university student complete her dissertation. All in all, folklore is an important part of not only Scottish history, but world history as well. It gives us a rare glimpse into the past and the lives that our ancestors led. As MacKenzie writes, “remember your ancestors and be worthy of them.”
Bibliography
Gregor, Walter, Notes on the Folk-lore of the North-East of Scotland. (London: Published for the Folk-lore Society by E. Stock, 1881)
Hamilton, Judy, Scottish Myths and Legends. (New Lanark, Scotland: Waverly, 2009)
Jarvie, Gordon, Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales. (London: Puffin, 1992)
Lamont-Brown, Raymond, Scottish Folklore. (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 1996)
MacKenzie, Donald A., Scottish Folk-lore and Folk-life Studies in Race, Culture, and Tradition. ([S.I.]: [s..n.], 1935)
Napier, James, Folk Lore in the West of Scotland. (Wakefield: EP, 1976)
Ross, Anne, The Folklore of the Scottish Highlands. (New York: Barnes & Noble, 1993)
"The Water Horse." IMDb. IMDb.com.
<http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0760329/>.
Westwood, Jennifer, and Sophia Kingshill, The Lore of Scotland: A Guide to Scottish Legends. (London: Random House, 2009)
My first encounter with this wonderful culture was an annual Highland Games held in New Hampshire. My aunt and grandmother, both captivated by our roots, took me when I was twelve. I had never been so amazed and intrigued by something; there were men throwing telephone poles and giant rocks, I couldn't believe my ancestors likely did this as well. I was hooked. From then on it seemed Scotland came up a lot in my life. In high school we did a project on nationalities. As many Americans are from multi-national backgrounds, we were told to choose one- I obviously chose my Scottish side. We had to do research on the country and make a family tree. When going to university I knew I was going to have the opportunity to study abroad, which I did, here at University of Stirling, and I never left. I knew from the minute I stepped off the plane that I was going to stay. As the saying goes, “home is where the heart it,” and my heart is most definitely here. Glencross is my family name, a sept of the clan MacIntosh, and I have even traced some of my ancestors to the Glasgow area. I have had an interest in Scotland itself since I was a young girl. When the opportunity came about to choose a dissertation topic, I knew I had to include Scotland one way or another; I felt I needed to give back to the country that gave me so much.
Every age has had its own living folklore, and, besides this, a residuum of waning lore, regarded as superstitious, and so it is at the present day. When we speak of the folk-lore of our grandfathers and great-grandfathers, we believe we are speaking of beliefs which have passed away, beliefs from which we ourselves are free; but if we consider the matter carefully, we will find in many respects our beliefs and practices, although somewhat modernized, are essentially little different from those of the last century (James Napier, Folk Lore of in the West of Scotland. (Wakefield: EP, 1976) p. 10).
So the question is: where did these legends and myths come from? How did they seep into the already established life of the people of Scotland? One explanation is intrusions by other nations. The intrusions are anywhere from physical conquests to culture drifts. “It will be found further that in the Scottish complexes there are traces of culture drifts from the Continent whence came, by various routes and at different periods”(Donald A. MacKenzie, Scottish Folk-lore and Folk-life Studies in Race, Culture, and Tradition . ([S.I.: [s..n.], 1935). p. vi.), most famously from Norway. These were people known as the Picts whose influence took hold of the Highlands and Islands in around the eighth and ninth centuries and continued on for hundreds of years (Raymond Lamont-Brown, Scottish Folklore. (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 1996) p. 9). The stories from and of these people trickled down, morphing as they went, to the middle of Scotland, and right on down to the Borders. “We find revealed in certain beliefs and customs and in some myths and legends indelible traces of alien cultures that were imported at different periods leaving little or no trace of the carriers and also evidence of the subtle process of culture blending” (MacKenzie, p. 1). It can be seen that a tale from the Highlands may include a similar plot, but have different characters, maybe even a different conclusion. This is something called localization: the restriction of something to a particular place; making something local in character, assigning something a particular place. The idea of localization is so that people from place to place can appreciate the stories within their own boundaries of understanding.
