Skara Brae 'The Faery Mound'

By W.Wm. Mee

‘Come away, Human child; to the water and the wild.’ is just a silly nursery rhyme to young Skara Brae of Craigmorrow Castle. But when she follows an old crone into one of the ‘faery mounds’ near Craigmorrow, she steps into the world of Oma-Var, where myth and magic are real, and legends spring to life --- and her ‘special powers’ are needed!
Skinny little Skara Brae McDuff of Craigmorrow Castle emerges from the ‘faery mound’ much changed from when she went in a few moments before. Several years older, she is now a beautiful young woman, and though her memory is foggy, she finds that she has both friends and foes here in Oma-Var. She also discovers that she has skills she didn’t have back in Craigmorrow. She can wield both a sword and a ‘wicca’ staff, and she can also capture men’s hearts --- three skills she will need if she is to survive here in this land of legend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.Wm. Mee
• Release date: Nov 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311337573

W.Wm. Mee

Wayne William Mee is a retired English teacher who enjoys hiking, sailing and walking his Beagle hound. He is also a 'living historian' or 'reenactor'. You can see Wayne's historical group on Facebook's 'McCaw's Privateers' 18th Century Naval Camp' page. Building & sailing wooden sailboats also takes up a chunk of Wayne's time, but along with his wife Maggie,son Jason and granddaughter Zoe, writing is his true love, the one he returns to let his imagination soar.Wayne would like you to 'look him up' on FACEBOOK and click the 'Friend' button or even zap him an e-mail.If you enjoyed any of his books, kindly leave a REVIEW here at Smashwords and/or say so on Facebook, Twitter, Tweeter or whatever other 'social network' you use.Thanks for stopping by ---and keep reading!!Drop him a line either there or at [e-mail]'ll be glad to hear from you!'Rest ye gentle --- sleep ye sound'

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

"Come away with me, o human child;

To the waters and the wild;

And I will show you such wonders

Human eyes have rarely seen."

(Wm. B. Yeats)

Skara Brae was long limbed, raven haired and doe-eyed. She had always been a whimsical child, with little or no interest in the scraping of hides, the spinning of wool or the raising of wild, Pictish babies. Those boring, lacklustre jobs she left to her sisters, her friends and her many cousins. Skara spent her time roaming the high hills and the deep glens, finding the secrets of root, berry and mushroom, and gazing in awestruck wonder at the billowing clouds and twinkling stars --- for in truth, it was a ‘Wise One’ she wished to be! Not a cook, nor a mother, nor even a wife, but one of those rare individuals that knew the secrets of Life and Death; could see the events of the Future as well as the Past, and could walk freely between the Real World and the World of Faery.

Skara Brae McDuff of the Highland Pics wanted to be a greatly respected and even more greatly feared ‘Wicca Woman’, what the superstitious and less educated would call a sorceress or a witch.

So it was that long before Cleopatra drifted down the Nile on her pleasure barge, or those proud monuments to the pharaohs began to blight the Egyptian horizon; long before bronze aged Spartan warriors stood valiantly at Thermopile; and certainly long before a daring, arrogant Julius Creaser attempted to subjugate the Celts in the British Isles --- Skara Brae, a young Pict woman of what would one day be the Highlands of Scotland, boldly peered into the shadow filled entrance to one of the rare and legendary ‘hollow hills’.

This particular ‘Faery Mound’ was rumoured to be where the infamous wicca woman ‘Grezil the Crone’ lived. Come along with me now, Gentle Reader, and revisit that momentous meeting when Youth & Beauty met Age & Wisdom --- and the two worlds, Reality & Fantasy, for a short time at least, blended into one.

***

Prologue

Casually leaning on her blackthorn staff of office, a handsome, mature woman stood proud and queen-like before the brooding presence of Fingal of Dross, better known throughout the length and breadth of Oma-Var as ‘The Lion King’.

