Notes:
Machrie Moor on the Isle of Arran hosts a collection of stone circles, some complete, others in various states of disarray. In their midst is a set of ruined farm buildings from a time long after the stones were raised. Of the circles themselves the grandest, in my view, is formed of enormous blades of rock that seem to slice the air around them. As with most stone circles, their purpose is unclear, as is why so many were needed on a single site. You can learn more about the stones here, if you’re interested.
To me though, the great puzzle is what inspired someone to put a farm in the epicentre of these mysterious structures.
Anyway… on to the story:
The grass seemed greener when viewed through the doorway. Waves of… something… pulsed out from the ring of standing stones. As if some other reality was fighting to reach past the circular boundary formed by the blades of rock.
The old man sighed and stood slowly from his milking stool. His farm chores would have to wait. This was, after all, the reason he was here. The reason why he’d built his wee croft all the way out here. He moved the half-full bucket of milk out of harm’s way and patted the cow idly on her rump.
“I’ll be back in a moment, Milly,” he muttered.
Picking up his staff from its resting place against the barn wall he hobbled arthritically a toward the Great Circle. He grunted in annoyance as the copper-shod end of the staff sank into the soft, peaty ground. He was getting too old for this nonsense. Not that retirement was an option. He’d stay here until the Council sent him a replacement. Such was the nature of his task. His penance. Neither old age, nor even death could hinder the performance of his duty.
The air before him crackled, for the countless thousandth time since his punishment began. It had been over two hundred years now. Or three hundred. He’d lost count long ago.
Reality tore before his eyes. A slender, elegant figure stepped through, its cloak rippling in a non-existent breeze. Its purple eyes locked on to the old man.
“Guardian,” said the faery.
“Artan,” said the old man.
They regarded each other for a moment.
“I cannot let you past,” said the old man. He raised his staff and the runes carved over the length of it flared a fiery orange.
“I think this time you cannot stop me,” said Artan. A lupine smile spread danger over his impossibly beautiful face. Tauntingly slowly he nocked an arrow to the string of the bow that appeared magically in his hand.
He let fly.
The arrow struck its mark in a blinding flash that ripped the fabric of the world. When the light finally faded dozens of new figures populated the moors. Each one as beautiful and terrible as their leader.
The staff’s runes flickered weakly and blinked out. Its cracked wood lay forlorn on the crumpled remains of the old man’s empty robes.
Brandon Lim 