Despite the ever presence of foreigners, there is sufficient evidence to prove that Scotland had the ability to come up with their own myths and stories. “An outstanding characteristic of Scottish lore is the prominence given to female supernatural beings,” (MacKenzie, p. vii) which is completely different from the stories told by, for example, the Irish, which included a vast majority of male figures, or Norway with their all-male Viking heritage. From fairies to witches to Druids, there was an overwhelming presence of women. “Celtic tribes developed their own pantheon of gods, and out of the already established custom of having a tribal shaman they developed their own class of men of religion and learning which the Romans called Druides (Druids). The shamans of prehistory, by the by, were usually female” (Lamont-Brown, 11). The reason for this was quite possibly because women have the ability to reproduce, which brings them closer to nature, closer than man could get as he does not possess this ability. Due to this unique connection with nature, the Druids were consulted on many things including healing and teaching. They were also unique to Scotland in the fact that they were highly respected religious leaders. Even today in religions such as Christianity, women are not allowed to hold elevated positions such as priests and deacons.
As aforementioned, these stories, legends, and superstitions were held in highest regard. They governed everyday life, affecting everyone from aristocracy to farmers to beggars in the street. In the days when these stories were considered intrinsically true, the general population was not only poor, but uneducated. They believed science to be related to witchcraft; healers well versed in the various uses of herbs, for example, were straddling a wobbly fence between being revered or being burned at the stake. One of the most prominent medical men of the time, Doctor Robert Knox, not only was associated with the infamous body snatchers Burke and Hare, but was to rumored to be in leagues with the Devil, having attended His school in Italy. So, for someone like him to say to a resident of the local town, or even to members of the aristocracy, that the cause of a plague was because of the rancid conditions in which they lived, and not because God was displeased would have got him more than just a few sidelong glances. “Our minds instinctively seek an explanation of the cause or causes of the different phenomena constantly occurring around us, but instinct does not supply the solution...in former ages scientific method of investigation were either not known or not cared for, and some men were satisfied with merely guessing at the causes...” (James Napier, Folk Lore in the West of Scotland. (Wakefield: EP, 1976) p. 17). An example that the author gives is when cholera first hit the United Kingdom. He writes that the people had believed it to be some kind of judgment for national sins or disobedience towards religious laws. Some of the reasons with which people decided the cause to be, by today's standards, were just absurd. “One party discovered the cause in a movement for the disestablishment of religion. Another considered it was a judgment from God for asking the Reform Bill. The Radicals proclaimed it to be the trick of the Tories to prevent agitation for reform, and added that medical men were bribed to poison well and streams” (Napier, p. 27). This did nothing to help the reputations of scientists and people of medical inclinations.
Ideas like this were spread by word of mouth. Gossip at this time had plague-like attributes; any information that people could glean this way spread like the disease, having almost as equally devastating consequences. For example, outing someone as being a witch was a common practice and resulted in upwards of 2,000 deaths between the 16th and 18th centuries. There were also positive things spread in this way, though. The power of speech was employed in the times before internet and television to entertain groups of people as small as a dinner party or as large as a clan meeting. The people who kept the immortalizing stories of clan chieftains and their families alive were men called, in Gaelic, sennachie, in English, story-tellers. These were men professionally employed by the clan chieftains to learn the genealogy and history of each clan and pass it down to subsequent generations. “Scotland's story-telling tradition was primarily an oral one, and story-telling as a form of entertainment at social gatherings retained its popularity, particularly in the Highlands and Islands, until relatively recent times.” Because of this oral tradition, many of the stories have taken on a certain air of grandeur, over generations becoming the fairytales we know today. “In the case of stories that have been built around people and events of the past, the need for historical accuracy has, more often than not, been considered less important than the need to tell a good story” (Judy Hamilton, Scottish Myths and Legends. (New Lanark, Scotland: Waverly, 2009) p. 8). Scots love a good story; even today they enjoy hearing their legends recounted to them. In regards to the research and writing I have done, friends have asked me to tell them the most interesting legend or myth I have heard as they stare off, dreamily nodding along with a tale that their grandparents had told them hundreds of times before. It is truly amazing how the humble sennachie kept their stories alive to the point that they are recognizable today.