She did not, however, stand alone. Several military men, representing both the army and navy of Dross, were also present, as were the king’s various advisors, astrologers and other petty officials --- yet it was at this lone woman that the king glowered. His fierce gaze peered out at her from beneath a thick mane of sun-bleached hair --- for it had been her urging alone that had swayed the king to agree to this ‘truce’ between Dross and Nod, its long time enemy to the east. --- a truce that had suddenly turned treacherous and might well now cost the Lion King his one remaining son and heir.

The tension in the room was like that of a hot summer’s night just before a storm swept in, with its thunder and lightening and terrible flash floods --- for Fingal’s legendary temper was much like a summer’s sudden storm, all sound and fast fury, soon passed, but usually leaving behind a wide swath of destruction in its wake.

As the tension rose in the high ceilinged room, so too did the temperature, for Dross is a southern kingdom, much given to warm winds from the Hot Lands even further south across the Narrow Sea. In the summer months, Fingal normally moved his court northwards into the mountains, where the cool air from the snow-clad peeks made his legendary ‘hunting trips’ all the more interesting. But it was not cooling breezes nor pleasant days spent hunting the high hills that King Fingal now cared about, but his one remaining son and heir, Prince Finleath. The scowling monarch suddenly leaned forward and spoke to the tall, handsome woman, his words sounding like a mature lion slowly chewing bones.

Zelrig, long have you been my wise and trusted councillor, and many times in the past your wisdom has kept me on the right path, even when my own judgement told me otherwise.

There was a pregnant pause, during which the woman said nothing, merely giving a slight nod in the frowning king’s direction. The king continued to glower, and at last spoke again; this time however his words were not slowly chewed, but spit out swiftly.

Well?! Have you nothing to say for yourself?! Will you just stand there, mute as a stone, while my son’s life is forfeit?!

Zelrig drew a deep breath, then cocked her long head sideways and regarded the king with moss green eyes. I was not aware, Your Grace, that you had asked me a question. Would you mind very much repeating it?

Finleath! the king exploded, his roar echoing through the stone hall like a lion roaring on the hot, sandy plains. My son! The prince and heir to this bloody kingdom!

Yes, My Liege? I know the prince well. A fine young man.

The king leaned forward on his carven throne. Know him well, do you, woman?! Know you then that this ‘fine young man’ as you call him might be sent home to me in pieces?! His head in a sack and his limbs tossed to the jackals?! And all this because I was fool enough to listen to your council and accept this so-called ‘truce’ with those inbred bastards of Nod!

The woman’s chin came up slightly and her green eyes flashed. Firstly, sire, you are not a fool. You are not perhaps the wisest of monarchs, but a fool you are not. Secondly, if you had not heeded my advice and agreed to this truce with Nod, these last six months would have been ones of continued slaughter, carnage and a drain on your war chest.

Damn my bloody war chest, woman! I’d spend every last copper to get my son back safe and sound!

But it is not your coppers or your coins that the House of Nod wants, is it my lord?

No, woman, it is not! The bastards want Linferth, my daughter, to marry that lunatic son of theirs! They want to join our two kingdoms together, with Larch of Nod the ruler and Fingal of Dross his subject! Bowing and scraping like a bloody servant!

And yet, My Liege, this ‘truce’ that you are so angry about still holds. Your son, Prince Finleath, remains a well cared for hostage of King Larch and each day that it does continue means countless more lives saved.

The Lion King stood up and fixed the entire room with his baleful eye. Nod demands my answer by the next full moon, which, according to my learned astrologer, is only ten days hence --- isn’t that right, Mycroft?! Fingal turned his glare on a wizened looking old man with a dark, flowing gown and a long, wispy beard.

Hmmm? Oh, yes indeed, sire, a mere ten days till the next full moon.

Ten days! the king roared. In ten days time I must either give away my kingdom, my pride and my only daughter to my sworn enemy --- or see my only son butchered and my people once again plunged into a never ending war! The king’s hand came up and an accusing finger stabbed out at the regal looking woman. And you, Zelrig the Wise, are the cause of it all --- the very root, trunk and branch of it!

