The Chosen Ones of Callanish: AMC, #1

By Scott Andrews

When a group of archaeology students from Oxford University set off to study an ancient stone circle, they have no idea they are about to be sucked into an age-old battle of good versus evil.

The Callanish Stone Circle has remained untouched for centuries, surrounded by the swirling mists of the Isle of Lewis. But while the ancient stones appear to be unchanged by the passing of time, somewhere a clock is ticking, getting ready to reveal the site's mystical secrets.

Forced to take shelter from a freak storm in a concealed labyrinth of tunnels below the stones, the students find themselves catapulted back in time, tasked with fulfilling the prophecy of legendary sorcerer Merlin. Will they be able to triumph over the forces of darkness or will this unfamiliar world of demons, magic and chivalry prove to be too great a challenge?

The Chosen Ones of Callanish is a fast-paced fantasy thriller in which two very different worlds collide. Will the modern-day protagonists manage to get to grips with the ancient virtues of honour, valour and chivalry before it is too late? And what price will they need to pay to survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Andrews
• Release date: Feb 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781912680764

Book preview

Part One

Druid Ritual, Callanish, Scotland, 1300

Chapter One

Isle of Lewis, Scotland

October 31, around 1300 AD

It was a clear, crisp evening with a chill Atlantic wind in the air. Only a few isolated clouds drifted across the ink-black sky. A multitude of stars flickered around the moon, a sphere so bright that its surface craters could be seen. The moon’s silver light cast a foreboding shadow on the ground below, illuminating the circle of fourteen imposing stones that loomed over the plains of Callanish. To some, the scene would appear familiar: the ring looked much like Stonehenge, the ancient puzzle of stones found on the British Isles, and it was built with the same sarsen stones. But somehow, the circle at Callanish contained even more mystery than its English cousin.

Fearsome in its towering blackness, the Callanish Stone Circle stood near the ridge of a soaring cliff, at the edge of a cropping of ancient oak trees. Just to the west, through the oaks, one could see a spectacular view of the majestic ocean, an azure vision that stretched out far beyond the horizon. Surrounding the cliff to the east and south were miles of rolling plains covered with tall, lush grass and patches of wild flowers exploding with brilliant color. Just north of the cliff lay a ravine about three miles wide. Within its confines, and bordered on the far side by another distinct sea cliff, ran a river of cascading emerald waters that rose and fell with the tide. Immense silver, gray, and black stones loomed jagged and steep above the current, echoing the sound of rushing water as it pushed down the great stone canyon.

To any spectator, the elements of earth and water mixed with morning light usually formed a delightful composition of pastoral greens and dazzling golds that shifted with the wind and currents. But on this October night the picture was far from pleasing. Under the moon’s eerie radiance, the sprawling plains and dark waters formed not harmonious but disjointed patterns that created an unnatural, sickly greenish glow over the shifting shoreline. Even the usually lively oaks added to the ominous feeling. They seemed to sigh in sorrow, as if to mourn the loss of their leaves, which fell silently to the ground in great rust-colored heaps.

From within the Callanish Stone Circle, a few faint voices rose in unison. They belonged to several figures huddled in front of a massive black stone altar, who recited ancient incantations in a tongue already long forgotten by most, but potent beyond words. From time to time they stopped to brush away flaky gray soot from the low-burning fire. The monks were clad only in thick tar-black robes tied with oak vine ropes around their waists, and their dark, shadowy faces were almost invisible behind their massive hoods. For many hours they remained motionless, except the few closest to the altar, who ran their spindly fingers over its smooth stone surface, tracing its frame, which was just larger than a fully grown man. Then, at some point near midnight, they began to move about, first forming several small spirals, and then a single uninterrupted coil that led them out from, and then back toward, the holy table. The mysterious sounds of their murmured words seemed to evoke fire and wind. Flames licked the altar’s surface, and strong currents carried the druids’ words beyond the stone walls into the night.

Tied to two huge black stones behind the altar hung an angelic-looking peasant girl with long, willowy legs and a slim, tapering waist. She was tall for a girl of her day, and, although barely sixteen, quite voluptuous, with full breasts and round, soft hips. Her normally serene blue eyes were stricken with terror, and darted frantically around as her face contorted into a horrified grimace. Honeysuckle vines fastened to the stones pulled her slender arms high above her head and bound her wrists. The Atlantic wind currents caught the edges of her scanty, thin linen white dress, molding it flat against her tender body. She shivered from fear, drenched in cold sweat. Tears streamed from her crystal blue eyes down her delicate face, which was often obscured by her long, pale hair dancing high in the growing wind.

Below and in front of her, tending the altar’s now blazing-hot fire, a druid alternately fed the flames with branches of ash from a nearby pile, and with pale yellow-and-blue powder made from sulfur, saltpeter charcoal, and a secret ingredient from a leather pouch attached to the belt around his waist. The powder shimmered down from his hand onto the flames and burst upwards, shifting from blue to gold and then back again to a vivid sapphire. The resultant smoke enveloped the girl as it rose above the stones where she hung helplessly, changing into a dull gray when it reached the pitch-black sky dotted with sparkling stars. Looking down through the fumes she thought she could see demonic faces gathering in front of the altar, laughing up at her.

