Surveying the loch spread out in silvery mystery, I'm shocked that it's as flat as a scrying mirror, the surrounding landscape damming it in is mildly sloped with nothing more than scraggly trees and scrub adorning the crags and slopes. The rock is faded gray and bland.
This
is his family stronghold in the inner hebrides?
This
is the last outpost of clan might?
“It's be'n in the family fer over eight hundred years. Isn't it bonnie?” he says when he wraps his warmth around me, gushing pride quietly as if we'll be overheard. “This is Dunvegan castle, the den of the MacLeod clan, and the resting place fer the faery flag.”
“Where are we exactly?” I ask, also keeping my tone hushed.
“The Isle of Skye.”
“Oh! Where the infamous Sgathach lives?”
“Shhh!” he giggles softly, turning me to face him. “Aye, this is her hame.”
“No one's going to hear us,” I assure him.
“I wouldnae be so sure. I'd rather be safe than sorry. MacLeods are known fer smashin' yer heid in and askin' questions later.”
“We're surrounded by water,” I state.
“Aye, three sides sea, lots of mist, and a shedload of secrets.” Nudging his head at the castle, he whispers, “That's been standin' there since the ninth century. This is hallowed ground.”
Holding my hand, he strolls slowly toward the circle with me, speaking low, “The true date of this castle is unknown. The name was originally Norse, and it means watchtower.”
The word watchtower rings a bell in my memory, and I turn to him, watching his face while he speaks. The watchers used watchtowers. The watchers are the Sidhe. This is becoming strangely creepy. If I didn't know better I'd begin to think the sinister jokers were playing me for a fool.
“When I was a wee lad, all I ever wanted tae do was tae drink claret fraem Rory Mor's Horn.”
“Who is Rory Mor?”
“The fifteenth clan chief. His full name is Sir Roderick Macleod of Macleod, but he's known colloquially as Rory Mör. Och it's a long story, Ellie. Basically Rory's sister was supposed to marry an old friend, the chief of the MacDonald's, and Donald MacDonald... dinnae laff!”
I'm picturing Donald Duck now. Who calls their kid Donald MacDonald? Hahaha, that's just cruel.
“Anyway!” he puffs, laughing under his breath, “Donald rejected his potential bride which caused a rift between us and the MacDonalds. They went tae Ireland tae fight side by side, but when they got hame tae these parts, they waged the last battle ever on Skye, and the MacDonald's kicked our hides fer us. And we dinnae speak no more.”
“But you're friends with Roddie, he's a MacDonald.”
“Aye, and I keep tellin' him tae give ma castle back. I insist before I die the MacDonald's return Dunscaith castle.”
“So you guys were big shots back in the day, huh?”
He gives me a shrug, “I guess.”
Pausing with him in the stillness around us and the looming silhouette of the castle, I whisper, “Mor is something else. I know what Mor is.”
“Aye? An' what is mor, miss Ellie vampyre?” he grins, his affection contagious.
“It's what the stuff of creation is called. Mankind was created out of mor.”
“Aye? Ye dinnae say? That's interestin'.”
“It's more than interesting Doug, it gives the name of your ancestor a whole new meaning. He lives in a watchtower the way the watchers did and he is called Rory Mor, which is like calling him god. It doesn't get any more impressive than that.”
“I dinnae about that, all I wanted was tae drink wine from the horn.”
“The horn?”
“Aye, it's a drinking horn like they used in the old days. Tae show yer manhood ye had tae drink two pints of claret out of it in one gae. If ye didnae dae it, ye wasnae a man.”
“Lordy, and this is your childhood dream? To break into Dunvegan castle just to get yourself legless?”
Laughing, his smile lights up the night, “Aye, I know. When ye say it like that ye make me sound like an alcoholic numpty.”
Looking back at the impressive building, I mumble, “Well let's hope they all went to the Highland Games and have hours of traveling time before reaching home.”
“They probably have alarms and stuff. We cannae go in there Ellie. It's housebreakin'.”
“We aren't breaking in, we're visiting.”
“And how are we gonnae get past the security?”
“Just think of the room you want to see, and we'll be inside before they can dial 911.”
“Calling America isnae gonnae help them–”
“You get my point. Hurry, before someone sees us lurking out here.”
