Clifford Splash Herringsbane

Another one from my recent Isle of May trip. I also have to give credit to my kids for the name. We ‘adopted’ a puffin with the Scottish Seabird Centre last year and I asked my children what we should call him. (That’s not a gender bias, by the way, they discussed it at length and decided that it was a him. Knowing them it was probably pretty random.) Anyway, after days of deliberation they settled on Clifford Splash Herringsbane. Seemed fair to me. Roll on a year, and when they saw the photo they announced that this must be Mr Herringsbane himself.

Lift off!

Clifford Splash Herringsbane landed on the damp basalt of the seaward cliffs, puffing hard. This latest expedition, his third of the day, had been particularly tough. He’d been mobbed three times on his way back to land.

The first, a small group of six young fulmars, had been easy to avoid. They were inexperienced youths and no match for Clifford’s cunning aerobatics.

With the second group he was not so fortunate. They were a full flock of twenty adult fulmars in their prime. He’d jinked and dodged as well as any puffin ever had. He’d even made two of them crash into each other. No small feat and he was proud of it. They say pride comes before a fall. As he sped away from the crash, sure that he was safe again, the largest gull swooped in and stole the fish out of his mouth. It hadn’t been delicate about it, barging straight through him and knocking him into the water. No great problem for him. After all, he’d have to dive in to catch more fish. That wasn’t the point, though. It was the indignity of it all.

Luckily, fish had been abundant and he was quickly able to make another catch. He took to the air again, certain that he’d make it home this time. He was nearly right. Even with his heavy load of fish, he was within gliding range of the cliffs below his burrow when the next attack came. It was half-hearted, the trio of herring gulls were already fat from an afternoon of successful piracy. They swooped down on Clifford more out of greed than any desire for his fish. Still, Clifford was already tired from his earlier encounters and it had taken his last reserves to evade the slashing, snatching beaks.

Rest completed, Clifford turned to make the short sprint to home and froze. Not far away was a group of those strange flightless creatures. The nearest had some kind of black contraption pressed to its face. He’d seen these creatures before, of course — they were constant visitors to this island. Whatever the black object was, it seemed to make them happy, and they had never done anything more threatening than click frantically. Perhaps they were trying to communicate. A fascinating riddle, but one for another time. Clifford had a family to feed.

He flapped wearily to his burrow. Mrs Herringsbane bustled out, followed by their hungry puffling. Clifford passed his load of fish off to his daughter then turned and rubbed beaks with his mate. She crooned happily as their beaks clacked together. Clifford trilled his joy back. In that moment his world was complete.

The spell was broken when the little one, having devoured the fish, grumbled hungrily. Clifford sighed and turned back toward the sea.

Messenger

This is one from ages ago. We were on a family holiday to France, and found this amazing falconry display at the Theatre of the Ramparts in Provins. The show was incredible, though it might have been even better if my French was any good. Something for me to work on before a future trip, perhaps.

Tangled ivy spread, unnaturally fast, up the crumbling walls of the castle. Ulwynn tried to smile as his magic unfolded. This was victory, nature’s victory over the arrogant works of man, and yet… His forcing of the plants to grow, to push out the rock and mortar, wasn’t this as much a betrayal of nature?

No. This was right. In the time of his father’s father this castle was dense forest, a shrine to the glory of the natural world. The castle was a scar that needed healing. It was Ulwynn’s proud role to bring that healing. But before the healing could start, he’d needed to remove the disease.

He had recruited the animals of the forest to his cause. That hadn’t been hard — it was their cause too. The wilds had risen up against the men, as those men had first banded together against the wilds. True, many of their number had fallen to the swords and arrows of their foes. Ulwynn would carry the grief of their loss to his dying day but he did not regret his actions. It had been necessary and the losses were fewer than if the humans had remained. Their thirst for hunting was unquenchable.

His work here was not yet done. The incantation that caused the forest itself to tear down the walls had taken root now. It would complete that task itself. Before his work was ended he would to return the slain, both man and beast, to nature. There was one final task before that.

Harlow, the great owl, fluttered from a perch on a piece of wall as it crumbled to dust under attacking roots. Ulwynn raised his arm and the great owl swooped down to land on the druid’s wrist. The owl’s head swivelled to lock eyes with the man.

“This shall be a message to all who would invade the Great Forest. I Ulwynn, Guardian of the Trees, will not allow these incursions. By the power of nature herself, I will repel any further attempts to defile the wild places of the world, as I have repelled this one.”

Harlow’s head bobbed. By Ulwynn’s magic he would be able to pass on this message to those who must hear it.

“Take these words,” said Ulwynn. “Spread them far and wide. You know the way.”

The great owl hooted and flew off.

The Lighthouse at the World’s End

I took this photo on a day-trip to the Isle of May, in the Firth of Forth. We’ve been wanting to see puffins in the wild for a while and we were definitely not disappointed. In some places it was like we were in a snow-globe, except the naff artificial snowflakes had been replaced by puffins!

Dense haar, that’s sea mist to people from elsewhere, came and went throughout the trip but if anything it made the experience more magical. Like we were cut off from the rest of the world, rather than a few miles out in a tidal estuary. We came across this lighthouse, the Low Light, toward the end of our visit. What with the haar it left me with the sensation of being on the edge of the world. I know that’s ridiculous and nonsensical. Still, it was hard to shake the feeling. Besides, ridiculous is pretty on-brand for me.