At some point the chanting stopped. The attendant left the fire and with the other druids moved slowly and silently away into the surrounding darkness. All was silent and still except for the rustling of the trees and the echo of waves crashing on the shore far below. Hoping that this might be the end of her helpless captivity, the young woman peered through the vanishing smoke trying to see her surroundings. She had no previous knowledge of the circle’s interior. Like the rest of her village, she had viewed it only from afar, as something forbidding and evil.

The girl could see very little at first, but gradually she was able to make out two great stones that formed the entrance to the circle. Each looked nearly twenty feet high, and what appeared to be some kind of writing was carved on every stone. They were attached by thick vine ropes to a stone wall, about half the height of the entrance stones, which surrounded the circle. Further along, she thought she could dimly make out more huge black stones that formed archways on the far side of the circle.

Before she could fully take stock of her surroundings, her attention jolted back to the fire below her. The red-hot flames shot up and out, rising perilously near her slender bare feet. Looking down into the blaze, she was able to see some kind of iron apparatus and a clamp that looked as if it were meant to support a cauldron. She tried to imagine this as a dream, but sensing it wasn’t, combed the depths of her terror-stricken mind to recall a prayer she might use to help herself. God above and here with me, she cried out in desperation, help me now, help me now!

As if responding to her plea, the wind ceased, and the trees took on a stillness, as if poised, waiting for something to happen. But no salvation came from the unforgiving skies, and she remained alone and helpless. Wondering at the ongoing silence and the absence of God’s help, she could only nurture a feeble hope that this ordeal would end.

Her fragile optimism was extinguished at the sight of a line of druids moving out of the huge rocks’ shadows toward the altar. This time, however, the druids moved directly toward her so she could see some of their faces. In the firelight their features seemed to change from somewhat human in shape to grotesque, masked faces, some appearing demonic and some animalistic, but all malevolent and terrifying. The girl recoiled at their hideousness, but she could not help but watch them, as if hypnotized. They gathered directly below her and, one by one, pushed back their hoods and stared up at her. A strange, putrid smell, unlike any she had ever known, rose from their bodies. Horrified, she shrank back as much as her bonds would allow her to, but they seemed to smile and bow to her, striking the air with their shriveled hands.

The girl strained to free herself of her vines, but her effort was useless. Watching her struggle, the druids began to chant a melodic Ah-who-ah-ray, ah-who-ah-ray. Their call was low at first, and then louder and higher pitched as they repeated the phrase without pause. Moving in a circle, first to the left and then to the right in turn, they stopped at the altar’s front and bowed low in salute. Just as the last of the long line of druids had reached the altar, a bright fire arose toward the girl’s feet. Thick smoke and colorful ash erupted. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a frail old man, who even the girl knew could only be the druids’ high priest, appeared through the primeval smoke.

Amidst the druids’ cries of Oh, Great Enlightened One, Sunilrem stood—bent over, feeble looking, and unkempt—with a gruesomely sadistic expression. Once tall and imposing, he was now shrunken and pale. The trunk of his body, mottled with growths of various color and size, was concealed by his outer garments and flowing cape. The skin of his face was not white but dusty. His bloodshot eyes were sunk deep into his skull and his sharp, beaked nose and slightly pointed ears only added to his fiendish appearance. He nodded to those bowing around him, then drew back his thin lips in a snarl, revealing rotting jagged teeth and emitting wretched breath.

As the young captive looked down from where she hung, Sunilrem stared directly into her face, his long red cape swirling about his feet by the growing winds. Her visceral reaction to this frightening vision was warrantedly intense. A brass plate, covered with intricate Celtic engravings and edged with sharp points, fastened the cape about his neck and secured it to the top of his chest. The plate’s centerpiece was a lunar sphere about the size of a fist. Around his waist was a studded brass belt with three pouches hanging from one side. On the belt’s buckle was a full moon engraved in precious metal. His under-cape was abundant, flowing freely from his shoulders, revealing a scant skirt beneath.

Looking up at his sacrifice pinioned to the great black stones, Sunilrem clawed the air with his long, thin fingers as if he were reaching for the defenseless girl, continuing to do this for what seemed an eternity to her. Then, after acknowledging the onlookers, the priest moved forward to the foot of the altar, almost gliding in his walk. Silently, the other monks stepped out of his way, bowing once again as they closed ranks behind him. The young woman shivered in horror, watching the old man approach. Reaching the altar, Sunilrem nodded his head as a signal. Without pause, four of the monks untied the girl and forcibly pushed her down onto the altar.

The stone was cold on her back. Again, she tried to pray, to ask God for help, but this time the words wouldn’t come. Fearing for her life, she struggled fruitlessly to escape. Sunilrem relished the terror emanating from the girl and observed her flailing with a devilish smirk. He sized up his prey. He could see that she wanted to scream, but she was too terrified and no sound came from her lips. She continued to struggle, but the monks' grip became tighter.