Grinning, he nods at me, and I hold him tight, the bridge vanishing and the loch replaced with an old red brocade wallpaper. Looking around the tiny room I'm immediately claustrophobic.
It's a castle for heaven's sake, you'd expect the rooms to be spacious.
“Er, wrong room. I'm sorry Ellie, I panicked.”
“Well we're in the castle right?”
“Aye,” he nods.
“Well then the rest is easy, just think of the horn and I'll manifest it in here instead of us going looking out there for it.”
“Ye come in mighty handy. Ye could be a cat burglar. We could be rich cos with ye by my side we could steal the crown jewels and finally get the British back fer the bloodshed.”
“Dougie, hurry up, think of the horn.”
“Are ye gonnae be a nag like this when yer older? Should I start runnin' now?”
Giggling under my breath, I find that so hilarious I flop onto the antique museum bed to hide my laughter.
“Okay, okay. Let's dae this,” he whispers in my ear, hauling me off the bed as if I'm going to ruin it. “I'm thinking of it now.”
Concentrating with him, keeping the connection of my skin on his through our handhold, I manage to pull a heavy item into my hand, amazed by quite how large the 'horn' is.
“Now what?” I ask him, handing him the heavy Viking mug.
“Fill it with wine. So I suppose Jesus was really sidhe then? Turning water intae wine is nae problem fer yer lot.”
“I haven't a clue, I'm not a fan of religion,” I grumble, filling the beastly vessel with red wine.
“Wish me luck,” he whispers, and with that he starts guzzling.
I can't believe we came all this way just for him to satisfy his macho pride. The top of the horn is rimmed in a thick silver band with markings on it, but otherwise I can't see what makes this particular horn special, except for maybe it was god's.... once.
I'm considering getting the fairy flag to show Selene while I'm here, but for some reason angering the sidhe scares me more than angering god. I don't plan on pushing my luck with the MacLeod ancestors.
A suffocating inhalation pulled in harshly skips my focus back to my sweetheart and his proud grin as he brandishes the bone cup, “I did it!”
“Shhhh,” I chastise, taking the horn from him, checking it's truly empty, and sending it right back to where it came from. “So what does that mean?”
“It means I'm a worthy Macleod male and am fit to be chief of the clan.”
“Seriously?”
“Aye,” he nods sagely.
“Okay, well this place doesn't impress me much, so where to now?”
“Not far from here is an awesome stone.”
“A stone?” I say flatly.
“Ellindt, would ye trust me lass?”
“Okay, fine, let's space hop to look at a stone.” Gripping his arm, I pull him against me and start moving us out of the castle, “Think of it and don't let go of the image.”
Immediately we're standing on scrub in a wide open field, beneath the now starry sky and blessed by the breath of the Celtic wind.
“Here we have the only standing stone on the Isle of Skye. Now, I remind ye my wee doubting hen, this is the land of my ancestors, this is where my roots are.”
“Okay,” I nod, listening to the ovate in him rise up to challenge his inner druid.
Grabbing my shoulders, he turns me one hundred and eighty degrees. “This is a standing stone, and look at the markings on it.”
Before inspecting his precious dolmen / menhir, I stare up, getting my bearings from the sky, then reconciling that with the ley lines magnetizing the ground beneath our feet.
Surveying the stone, it's like a flat shelf stuck upright into the sand, decorated with pale green lichen, with circles etched into it.
In my ear, hugging me tight as he stoops over me, he whispers, “I tolt ye we're different. We're prehistoric. The beasties are prehistoric, the stones are prehistoric, the monsters in the lochs are prehistoric, and this is our proof. All over the highlands ye'll find cairns and stones like this.”
“What are they for?” I ask, not understanding why a stone can excite anyone so much.
“That carving is Pictish. We predate Rome, Ellie. We predate every empire written about. They founded the Kingdom of Alba. This is how deep ma ancestry runs, Ellindt. I wanted tae share it with ye.”
Okay. I can see how that's important to him. In fact it's amazing to think these people have survived eons here. They belong here and anyone else is an outlander. Foreigners are not welcome.
“They fought nude painted in woad, and they were fierce bastards,” he grins proudly.
“What is it with you guys and your nudist colony tendencies?”
“We were born free. No man, no empire, no law can cage the Celt. We will never conform and we'll never fit in. We are simply superior lass. No living tribe can claim what we can. “
“The Greeks would disagree,” I smile sarcastically.