Today's technology has almost rendered this class of people nearly extinct. The amount of technological advances, beginning with the printing press, extending to the radio and television, on to film, has brought these stories to life and distributed them all over the world. Folk-lore has evolved over time. In the world of the ancients, these things were real and terrifying; they genuinely believed that fairies would kidnap their pregnant wives or that speaking of a hare while at sea would result in ship wreck. Olden folk-tales more often than not had some deep underlying moral to them. Today, though, folk-lore has become quite sugar coated and exists almost purely for entertainment's sake. One of the best examples of this came in the form of a film called “The Water Horse” released in 2007 ("The Water Horse." IMDb. IMDb.com. <http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0760329/>). The original story of the water horse or as it would have been more commonly known the kelpie, was that he would turn into a beautiful horse and tempt children onto his back. Once he got them on, they would not be able to let go and he would drag them into the depths of a body of deep water, drowning them. The moral of the story, though it may have been terrifying for them, was for children to avoid deep water as it was dangerous. In today's society, most prominently in America, parents do not want to scare their children, so they took the idea of the water horse and made him a cuddly, friendly creature. “The Water Horse” is almost opposite of the original story. The boy makes friends with the creature, goes to deep water to ride it and does not drown in doing so, disobeys his mother to visit the creature, and there is a typical fairy-tale ending where everyone is happy including the kelpie. There is a distinct lack of belief and respect for the reality behind these stories, the reasons why they came into existence in the first place has been almost completely lost for the sake of entertainment. People simply just do not believe anymore.
In saying that, though, two of the best examples contradicting this lack of belief would be William Wallace and the Loch Ness Monster. William Wallace is an example of a historical figure that has been blown entirely out of proportion. Hollywood had a hand in that with “Braveheart”; it was not even Wallace that was called Braveheart, it was his film foe, Robert the Bruce! Hollywood will do anything for a good story, even include extreme historical inaccuracies. Little is actually known about Wallace and his life as it was not documented, but he has reached such historic proportions that there are monuments to him everywhere, most prominently in Stirling. The William Wallace Monument can be seen from miles away and at any point within the town; all for a man that we know carried a five feet and four inches long sword, and little else. Jumping right along to things we know little of, the Loch Ness Monster is another example of a folkloric tale that has not only survived, but evolved and prospers, and continues to do so. Drumnadrochit, the quiet little home town of Nessie, boasts a Nessie shop stocked floor to ceiling with stuffed animals of the beast, and a visitor's center so tourists can decide whether they believe or not. Hundreds of tourists each year make the venture up north to catch a glimpse of her, but turn away from the expanse of water with a slight jab of disappointment for not being the first person in fifty or so years to see Nessie. There have been numerous scientific endeavors to disprove, or prove, that she exists, all coming up empty. Despite all the modernity and technological forwardness of today, people still lean towards simpler times; nostalgia reaches everyone at some point or another.