From behind her a fifth monk appeared and slowly pulled a long knife from a well-worn brown sheath held in place by the silver belt about his waist. He moved around the altar to her side and, placing one arm under her neck, raised the blade to her throat. The highly polished knife handle was covered with inscriptions, inscrutable to all but the druids, for whom they contained holy power. The helpless sacrifice had no way of knowing that the knife was used to direct psychic energy from a druid's body out into the world.

As the monk slid the edge of the knife gently across the girl’s flesh, the fire gave the blade a magical appearance, as if it had a life of its own. The light of the flames radiated across the druid’s face, and all the world around it seemed to go dark, until the girl could only see his face, flames dancing in his eyes as if mocking her. When he pulled the blade from her flesh, her sight rapidly began to go dark all over, and the sounds of chanting and roaring flames faded into a low, distant hum. The girl could not make out anything that was going on, and her face twisted into a mask of pure fear. She tried to pray again, this time begging only for a mercifully quick end to her life. But even this would not come, and she faintly heard footsteps approaching the altar.

---

The edge of a knife traced the outline of her body, and she could feel it slash her clothes before they fell away from her. A cold wind chilled her naked body, and she felt what seemed to be powder sprinkled on her bare torso. A warm fluid then dripped down her neck and chest, and her entire self went numb. She was now only a consciousness, trapped in a prison of her own thoughts for an indeterminate amount of time.

Then, after what seemed an eternity to the young woman, reality slowly began to fade back in. First, she noticed the hum of noise grow louder, and vaguely begin to form into distinct, perceptible sounds of chanting. Sensation returned to her body, and every inch felt sore and violated. Light penetrated the very edges of her vision and as she blinked, slowly crept back until it covered her entire frame of sight. She shut her eyes tight for about five seconds, then opened them and saw that Sunilrem’s face somehow seemed younger.

Satisfied, he looked around at the watching druids with a wicked smile on his face. They stared back in amazement, for he now appeared to his evil followers to have magically grown younger. His wrinkles had been reduced, replaced by fresher, younger skin. Medium brown hair, thick and shiny, covered his scalp. His body was lean, almost chiseled, and his face had youthful contours, with less distortion in his features. If not for the scowl on his face, he might have been considered by some as handsome. Sunilrem threw back his head to roar, then began to mutter another incantation. His mouth opened wide, and the onlookers could see jagged teeth surrounding a deep red tongue.

Virile again, Sunilrem lifted his body off the girl’s, and throwing back his head in triumph, emitted a bestial, otherworldly roar that could be heard for miles. In tandem with his primal scream, the fire below seemed to explode, sending a spectacular arsenal of bright blue, orange and yellow ashes hundreds of feet into the night sky. He looked back down at the girl and smiled at her. She closed her eyes. He placed himself over her again. Holding her body tight against his own, he resumed his dreadful spell. Violently, he rocked back and forth until she lost consciousness. With one final roar he let out his final thrust and dropped the now-still figure hard against the stone altar. He raised himself, and beckoning the closest druid to him, whispered something in his ear.

She has fulfilled the needs of The Great One, the druid called out to the others. Let us rejoice, all Cairnholy Druids.

Let us indeed rejoice, Sunilrem cackled back.

The attendant druid wiped the high priest’s face with a filthy, tattered rag. All will be well now, Your Highness, for you have been rejuvenated.

Sunilrem smiled slightly. Yes, he replied, ignoring the wilted girl below him. All will be well, for we are once again the power and plague of Scotland.

Part Two

Classroom, Oxford, England, Present Day

Chapter Two

Oxford University

10 a.m. Present day

The book slammed shut with a thud.

The dusty old room was still as John Hale pushed up his glasses, scratched his chalk-white hair, and studied the group of history students before him. They were preparing to set out on a five-week archaeological dig around the ruins at Callanish, Scotland. Hale was leading the expedition along with Andy Scott, a young associate professor from the University of Florida. Now, with less than twenty-four hours before their plane left, Hale and Scott had the responsibility of preparing these fourteen students for the long trip ahead.

The funding came from the Time Team foundation, a group of historians bound by a shared interest in Celtic and druidic history, with a longstanding relationship to Oxford and Hale specifically. However, they had informed Dr. Hale that their funding would cease after this expedition unless he found something they deemed significant. Throughout most of his career, he had been seen as a dreamer: many in the archaeology community felt that the practical results and applications of his research did not live up to the grandeur of his ideas, and students and faculty alike often saw him as standoffish and cold. He wasn’t a bad person, but his aloofness and forgetful personality made him vulnerable to these perceptions.

Andy Scott, on the other hand, was seen as an up-and-comer, and was hoping a successful dig could help him get a tenured position. His personality and looks were the opposite of Dr. Hale’s: he was young, good looking, had a wonderful memory (especially with names), and was almost universally friendly and well-liked.