The king’s shouted words made most there take a step back and thank whatever gods they preyed to that the king’s wrath was not directed at them. His hurtful words hung like invisible knives in the suddenly still room, the fading echoes of his harsh claim lingering like a foul taste in the mouth, or worse, a foul memory in the mind. All eyes shifted from the king to the woman standing before him, and then back again. In the end it was the woman who finally spoke. Leaning casually on her blackthorn staff, she fixed the king with her moss green eyes as her low voice filled the room.

Root, trunk and branch of your pain you name me; the cause of all ills under the sun! So be it then! But if I am named the cause, then it is only fitting that I should also be named the cure as well! She suddenly held her staff up before her, as though it was some sort of sacred relic or sceptre. Hear me King Fingal, for this I swear by all that is holy, I shall either return your son to you in ten days time --- or offer myself up in his place.

Into the stunned silence, the king quietly asked a question. You would do this for me, Zelrig? You would trade your life for that of my son’s?

The woman smiled and it suddenly seemed as though the candles in the room burned brighter. That, and much more, my king, would I gladly do for you. My very soul if need be --- but let us hope that it doesn’t come to that.

The king moved forward and gently took the handsome woman’s hands in his own. You have a plan, old friend?

Moss green eyes gleamed up at grey slate ones. Don’t I always, Finny?

The king’s hard features creased into something resembling a smile. Tell me what you need.

The captain of your guard, Aiden Coll and his ten best men, mounted and ready to ride by dawn tomorrow ---rations for a week and a bag of gold for each.

Done! Anything else?

Your new champion, Jocco Hazeldean.

Agreed! Anything else?

The woman’s sharp gaze went to the aged astrologer in the long robes and wispy beard. I’ll need Mycroft as well, though he’ll not be pleased.

The king smiled at the woman who had almost raised him, still beautiful after all these years. Pleased or not, Zelly, the old faker will be ready and waiting for you come dawn!

Zelrig graced the king with a smile of her own. Good. And now, I must away, for there is much to do before the rising of the sun!

Away, Zelly? the king repeated. I would think that you’d be off to bed for a good night’s rest --- your last in at least ten days!

Time enough to rest, my king, when we’re in the grave. Tonight I have work to do!

More of your spells and scrying out the future?

Her response was not what he expected. I’ve already seen the future, Finny, or at least what might be if all goes well. Now I just have to make sure that it does!

But where are you off to then? the king asked, once more a young lad sitting at her knee and listening to fantastical tales of strange and far off places. Into one of your ‘Faery Mounds’? Through a ‘doorless door’?

A wee, skinny girl waits for me, though she knows it not. She then sang part of a lullaby she used to sing to him long, long ago.

"First left passed the Milky Way.

On out to reach the newborn day,

As it dawns."

The king himself joined her for the last line:

"Skipping over sunbeams we move on!"

He then raised her long, slender hand to his lips and kissed it softly. The queen-like woman smiled again, turned and strode quickly from the room.

***

THE LAND OF OMA-VAR

PART ONE

‘Of Sun & Sea & Wind & Rain,

I come to sing a sad refrain,

Sing it low.

Sing it though the world is far below.

This is the land of Make-Believe

All things here are fantasy.

You and me.

We are now just learning to be free.

***

Chapter 1: ‘The Doorless Door’

The Doorless Door to Zelrig/Grezil’s Faery Mound

Skara Brae heard the singing long before she found the hill.

In a strange way, it seemed that she had been hearing it all her young life.

It was soft, low and haunting, but in a pleasant way.

It dew her onwards like a siren’s song towards the timeworn rocks that Fate, Faith and a dash of Magic had formed into a ‘Doorless Door’; a dark entrance from the Here & Now to the Then & Gone; a pathless passage into another place much like this one, yet at the same time, vastly different. A place that mere words alone cannot describe, for how can one explain the joy of a rainbow or the laughter of a child, or the love of a parent for their new born offspring?

Yet, in the fullness of Time, rainbows and laughter fade and become ‘something else’, as does the newborn child. Love and joy, sadness and loss, are things found on both sides of the faery mound --- as skinny little Skara Brae was about to find out.

As the sun climbed high overhead her steps began to move up the thickly wooded hill and the distant singing became both louder and clearer. With each further step the words seemed to tickle a spot far back in her brain that reminded her of the warmth and innocence of her recently passed childhood, yet teetered on the edge of her new, half awakened womanhood.