“Remember your ancestors and be worthy of them” (MacKenzie, p. 2). This is a quote that could encompass the feelings these authors were having towards the nostalgia and the need to get these historic tales on paper. Their means of doing so are varied. Some remembered them from childhood, some gathered them from written documents on shelves of archaic predecessors, or interviewing the older generation. Donald A. MacKenzie, author of Scottish Folklore and Folk Life Studies in Race, Culture, and Tradition, writes on the subject: “I have not only sifted and collated the recorded evidence, but provided fresh material as a collector of many years’ experience and drawn upon my recollections of the persisting folk beliefs in which I shared in my boyhood” (MacKenzie, p. v). These people have lived the folk lore, have been a part of it, have tasted, smelled, and touched it. Author of Notes on the Folk-lore of the North-East of Scotland, Walter Gregor, says it best:
I have stood at midnight on the mountain-top, and heard only the dull sough of the wind, broken by the bark of a fox or the croak of a ptarmigan. Wrapped in plaid, I have crouched beneath a stone on a bed of fresh heather, and have fallen asleep with the music of a Gaelic song and the murmur of the streams falling over the mountain side- the one the counterpart of the other- sounding in my ears. Everything is changing faster than ever. The scream of the railway whistle is scaring away the witch and the fairy, and the water kelpie, and the ghost. To give an account of the olden time in the North, as seen by myself and as related to me by the aged, is the task I have set before me (Walter Gregor, Notes on the Folk-lore of the North-East of Scotland (London: Published for the Folk-lore Society by E. Stock, 1881) pp. 2-3).
The authors of these books see it as their personal mission to get the stories they were told, they know deep within their souls, to the general public. All of the books I have read for this project, all fourteen of them, had authors, some had multiple, a vast majority Scottish. They know these stories back to front and it is as important to them to “give an account of the olden time” and it is to respect their elders. In a way, this is showing their respects, honoring them with words and publications, allowing the world to share in the deeply rooted culture that encompasses Scotland.
The problem that the interest in the subject creates for someone doing research on the subject is that there is a lot out there. I narrowed the seemingly endless expanse of books to just ten, and from those ten, eight divulged information I used towards my writing. After scouring the eight books for as many tidbits as I could, only three were useful for more than a sentence here and there. Some of the shortest sentences were some of the most vital, though. From Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales by Gordon Jarvie I discovered that to rescue someone from Fairyland, the rescuer had to hold onto their target no matter what happened, as the person would transform into various things including a snake and a lion (Gordon Jarvie, Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales. (London: Puffin, 1992) p. 57). Without this, Alba and Donald could not have rescued Catherine from the clutches of the Queen. Raymond Lamont-Brown's book Scottish Folk-lore has been referenced quite a bit throughout this exposition, but without it I could not have known that Druids had a three tiered hierarchy, at the top of which was Catherine welcoming Alba into the bottom rung, or that they had seven sacred trees including holly and oak (Lamont-Brown, p. 18). The Folklore of the Scottish Highlands by Anne Ross had yet another interesting fact about the seemingly mysterious Druids: it takes upwards of twenty years to become a Druid proper, the top tier of the hierarchy (Anne Ross, The Folklore of the Scottish Highlands. (New York: Barnes & Noble) p. 34); it also includes information about second sight which states that if someone possesses the gift touches a fellow seer while seeing, they can share their vision, which Donald did with Alba (Ross, p. 42). Notes and Folklore of the North-East of Scotland also referenced earlier on, helped Alba escape from Fairyland the first time- she didn't eat or drink anything (Gregor, p. 61). Scottish Myth and Legend by Judy Hamilton gave me the idea for Donald's character; he is the seventh son of a seventh son and therefor possesses the ability of second sight (Hamilton, p. 87).