Dr. Hale had been sitting at his desk and reading his students The Tale of the Flaxen-haired Virgin, a fourteenth-century Celtic poem about the Callanish Stone Circle and the Cairnholy Druids. This tale had been discovered in incomplete form, and portrayed the druids engaging in a brutal ritual rape and sacrifice. The students were entranced by the story of the druids’ attack on the young peasant girl, and excited by the idea that they would be leaving for that site within a matter of hours. Somewhere near the beginning of the poem, Hale had paused and opened the class up to discussion. Despite the students’ eager participation and the familiarity of their faces, he was having a hard time remembering their names. He had met them all before—all but that stunning blonde in the sheer blouse who had just walked in—when interviewing them, in person or over Skype, for positions on the dig. That had been only a few months ago, and Hale wondered how he could have forgotten their names so soon. He absentmindedly started to search his desk drawer.

Professor Hale, are you all right? he heard someone ask.

Hale nodded. Of course I’m all right. Just trying to… His voice trailed off and he resumed rummaging through his desk. His new glasses were not improving his vision at all.

Now, just where is that file with the scholastic winners? he wondered aloud. Ah, here it is. Trying to search through the file without drawing undue attention to himself, he felt a moment of frustration. He knew that if this dig was to succeed in the eyes of the Time Team, he’d have to know more about the students, so as to put their talents to good use, and he had little time to learn.

Dr. Hale, that poem sounds like a trashy movie, a clear female voice rang out.

Hale looked up, trying to find the voice’s origin, and then hastily shuffled through the file. Ah, the raven-haired girl in the second row. Hale identified her as Alex Pilette, from the University of Maryland’s Celtic Studies program. Her knowledge of Scottish history and folklore, and her background in archaeology, made her an important asset for this expedition.

That story’s sexist and degrading to women. Why does she have to be raped so many times? Alex continued, rising from her seat. The girl is made out to be completely helpless and weak. Isn’t that a bit sexist, professor?

She stayed standing and went on, That story is an Anne Rice sexcapade.

He responded, teasing her, Why do you say that? He was hoping to spark a lively discussion that might help these students get closer to each other, and reveal to him some of the ways they thought.

Alex was vehement, Because it’s so full of abusive sex?

What's the matter, Alex? a sneering male voice interrupted. Hale peered past the girl. That dark-haired fellow with the intense brown eyes sitting next to her was Patrick Rodgers, Hale guessed as he searched through his file. Pat also was in Maryland’s Celtic Studies graduate program, but his interests were medieval battles and weaponry.

Why does that bother you so much? Pat stated, his chiseled face smiling mischievously.

Hale felt his initial feelings toward the boy’s immaturity harden. An American colleague had met Pat through the Society for Creative Anachronisms (SCA), the worldwide organization that reenacts and studies the middle Ages. He had been impressed with the boy’s combat skills and knowledge at the SCA meetings, and recommended him to Hale. At first, John had been reluctant to accept Pat, sensing something childish in the lad’s demeanor, but eventually he had given in, knowing how valuable Pat’s knowledge could be to the project.

Hey, Alex, answer me, Pat demanded. From his desk next to hers, he appraised her athletic body, light blue eyes, and long black hair, then stretched his six-foot-four frame suggestively toward the aisle.

Shut up, Pat, she countered, trying to move past him.

He winked at her. Relax. Men have been ravishing young virgins since the beginning of time, he quipped, extending his foot.

Alex stumbled, falling toward his desk.

Hey, Pat, knock it off, Hale heard a male voice demand.

Pat laughed as the girl struggled to keep her balance, scowling at him. Sexism will always exist, he added, or maybe you haven’t noticed?

Alex was silent, but her hatred of Pat was manifest in her dismayed expression. Pat thought he was irresistible, a real jock. He'd made a name for himself as a super stud around school with his blatantly sexual remarks, but he disgusted her. She wanted to slap him but instead she turned her back and, with her head held high, sat back down.

Let’s get back to the subject at hand, shall we, students? Hale’s voice directed the class, seeking to regain their attention. He felt Pat was showing off for his classmates. Pat went on.

Back then, in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the term 'sexism' didn't exist. Ordinary women had no rights. He raised his voice a bit, And this was supposed to be an actual story. So, even if you don't like it, Alex, he said, I can’t rewrite history or folklore—or this poem.

Hale moved to the front of the class, intending to capture the students’ full attention. Someone tell me: What is this trip about?

That was an easy question to answer, at least for Hale. Every two years, Oxford’s Department of History and Archaeology Adventure Program offered students from the United Kingdom and America the chance to work as archaeologists and study medieval history through archaeological digs. The hope of the administrators was that the students would find and bring back some prized relic of the past in the context of learning about ancient life.

The class sat silent, watching Hale, and he asked again, What are we doing here? What are we looking for? Another easy question, for they had all heard, through rumors or surreptitious admissions from Scott, that this year Hale had chosen the Callanish site with the dream of finding the one artifact he had long coveted: the Joseph of Arimathea Chalice. It was believed that Joseph had buried the Chalice, which was used during the Last Supper, in the Chalice Well at the foot of Glastonbury Tor, and that it had since been moved to Callanish. A newer hypothesis in the academic world was the chalice was not just a cup but contained information about a possible descendant of Jesus.

It’s about getting the treasure, right, Professor? someone in the first row volunteered. In the dim light filtering through the dirty windows, Hale was unable to see who it was. He took off his glasses and began polishing the right lens.

