We’d heard no pipe.

My father watched me pace, stove to table to door and back. Night had fallen, the wind and snow whistled outside, but we were safe and warm inside. Normally I’d be sitting at the table, mending or making, but today …

“Hannah, Duncane’s a good man for all that he’s shepherd and not a fisherman. He’ll wrap himself in the flock and be covered in wool. Does your mother pace this much when I’m at sea in a storm?”

“Sometimes.” came the soft reply from my mother at the table. “You’re just not here to see it.”

I whirled around to face my father.

“I thought you didn’t approve.”

He looked down at the fish lines in his hand, sighed, and looked back up.

“I know he won’t help me on the boat when I get old. But I remember when I knew your mother was the one. And I see that in you now. Oswyn will do.”

My younger brother Oswyn snorted as he sat on a bench mending a piece of net.

My mother hid a smile and looked down at her knitting. “Maybe she’ll knit you a net.”

“The damn thing would be too heavy to lift as soon as it got wet.”

Have you ever thought of your parents being your age and falling in love? I never heard a single story from them about growing up. Life was just one chore after the next. If something broke, you figured out how to fix it or do without, or maybe traded something with a neighbor. The only stories I remember were stories from the Bible as Oswyn, Clarice and I learned to read. It never entered my mind that they had been children at one time, let alone courted.

Now I had been distracted twice. First at the thought that my father would even countenance Duncane courting me, and then at the thought of my parents being my age. When I climbed into bed with Clarice in the loft later that night, I was still wondering about my parents as children. I didn’t think till later to wonder why the stories we read at home from the Bible never seemed to be the stories we heard in the Vicar’s sermons. Or why, unlike some of our neighbors, our parents never beat us. We dutifully went to church on Sundays, but apparently whatever fire and brimstone the Vicar shouted went in one ear and out the other of both of my parents. Were they listening or just going through the motions?

Finally, Spring came around. Duncane talked to my father down at the boats. I think he wanted it to be man to man and not have me around if the answer was no. As he promised the night of the snow that caught Duncane on the mountain, my father gave permission for Duncane to court me. That meant, at least in our village, that we could go on unsupervised walks together on the mountain. And that meant maybe meeting the ghost or whatever it was from Duncane’s dream.

I could barely contain my excitement. Even if Duncane’s dream wasn’t real, the thought of going to the Stones felt like planning to steal a sweet. They were not explicitly forbidden, you just knew that the Vicar would frown and denounce you if discovered.

Lambing season had just ended and Duncane’s brother Avery had agreed to watch the flock with Frost and Fire, Duncane’s dogs. If we had the sheep, we would never be able to get to the Stones and back to the village in daylight. Even my parents would not accept that.

By the time we reached the Stones three hours later, I was out of breath. Duncane, of course, was fine. He wanders up and down the hills with the flock constantly, but I don’t. I stopped at a distance, suddenly a bit nervous. Duncane took my hand and smiled. I gathered my courage and stepped towards the Stones.

Nothing happened. Duncane and I reached out with our free hands and touched a stone. It was just a cool stone, planted in the hillside by some barbarian tribe hundreds of years ago. I realized I was holding my breath and finally let it out and turned to Duncane.

“I guess it was just a dream.” Duncane said.

“Hello Little Ones”

I gasped and sat down suddenly on the turf. The voice was inside my head. Not loud, not soft, just there.

Duncane bent over me, a look of concern on his face. I waved him away.

“It talks”

“Have you come here to play for me?”

Duncane apparently heard the voice in his head as well and replied “Yes. I promised to return and pay my debt.”

He sat down, pulled out his pipe and began to play a little jig tune. Somehow I could feel the voice’s attention on the tune and the voice’s attention on me and the voice’s attention on some butterflies and …

“Yes, I can hear your thoughts, and give you some of mine in return.”

“You’re real!”

The voice seemed amused. “That depends on what you think is real.”

“Thank you for protecting Duncane.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Are you a demon?”

Now the voice seemed to sigh sadly.

“What is a demon, little one?”

“Something evil, pretending to help us and then stealing our souls.”

The voice in my head seemed to chuckle.

“Think about your question, little one. If I was a demon, I would not admit it, so I would say ’No’. If I wasn’t a demon, I would also say ’No’. It sounds like a witch finder question - no matter the answer, the woman is always a witch. Am I right?”

I turned the question over in my mind. It was true the only answer would be ’No’.

“How am I to know if you are evil?”

"Let me tell you a story. Long ago, as you count time, there was another village here. They didn’t speak your language or worship your god. They were the ones who set up the Stones here to mark where we would meet on the hill.

We would talk, and they would gather, play music and dance. Sometimes to celebrate the changing of the seasons, sometimes to thank me for what little I might have done to help them in their harvest or protect them from storms.

Then one day a new people arrived, with swords and spears, killing the villagers because they worshipped the wrong gods. I have some ability to influence the weather around the hill, but the village was beyond my reach and I couldn’t save them from other humans.

Who is evil in this story?"

“Obviously the viking raiders!”

“What viking raiders? The murderers were the people who settled your village here.”

“But we’re Christians!”

“And yet, in the name of a ’loving god’, your ancestors slaughtered a village that had done no harm to them.”

I suddenly realized that Duncane was still playing his pipe and was not included in the conversation in my mind. I knew what the Vicar would say. He would repeat the command that “Thou shalt not place any other gods before me” and that justifies killing idolaters. But the voice had saved Duncane and kept him warm in the blizzard. It wasn’t asking for worship; it only asked him to play some music in return.

The voice seemed to withdraw a little and return to listening to Duncane’s music. I looked around for the butterflies, but they seemed to have left the circle. I wrapped my arms around my knees and listened to Duncane’s pipe. He was now playing some air that I hadn’t heard before. In my imagination, the air around the Stones seemed to sparkle with the rhythm and melody, as if to play with him.

Finally, Duncane put down his pipe and the sparkles stilled.

“Thank you” said the voice. “And now I’ll give you a gift in return.”

Duncane and I looked at each other, wondering what that could be. Suddenly I felt like I could see colours shining in an aura around him. I put my hand to my mouth and was about to scream when the voice said, “No, children. Just watch.” Duncane had started as well.

“You’re glowing!”

“You’re glowing too!”

The colours seemed to expand until they touched and there were sparkles everywhere in the circle and then the colours slowly faded away.

“You will both be good for each other.” said the voice with a sense of satisfaction. “Be an example to others in your village about respect and kindness and support. If you climb the hill again, I will respond to you.”

“What do I call you? I can’t just call you the Voice in Stones.”

“You may call me Anthracyda. Now return home in peace.”

The sense of presence of the voice was gone. We looked at each other and breathed, “It wasn’t a dream.”

Next - Elspet Marlison (Spring 1642)

Return to Index