‘Of Sun & Sea & Wind & Rain,

I come to sing a sad refrain,

Sing it low.

Sing it though the world is far below.

This is the land of Make-Believe

All things here are fantasy.

You and me.

We are now just learning to be free.’

Suddenly the singing stopped, as did Skara’s forward motion. She stood as still as a deer, her dark eyes moving, trying to penetrate the thick, lush greenery on the steep hillside.

Come ahead, girlie, for I’ll not bite!

Skara Brae, her heart suddenly pounding, felt a flicker of panic, but then willed it down and took a tentative step forward.

That’s it, girlie. Come along with ye, for we’ve no much time and they’ve been waiting overlong as it is!

Skara brushed back her long, raven-black hair and forced her way through the brambles, scratching her pale skin and tearing her woollen dress in the process. As she moved further up the hill, the singing began again.

I am a traveler just like you.

There is a place I’ll take you to,

If you dare.

For a while we’ll float upon the air.

First left passed the Milky Way.

On out to reach the newborn day,

As it dawns.

Skipping over sunbeams we move on.

Skara forced her way through one last thicket and emerged on a small, open plateau. What appeared to be a perfectly round, grass covered mound or small hill rose up before her, dotted with a few wind twisted trees. At its base was a weathered, moss-covered collection of stones, creating a shadowy opening or ‘doorway’ into the mound itself.

Ahh, there ye be at last! Come along now, girlie! We don’t want to be late!

At the sound of the voice Skara turned and saw a withered old woman, bent and wrinkled like the few twisted trees that clung here and there to the open, rocky hilltop. She was leaning on a gnarled, blackthorn staff. The thought came to Skara that the old crone might have actually been one of the ancient, twisted trees, suddenly sprung to life, but the old woman's next words drove all such faey thoughts from her mind.

They’re all waiting for us don’t ye know! Come Skara, we must away!

Away?! the dark haired beauty of a score of summers less three said, her own musical voice sounding strangely like the rustle of the wind. But I only just got here! And who is it that is ‘waiting for us’ --- and how by Lug’s Great Spear did you know my name?!

The old woman stopped short and fixed the young girl with a baleful eye. For a brief moment a cloud seemed to blot out the sun, but it passed just as quickly and all was soon bright and fine again. I know your name, Skara Brae of the Clan McDuff, daughter of Hamish and Onooga McDuff, the Laird and Lady of Craigmorrow Castle, because I’ve been watching you your whole life long, so I have! As for just who is waiting for us, that’s best answered by coming along quickly now and finding out for yerself! Now, give us your hand, girlie and step with me through the door!

Skara, headstrong like her mother and fierce of heart like her father, folded her arms across her budding breasts and refused. I will not! At least, not till you tell me just where in Lug’s wide world we are going?!

That baleful eye was suddenly back again, as were the clouds that darkened the sun. Lug’s wide world indeed! Very well, girlie, I’ll tell ye some of it, for I can see that your temper’s up --- but mark this and mark it well; when I’m done you will be coming with me --- one way or the other!

Skara’s chin lifted, shouting her silent defiance. Sighing, the old woman began her short tale.

Grezil the Crone

King Fingal of Dross’s son, Finleath, a brave and bonnie lad, has been captured and imprisoned by a cruel and scheming woman --- and we are going to help set him free. There ye have it, girlie. Now, let’s away! The old woman turned and began to hobble towards the cave’s small, dark entrance when she noticed that Skara hadn’t moved a bit.

Well, what ails ye now, lassie? Be ye coming or no?

No. Not until you tell me more!

Once again the baleful look and the brief darkening of the sky, both of which seemed longer and deeper this time. At last the old crone, leaning on her gnarled staff, sniffed loudly and spat out a few more terse sentences.