Yes, but what about the treasure? Hale responded. What about it, indeed? For years now, he had envied the efforts of other archaeologists as they searched successfully over the world for famous relics. His career had felt at times like a never-ending series of disappointments: time constraints that prevented him from working as thoroughly as he wanted, lack of funding, fierce competition from colleagues, etc. Now, he felt that he had an opportunity to find one himself. In his heart, he feared he would not get any more opportunities. He was getting older, his hypotheses were regarded with skepticism, and his funding was on the verge of drying up. He knew that if he hoped to have any chance of success, he would need these young and eager students to lend him their talents. But first he’d have to find out what those talents were and how he could make use of them. He adjusted his glasses and peered at the students in the first row.

I mean, aren’t the relics worth a lot to museums? a sweet voice inquired.

It came from a stunning seventeen-year-old in the center. Hale deduced that it was Tatyana Vargas, the Brazilian exchange student, a genius in the fields of medieval cultural history, artifacts, and clothing.

Can you explain to the class what you mean, Tatyana? Hale was relieved to see her stand and begin to describe to the class the value of ancient relics. With his silent blessing, she led a discussion on medieval antiquities for the next few minutes, giving Hale a chance to silently figure out who the other students were.

Right next to Tatyana sat a handsome dark-skinned student staring out through the dusty window at the fall landscape outside. Brian O’Malley, Hale thought, one of the few African-English students in Oxford’s Department of Medieval and Modern Languages, and a student he knew well. O’Malley came highly recommended by Dean Chamberlin as well, not only for the lad’s Gaelic linguistic skills, but also for his impressive knowledge of medieval Scottish culture and weaponry. As his name implied, his father was Irish and half-white. He had been a favorite student of Hale’s for a long time.

The quiet lass to the left of Tatyana was Shaun Rider, Radford University’s prized equestrian rider. A tall woman with short brown hair, she was SCA’s youngest Kingdom Equestrian Officer, and the winner of many championship medals at its riding events. Her skills would prove invaluable during the long trail rides ahead.

Now, who is next to her, leaning against the wall? Hale wondered. Here was a matching picture at the back of the file: Doug Loudon, Wyoming University’s six-foot-three, two-hundred-thirty-five-pound defensive linebacker. Hale remembered now that his massive frame and forthright manner during his interview belied his shyness and sensitivity, as well as his expertise in medieval society and art.

Hale glanced around the room as Tatyana continued on, happy to see the students’ exchange of ideas, and the initial stage of bonding he had hoped would take place. Young, fit, and single, they were what Andy had humorously referred to as The Chosen Ones. Hale had no idea how his younger colleague had come up with this label, nor did Andy for that matter. But, humor notwithstanding, it seemed an appropriate tag. For here sat the fourteen winners of the Oxford History Department’s Adventure Program, selected from nearly two hundred applicants.

The two professors had agreed ahead of time on certain standards that every potential candidate must meet: good grades, good health, some medical background or CPR training, and knowledge of several relevant aspects of medieval or Celtic studies. They had also decided to give preference to students who belonged to a medieval living history group, college history club, or the SCA. They had discussed at length the value of this experience.

In return for the students’ participation, the professors promised the students five weeks of excitement and fifteen academic credits, equal to a full semester of graduate studies. They also guaranteed that all gear and accommodations would be supplied for the entire trip, including food, lodging, and travel, even if the lodging entailed camping in tents. Competition had been fierce, and the professors had spent many hours reviewing applications, weeding out those they saw as unacceptable. Now, The Chosen Ones were gathered in Hale’s classroom, eager to begin the expedition, and it was up to him to get them ready.

Hale looked up for a moment, noting with growing confidence the conversation going on around him. These young students seemed to know even more than he had thought. And the women appeared to be just as involved and forthright as the men, something he knew would be important as the trip wore on.

Dr. Hale, did you want to add something? Tatyana asked.

Hale shook his head, urging them to go on. He continued to survey the room, stopping to note Pat’s ongoing derisive remarks at each opinion offered by his peers. He privately grew more and more annoyed with every snide comment, but decided to keep his thoughts to himself, for he felt he needed every one of these students to have a chance at succeeding.

Although he had managed to produce some notable finds regarding Celtic life during his expeditions around Europe, and had received some praise over his thirty-odd years of teaching European history and anthropology, Hale was considered by many to be a naive dreamer, and his theories were often labeled far-fetched. Nevertheless, he continued to search for one major find that would set him apart from his colleagues and bring him the accolades he craved. Scotland and the Callanish stone circle seemed to hold that promise. He had been to the area before, yet he had never gotten a real chance to scour the ground as thoroughly as he hoped—until now.

John had other reasons for returning there as well, but he decided to save his personal motivations for another time. He glanced at the clock and looked back at the class. We will need to stop our discussion of antiquities now, I’m sorry to say, he interrupted, but we can continue them when we get to Callanish. Right now, we have many other subjects to go over.

Hale searched the top of his desk for his lecture notes.