“Aye, and there gods were Alba white and were nocticula too.”
“What?” I ask, looking across the flat field with the one lone stone with a rickety fence erected around it.
“Alba means white. And the Greek's goddess was like ye. Athena was pale, with white hair like ye, and she shone. Their mother city is named after her and to her the greatest monument in all of Greece is dedicated and built. I dinnae think any Greek taeday looks like that description, de ye? I however, look exactly like my ancestors.”
It hits me. He said Norse earlier. And that is what he looks like. I thought he might have Scandinavian blood in him, and that's close enough. And oddly the hammer he says his goddess carries, well that imagery is shared with the Norse too. Ha! Wow, so everything is just a circle within a circle within a circle.
Looking back at the rock, I see the big picture. History is just ripples on a pond, the same imagery and influences coming back and touching us again and again. The standing stone has the circles on it, stating the obvious.
Staring across the field, I'm seeing animals. “What are those?” I ask, pointing at the woolly things with horns.
“Cows.”
“No way those are cows!”
“Aye way they are cows. They have long coats tae keep them warm in the winter. That's what a highland cow looks like.”
Ohmigosh, I can't believe they have cows that look like old English sheepdogs! That's incredible!
“Okay, you've had your fun, now it's my turn,” I say, looking up at him smiling like a star-struck idiot at his standing stone of pride.
It's phallic is what it is. Drinking out of horns and idolizing erected menhirs, it's all phallic in my opinion.
“Where tae?” he says, slinging his arm around my shoulder and leaning a tad heavily.
“The vamporium.”
“And where is that?” he asks loudly.
“I have no clue,” I whisper, closing my eyes and simply thinking VAMPORIUM.
All I know is you can only find it on full moon, which means we're in luck.
Chapter 18
Ellindt:
Standing together in the glade with the full moon bearing down on us, it feels preternatural and destined.
Waiting for a sign, for some indication of where I must go, I survey the shaded undergrowth. Long bright beams of silvery light hold motes and midges suspended in their spell. Harnessing my esoteric power, I focus, concentrating.
Breathing.
Seeking.
Sensing.
Spiritual radiance crests the glimmers with magic froth, fizzing jubilance into the summer's night, tantalizing my imagination.
Listening to the effervescence of light stroking earth, my taste buds tingle and my sense of smell is overwhelmed with elemental emotion.
Inhaling to expand my lungs, I can smell it. It's joy. The light, it flows buoyantly between boughs, sleek and sublime where it ribbons tentacles on the backs of euphoric wisps.
Swarms of gregarious bubbles glow, bouncing a celestial ritual to worship the high moon, bursting with loud pops to detonate sweet happiness through my ethereal body. It splatters kisses of hallucinogenic energy into my veins, sinking through skin, muscle, bone, burrowing deep into my soul, inciting me to skip, laugh, twirl, and dance the primordial steps of the angels.
Psychedelic crimson bleeds out of the ground, misting mystery to hide our feet, caressing my spirit with a transcendental lick.
The scarlet elixir is intoxicating, nebulous, bright and pure.
Awed, I swoop down, cupping a handful and sucking it in hungrily. I forgot. How could I forget this?
We smell light. We taste it. It's not incorporeal, but vivid, vibrant, energetic and delicious. It's the holy smoke of the underworld rising up to take me home, chasing my spirit with impatient fingers, instilling an immediate sense of wonder and urgency.
“Come,” I whisper to Doug, clasping his hand and tugging him, pulling us into a run, following the astral gloaming through the trees, giddy anticipation chanting my heartbeat into a rapid tattoo.
After a breath stealing gallop he pulls on me, reining my exuberance in, his voice tight and terrified. “Ellie, what is it? What the hell is this?”
Delirious with delight, I gasp happily, swaying to the rhythm harping my blood, “Angel breath. You are seeing the angel's exhalations, the food for mankind comes from below, not from above.” Trailing my fingers through the incandescence, streaking it with my fingertips, I am heady with home. “Doug, this is the blood that keeps us alive. We are not bone and muscle, we are light!”
Giggling softly, smiling at him, I reach up to frame his face, running my thumbs across his frown, smoothing it out, forcing him to look into my eyes emitting glorious beams of exaltation.