"For many years the kingdom of Dross has been at war with its neighbour, Nod. Great has been the loss of life on both sides and the scars of hatred run long and deep. Finally a truce was called and the heir to each throne was to be held hostage by the other side till a lasting peace could be hammered out. Nod, however, played foul and sent and imposter instead; a beggar and thief that resembled the king’s son. Now, King Larch of Nod is demanding Dross’s complete surrender, or King Fingal’s only son, bonny Prince Finleath, will soon be no more!

There now, ye nosy lass, be that enough in-for-ma-tion for ye?! Or would you like to ponder it more over a cup of hot mint tea?! I could brew it up for you in nooo time at all! The crone’s raspy voice was loaded with sarcasm.

Skara however ignored it and pressed on. At first you said the prince was held captive by an evil woman, now you say by a king? Which is it?

The old woman cocked her head to one side and held the young Pic girl with her moss green eyes. Sharp as a pin ye be, girlie! Take care ye be not too sharp n' cut that fair skin o' yours.

I'm sharp enough to catch a lie when I hear one! Skara shot back, none too pleased to be insulted by an old hag with leaves in her hair!

T’was no lie, girlie! It was King Larch of Nod that imprisoned Prince Finleath and he that now threatens the prince’s life, but the idea came from the king’s evil wife, Queen Hecate --- better known as the Dark One! The old woman hawked up a wad of phlegm and spit off to one side, as though the woman's very name carried a vile taste.

Now, girlie, if you're all through with your questions, we'll be on our way!

Skara was about to ask yet another when the old woman began half singing, half chanting in a strange yet somehow familiar tongue.

"Come away with me, o human child;

To the waters and the wild;

And I will show you such wonders

Human eyes have rarely seen."

Instantly Skara felt a warm, comforting feeling wash through her, much like she had as a little girl being tucked in at night by her mother, Lady Onooga McDuff of Craigmorrow Castle. The old woman gently took Skara's hand and led her towards the shadowy doorless door at the base of the grassy mound. Smiling Skara's mother's smile, the old crone ducked into the dark doorway, and gently drew Skara in after her.

One of the many 'Doorless Doors'

***

Chapter 2: ‘The Merry Couple’

Rand's balls, Hecate! They call me 'Larch the Cruel', but I think it is you that best deserves the title, so callous and cruel can be that sharp mind of yours! Aye, almost as sharp as your tongue!

Hecate, the woman to whom the king was speaking, regarded him with her amber, cat-like eyes, and the look was far from a loving one. All the better to cut you with, husband!

Nine years earlier the recently widowed King of Dross had brought this mysterious, dark haired beauty home with him from a pilgrimage to the distant and semi-mythical land of Tyree. In the nine years since, both the king and his court had come to question the wisdom of such a 'hasty marriage', and though they were still cordial enough with each other in public, when behind closed doors, the royal couple’s fights were the gossip of the kingdom.

Less than a year after the marriage King Larch had told his trusted, inner circle of noble cronies that: 'If the bloody sex wasn't so damned good, I'd have put the sharp tongued bitch aside long ago!' Since then however the former had declined to the point of being almost nonexistence while the latter had, if anything, become even sharper.

You can't be serious, Hecate, about taking the girl's life! Once she’s married to our son and he gets her with child, she'll be as docile as a ---

As a what, 'oh great and mighty king'? the dark haired beauty hissed, her cat-like eyes flashing in the candlelight. One of those black skinned Jarish Nix whores that your drinking buffoons bribe you with? Or do you prefer big bosomed milkmaids this month? Your taste in sluts changes like the weather; but then, husband, one sow is much like another, wouldn't you say?

You should know, My Love, Larch replied with a smile, his tone as sweet as acid on a blade. I hear you've replaced your last lover with a pair of twins from the countryside. Spreading not only your love but your legs for the commoners now, are we? 'For King and country' and all that! How very politic of you!

Hecate shot him withering look that would have melted a lesser man. For the country yes, but not for the king; I might catch hoof and mouth disease! Or what is that illness one gets from buggering sheep?

Larch grimaced, refilled his glass and poured one for her. Wine, my Love? To rinse the taste of stableboy from your mouth?

She glided over to him and took the thin stemmed glass with a thin fingered hand. It was the new fencing master, actually. I like the way he 'thrusts'.

He raised his