I’m going to go over some of the places we’ll be visiting, and some of the important facts about Scotland and fourteenth-century Scottish life in the outer islands. I think that should take up most of the day, but if we have extra time, I’ll read you another tale about Sir Malcolm Belmont, a British knight who fell into the hands of the Cairnholy Druids.

Without warning, Hale's voice took on an ominous tone, startling the students, Some of you may want to leave the room before I finish that story. It's a grisly one, as Belmont ends up being eaten alive!

A chill ran down Tatyana's back, and she spoke. I know about human sacrifice from Pliny but are you telling us that cannibals lived in Scotland, where we're going to? The young Brazilian girl shifted uneasily in her seat. She'd seen enough violence and ugliness in her seventeen years, and had signed up for this dig expecting nothing more than an escape from the pressures of her broken home and busy school schedule. Luckily for her, she had done quite well in medieval studies, especially clothing design.

Don't worry, Tatyana. These are just two of the tales that local villagers handed down from generation to generation from ancient manuscripts, Hale assured her. Yes, there is evidence that the ancient Celts did practice and perform several forms of human sacrifice. But they're not still eating people at Callanish. He laughed, and then added, Not that I know of, with a wink.

John directed his attention back to the group. I expect that you’ve all been doing your homework, but even if you haven't, this information should help bring you up to date.

He began to walk around the room and hand out sheets of paper to every student, continuing to speak as he passed around the notes: So, what I have given you on the first page is a timeline, outlining when all of this occurred, and some background information about Scotland and its history. On the next page is a summary of what we know about the druids. It should help you answer the question now before us, the main reasons for this trip. We want to know who these druids were, and why they are of historical significance.

Are they some kind of cult? the young woman next to Alex called out. Hale moved closer to her, peering at his file. Ah! That honey blonde with the melting smile must be Laurie Morten, the modern and medieval languages major from the University of Edinburgh’s School of Scottish Studies. Although she was an American barely in her twenties, she had already won the prized Carnegie Independent Research Grant for Celtic Studies. She was an expert on medieval Celtic culture and taught summers at the Sabhal Mor Ostaig, a college on the Isle of Skye.

I think we are misinformed about the druids because of the Romans. Were ancient druids some kind of religious teachers, Dr. Hale? The lad beside her asked.

Hale stood silent for a moment trying mentally to match the boy’s face with the pictures in the file. What was his name? Jim. Jim something. Yes, Jim must be the one trying to silence Pat. Where had he put that file?

Is that true? Hale responded. Yes it is. They were religious teachers, as well as administrators and lawgivers. They were considered very intellectual. But interestingly, they have also received an unearned reputation of being a cult. Hale stopped for a moment and continued his search for Jim’s last name.

He shuffled through his papers, then looked up and redirected his attention to the class, All of you, look at the third page. Hale held up his notes. Read with me. Most knew about the history of the druids, but Hale intended to stick to the teaching routine he had set. ‘The druids, believed to have existed from about the third century BC, were the most learned of all men among the ancient Celtic nations.’

Hale waited a moment as the students found the correct page, then continued reading: The druids, as the ruling intellectual class of the Celts, were physicians, judges, and teachers, as well as priests or ministers of religion. Many of them specialized in herbology, or what we now call alternative medicine, and alchemy, the predecessor to modern chemistry.’

Hippie bullshit, he heard Pat chuckle.

Hale ignored him. You read, Laurie.

Laurie stood, studying the notes in her hand. ‘The druids wanted to find a universal cure for disease, and the means to prolong life and youth,’ she read. ‘Some say they did, but if so, this secret was lost in time. They also wanted to discover a way to change base metals into gold, but there is no proof that they found it. In any case, the druids were highly skilled and extremely educated. We have evidence that, in many cases, their training lasted well over twenty years. Still, a number of complex moral questions remain regarding them. Were they good or bad, pure or corrupt? Well, there is no one answer: as with any religious group, there were positive and negative group elements, just like in the twenty-first century. But we do recognize that, as expert herbologists and alchemists, the druids were able to kill as well as cure.’

Weren’t those druids what you might call sorcerers or magicians or something? Jim interrupted.

Hale peered closely at him again, studying his handsome face. Christopher. That was it. This must be Jim Christopher, a former student of Andy’s from Archaeology History classes at the University of Virginia. Jim was interested in Celtic monuments of the past as well as village, farm, and settlement patterns, and had consistently won a place on the America’s Best Student Scholars list each year. As Andy had pointed out, the youth’s extraordinary good looks and slow Virginia drawl masked a fine mind and impressive academic skills.

Some say the druids were sorcerers, Hale cautiously replied. But keep in mind, Jim, the Celts had largely an oral tradition and, while many of their druids could write, they left no records. All that we know about them comes from old Irish sagas, and the writings of Roman authors, notably Julius Caesar, who wanted to wipe the druids out.

As Jim stated earlier we don’t seem to know very much, Pat taunted. Why…

Alex stopped him, Were all the druids men, professor?

No, Hale smiled at the lovely girl. They actually signify one historical instance where women were able to assume a significant role in their community. We do have evidence that some, not many, but some, of the druids were females.