The two most useful books were certainly Scottish Folklore and Folk Life Studies in Race, Culture, and Tradition by Donald A. MacKenzie and The Lore of Scotland, A Guide to Scottish Legends by Westwood and Kingshill. Mackenzie’s book contained hundreds of pages of information with regards to everything from the physique of Scots to the origins of fairies. Although I did not use all of the information on which I took notes, it was still interesting to learn new things as I went. Scottish physique was quite impressive, even by today's standards, but in the time when MacKenzie was writing, which was late 1800s to mid-1900s, there was still much cultural growth going on. Scots, known for their large, muscular physique, outweighed and out measured all of their United Kingdom neighbors by several inches and stones, even some of their continental cousins paled in comparison to them (MacKenzie, p. 21). He wrote quite a bit about female supernatural figures, as aforementioned they are a staple in Scottish folklore, including Cailleach Bheur and Bridget, more commonly known as Bride. Both had similarities, but Cailleach Bheur was far more fearsome of a creature than Bride. She was the guardian of winter and enemy of growth, carrying a wand called a slachdan, she could create frost wherever she went. Unfortunately for her, if someone were to steal her wand, she would be powerless (MacKenzie, pp. 140-191 [140; 167; 188]). The amount of information on fairies really helped to inspire me and create an accurate picture of these enigmatic people. The descriptions of the fairies themselves helped give a sense of reality; “Fairies are small, evenly proportioned, with long yellow hair, wearing a mantle of green inlaid with wild flowers, green pantaloons buttoned with bobs of silk and silver shoes” (MacKenzie, p. 207). I used my artistic license and gave this archaic description a bit of a modern update so it would be more easily imagined my today's readers.
Westwood and Kinghill's book also included information about fairies. There was a bit of physical description, but more importantly there was information surrounding them and their culture. For example, there are certain protective measures that a person can take to protect themselves against fairies. One of these is to carry a piece of iron around with you, brandishing it if you should come across any of them (Jennifer Westwood and Sophia Kingshill, The Lore of Scotland: A Guide to Scottish Legends. (London: Random House, 2009) p. 29). In the Highlands, the most readily available piece of iron was the small sword called the dirk, or the blade stuck traditionally in the top of a stocking, the sgian dubh (p. 6). Another would be to say the lord's name; as fairies quite possibly could be the leftovers of the war in Heaven, they cannot stand hearing the name of God (p. 124). Their glamour is something I wrote a bit about; this is their ability to create magical illusions to trick the eyes of humans or even other fairies (p. 75). Besides extensive fairy information, there were sections about second sight and selkies, both of which made an appearance in my writing (pp. 331; 407).
Folklore has had an incredible history. It sprung from humble beginnings, seemingly out of necessity for entertainment through long nights sat round fires or gatherings. It evolved from simple story-telling to something more complex, including aspects of clan lore and history. The sennachie were truly gifted men with the ability to remember an entire clan's genealogy and legends to go along with each period in time. As the clan gatherings started to disperse and technology has taken root, the stories that started out as simple anecdotes have grown into something so much more. Hollywood has expedited this process with films and television shows. Authors over the years have also taken a deep interest in these tales that they both heard growing up or as adults, and wished to give back to the country they so love. Hundreds of titles have been published all bearing the name Scotland, all with retellings and reworking of these myths and legends. Some have even helped a university student complete her dissertation. All in all, folklore is an important part of not only Scottish history, but world history as well. It gives us a rare glimpse into the past and the lives that our ancestors led. As MacKenzie writes, “remember your ancestors and be worthy of them.”
Bibliography
Gregor, Walter, Notes on the Folk-lore of the North-East of Scotland. (London: Published for the Folk-lore Society by E. Stock, 1881)
Hamilton, Judy, Scottish Myths and Legends. (New Lanark, Scotland: Waverly, 2009)
Jarvie, Gordon, Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales. (London: Puffin, 1992)
Lamont-Brown, Raymond, Scottish Folklore. (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 1996)
MacKenzie, Donald A., Scottish Folk-lore and Folk-life Studies in Race, Culture, and Tradition. ([S.I.]: [s..n.], 1935)
Napier, James, Folk Lore in the West of Scotland. (Wakefield: EP, 1976)
Ross, Anne, The Folklore of the Scottish Highlands. (New York: Barnes & Noble, 1993)
"The Water Horse." IMDb. IMDb.com.
<http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0760329/>.
Westwood, Jennifer, and Sophia Kingshill, The Lore of Scotland: A Guide to Scottish Legends. (London: Random House, 2009)