That would be a good job for you, Pat snorted, punching the young woman on her upper arm. You’re already a witch.

Let’s stay with the subject at hand, shall we? the professor cut in, feeling his frustration with Pat rise as he moved in between his desk and Alex’s.

What do we know about the druid’s religious rites and rituals? Hale saw another hand frantically waving in the air behind Pat’s desk. He moved over toward the windows, scouring the files as he went. Here was a red-haired fellow who must have been Larry Henegan, a recent transfer from Trinity College, Dublin.

The druids had something called fire festivals, I think, Larry said, answering his own question. Weren’t there four of them a year, and didn’t they occur, like, every twelve weeks or so?

Hale nodded, searching the boy’s application as he listened. Was he in the Graduate School of Anthropology and Museum Ethnography? Yes, that was what the file said. Andy had gotten him a graduate fellowship as well as an acceptance to Hale’s team, pointing out that the lad had gained valuable experience on other Scottish archaeological expeditions.

And I think these festivals lasted about three days, Larry went on. I read that they began at sunset on the first day and that was the time for sacrifices and something called divinations, but I don’t know the specifics.

A divination is some kind of magic that can tell the future or make things happen, isn’t it, Dr. Hale? the young woman next to Larry spoke up.

Close enough. When were they held? Hale rifled through the file, finding the photo that matched her sweet face. It was labeled Bridgette Stormson, University of Cambridge, Department of Anglo-Saxon, Norse, and Celtic studies. She was interested in the British Isles and Scandinavia, mainly in the earlier medieval period. Now, what was her special skill? Wasn’t she fascinated by food or festivals or something like that from the past? He found her personal essay in the file, and glanced at the title. There it was, something called Celtic cookery.

Directing his attention back to the class, Hale asked again, When were the fire festivals held? Again, he answered before anyone had time to respond. Look at your handouts. I know you are all experts in different areas, so you may not know all the specifics we are going over, but most of the information should be clear to you. There are many different theories we can discuss. I would like to hear your thoughts throughout the trip.

Bridgette read aloud. The first big festival seems to be called… wait, I can’t pronounce it. Let me read what else it says… Oh, yeah. ‘Birth is marked by something called Imbolc, which begins on the first of February,’ she continued.

That’s close to the beginning of spring, isn’t it? That seems to make sense, Hale replied. He turned slightly, hoping to see better, then asked, What else, Alex?

You’re making a mistake asking her, Pat sneered.

Trying to ignore him, she answered, Mating or Mayday, Alex answered, which is the rite of making love and is observed by something called Beltane, on the first of May.

That would be your holiday, Alex, Pat called out.

Pat, be cool, Bro, Jim replied.

Hale continued, Any other rites and rituals?

Yes, marriage. Marriage was celebrated on August 1 by Lughnasadh, Alex stumbled over the pronunciation of the word.

And what’s the fourth one called, Laurie? Hale asked. It is considered the most important of the four festivals.

Samhuinn, which is the observance of death, Laurie responded, then exclaimed in shock, Death!

The room was silent again for a moment, then Bridgette continued reading: This death rite begins on October thirty-first, she sounded surprised, even quizzical.

Or All Saints or All Hallows' Eve. They didn’t call it Halloween back then, the professor noted. This pagan ritual, the most notorious of all druid rites, has been Christianized for us. We call it All Saints Day. But, in Europe during medieval times, it had not yet been stripped of its pagan roots: the people truly believed that elves, fairies, and witches were about on this night. They lit bonfires and set ablaze straw figures to ward them off. People during Medieval times were very superstitious.

Hale noticed Tatyana quivering with what looked like utter fear. The druids counseled these people, providing hope for their future life, she said. They also offered special rites to support their prayers. If you can understand how helpless these ancient Celtic people felt in the wake of natural and other disasters, as well as death, you can see how Celtic society, druidism, and witchcraft are intertwined: living in a world so full of seemingly magical phenomena they couldn’t understand, many Celts were very comforted by the idea that druids wielded magic in a way that made sense.

What is your opinion of goblins and witches, Dr. Hale? Larry questioned, sounding earnest and genuine.

Depends on your perspective, son, Hale responded. Many people think they exist today, just as they did in earlier times. But back then, it wasn’t easy to become a witch or sorcerer. The ability to work magic was either passed down hereditarily, or through some religious or celebrative rite, such as by exchanging bodily fluids.

Now, you’re talking, Hale heard Pat’s voice in the background.

Bridgette yelped. How awful, then laughed nervously.

The awful part, as you call it, was that this exchange might occur either with willing or unwilling partners, Hale replied.

Now, that’s an idea, Pat laughed. Hale resisted the urge to scold him, hearing Jim’s voice again urging Pat to shut up.

Didn’t some of the druids forcibly take their subjects?

This question came from the young woman in the orange sweater, sitting next to Bridgette. What was her name? Hale searched through the file. Here she was. Jules Zimmerman, a graduate student at the Institute of Biomedical and Life Sciences at Glasgow University, who focused on environmental and evolutionary biology. She was also an authority on antiquities, the application noted, often conferring with Sir Roland MacDonald, director of the National Museums of Scotland. Her undergraduate degree was from the University of Maryland, and she had grown up in the States.

Didn’t the druids force their partnerships? she asked again.

He paused for a moment, staring first at the pale-skinned student and then at her picture. She looked very familiar. Now he remembered who she was. She was the girl Andy had met while giving a seminar at last year’s Pennsic, an annual spectacle put on by the SCA where 10,000 people reenacted the life and times of the middle ages at a campground in Pennsylvania. For months after, Andy had raved about Jules’ fine intelligence, but never let on about her stunning good looks.

Right, you are, Jules… Well, at least some of them engaged in these practices with non-consenting partners. The druids formed an order of sorcerers or magicians who became their supreme ruling class or what they called 'The Enlightened Ones.’ Their rituals were part of their existence and at the time it was the norm.

How did they get that name, ‘The Enlightened Ones?’ Did they end light? Pat snickered.

Again, Hale felt himself nearing some kind of confrontation with the lad, but he continued to speak, ignoring his rising exasperation.

Their leader, Sunilrem, thought of that name for them. He was using the word ‘enlighten’ to mean ‘illuminate’. For they were, in effect, the underworld’s high priests, and the process of becoming one included many years of training in the magic arts.

They were magicians, then? Jules ventured.

They were more than that, but it’s hard to explain, and we’re starting to run out of time. This specific community of druids was made up of villains and rakes, the worst sort of societal scum imaginable, and the antithesis to all the virtues and values of the Arthurian world we hear so much about. Druids in general were not necessarily evil, but saw themselves as one with nature. The Cairnholy Druids, however, loathed every moral principle King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table represented. But, they were also very powerful, and known for their malevolent vigor. At least that is what folklore states. Dr. Hale felt a chill and looked to see if a window was open.

How did they get that way? Bridgette questioned.

"Much of this remains a mystery, but the poem states that their ruler, Sunilrem, and his followers had some relation to King Arthur and his court, including the Knights and Merlinus. At some point, Sunilrem began opposing Arthur’s authority, and eventually lost his powers, but he regained them through magical rites and rituals that ensured eternal youth.

To retain their magic and youth, Hale continued, The Enlightened Ones believed they had to fertilize and be re-fertilized on a regular basis. So, much like the vampires of legend, who craved blood, the priests either seduced or raped their prey, often incorporating their attacks into something akin to a religious ritual. And the story of that poor village girl that we have just read here in class gives us a clear picture of their persecution and ultimate destruction of their prey.

Chapter Three

Carlene Stanford sat up with a start, suddenly alert. Twisting her silky hair into a long blonde rope and holding it away from her neck, she began to fan herself with her free hand. She had grown tired of the lecture soon after it began. Hale’s account of early Celtic life on the Isle of Lewis left much to be desired, she thought. She was also weary of trying to get a good look at all the men going on the trip with her—from her seat at the back of the room, she couldn’t make out anyone’s face. Besides, she doubted she could make any significant progress with any of them in this classroom setting. Such a bore, all of this. Several times this morning she had almost nodded off.

But, upon hearing Hale’s account of The Enlightened Ones’ need for sex and re-fertilization, and their ritualistic rape of village women, she found herself intrigued. Shaking her head as if to clear her mind, she heard him continue.

These high priests really believed they could renew life with these rituals. Unfortunately, he added, we have no accurate records, just a poem, but we hope to find something that will help us understand what actually occurred.

Bored again, she rose quietly from her seat, and moving slowly along the wall, left the room to try and wake up.

Hale noted her exit but continued on. Did anyone have a question? He saw a hand go up behind Jules. He knew the face, but he couldn’t remember her name. Where was his file? Rifling through it quickly, as he moved around Jules' desk, he found the young woman’s picture.

Kian, your question? He hadn’t heard from the young archaeology student since she had arrived and was happy to notice her interest. She was originally from Tennessee, with the accent to prove it, and studied at her home state university’s Department of Medieval Studies, which considered her its top student. Andy had introduced her to Hale during an SCA meeting in Edinburgh, where she was giving a talk on medieval medicines. After she had escaped her duties, the three had spent the evening chatting as if they were old friends. Hale soon found that despite his initial judgments regarding her gentle, southern temperament and sweet personality, she was extremely intelligent, with a determined, mature attitude.

Maybe this is a silly question, professor, she asked, but how could you tell a druid from an Enlightened One, according to the poem?

Wow. Is that a medieval question, Kian, or are you interested in being fertilized? teased Pat. The class ignored his comment.

Pat… Jim’s voice trailed off in an uncompromising tone.

Patrick, do shut up, Jules demanded, coming to Kian’s rescue. The two young women were roommates that semester at Glasgow’s main campus (Kian had been participating in an exchange program focused on British-American unity within the archaeological community).

The druids themselves seem to have had no special appearance beside their standard robes. But the few high priests of The Enlightened Ones were reported to have what they called a 'Druid mark' located on their body, from what we can gather, Hale went on.

Hale continued. "This mark usually consisted of a tattoo of an eclipsing moon. Also, the druid high priests often carried