Anyway…

The gulls wheeled outward, screaming their powerless defiance at the fog that marked the Boundary between this world and the next. But they wouldn’t go further. Perhaps they couldn’t. That’s not a way for mortals to fare, human or otherwise.

John, the lighthouse keeper leaned on the garden wall and stared out across the water. If he squinted just right, he fancied he could see a surge of foam where the water vanished into the mists. Just his imagination, of course. Or at best a trick of the light. In the five years since John had taken up his duties there had been no sightings.

As the evening light dimmed he turned toward the lighthouse, then stopped himself, shaking his head at his own foolishness. The lighthouse was automatic now. There was no need for him to light it. For the last two months his duty had reduced to daily checks of the computer system and washing puffin poo off the solar panels once a month. He still wasn’t used to it.

The sound of laughter froze him where he stood. His daughter’s laughter. From the shoreline.

“Janet, come away from there!” he tried to shout, but the breath stopped in his lungs.

Janet’s mirth was answered by a whinnying call and an unmistakable splash of hooves. The kelpies were back.

John staggered back to the wall. Held himself up against it with trembling arms. That was as far as he could go. His heart screamed for his little girl, standing on the shore alone as three white horses made of mist and spray cantered toward her across the now foaming sea.

She should have run. Why didn’t his wee lass run? She knew the stories. He’d read them to her over and over. Why wasn’t she afraid?

The great spirit horses reached the tide line and stopped in front of Janet. They were at lease three times her height. John couldn’t move. What kind of father was he, that he would stand afeart while his daughter faced the monsters on his own. A good dad would save her. At least shout a warning.

Janet laughed again. The closest kelpie stepped closer still, its hooves clattering on dry pebbles. It leaned its great head slowly toward John’s wee girl. Any moment now it would grab her and pull her under. Doomed already.

Janet reached up and gently petted the kelpie on its nose. The great horse whickered gently and nuzzled closer. Janet reached into her pocket. She drew out an apple and fed it to the creature. For its part, the kelpie ate slowly. Seeming to take care to avoid the girl’s fingers.

“See dad?” shouted Janet over her shoulder. “Meet them with kindness and there’s nothing to fear. Come meet our neighbours.”

Brownies, Domovoi, and other household spirits.

If you’ve read Summer Sorcery, you’ll know that I’m a little in awe of the humble Brownie. If you haven’t yet read it, well…

For those not in the know, I’m not referring to the small square cakes of chocolatey goodness. The other kind of brownie is a being from Scottish mythology. They’re household spirits that delight in maintaining order and tidiness within a home. Traditionally, they live in hearths and other warm nooks. So the stories would have it, brownies accept offerings of food as payment, but are highly offended by other gifts or attempts at payment. Sound familiar?

Brownies in modern fiction

I’ve read in enough places to simply accept as fact that brownies are the inspiration for house-elves from that other series of books about a wizard. You know the one. That said, brownies are most certainly not house-elves. Brownies of traditional Scottish mythology are the proud custodians of a homestead. Magical caretakers, not servants. They may be small, but they are not infants in either behaviour or speech. Brownies are smart and resourceful. Though limited by their size and talents, they are distinctly a force to be reckoned with.

Significantly closer to traditional brownies is their presentation in Wolf Notes, by Lari Don (Book 2 in her ‘First Aid’ for Fairies series). Here they appear as janitor custodians that defend Dunvegan Castle from interlopers, despite the intruders including a dragon and a centaur.

Domovoi

The Domovoi

Where things got interesting for me was the striking parallels that are completely disconnected from Scottish folklore. The first one I stumbled upon was the domovoi in The Bear and The Nightingale by Katherine Arden. (Health warning: not a children’s book. Brilliant, though.) Domovoi are house-spirits from Russian folklore. According to legend they live in the embers of the oven, and come out at night to tend to the home, repairing broken things and tidying away clutter. Incidentally, traditional Russian ovens are enormous affairs which are large enough for the family to sleep on in the winter,

This parallels quite nicely to the brownie’s traditional abode of hearths and inglenooks, cosy sitting areas within a large fireplace. In Scotland’s Western Isles, it was customary to bank the fire at night but leave some embers burning to keep the brownies warm. The Roman Di Penates were similarly connected to fireplaces. Offerings of food would be thrown into the hearth by the family to keep their household gods happy. A little more on these guys later.

Fireplaces

Which brings us to what is probably my favourite part. An old British tradition (when domestic fires were still the normal mode of heating) was that when members of a household would move out, embers from the fireplace would be carefully taken and brought to the new home, where they would be installed to heat the new house. This was thought to keep the family ties unbroken. This tradition is what gives us ‘housewarming’ gifts, a tradition that is still very much alive and well.

Given that brownies reside in exactly those embers, I can’t help but wonder if some of the brownies might opt to be transferred with them, maintaining the more mystical family ties as well.

Magical Protectors

Brownies and their international kin aren’t always just custodians in a janitorial sense. When the situation demands they will defend their homestead. In the case of Domovoi and brownies themselves this would usually be by covert means, scaring away intruders by startling their horses, or generally being creepy at the intruders themselves. However, some domestic sprits can be much more proactive.

The Romans’ notion of domestic spirits Di Penates were considered as household-gods and would be frequently called upon in various domestic rituals. Shrines would be built to them in the innermost part of the house, where they would guard the family’s food, drink and other supplies. They are sometimes referred to as tutelary deities, that is protector-gods. Certainly a more ferocious role than that of the brownie, but perhaps the ancient roman empire was a more hazardous place to live than ancient Scotland.

In a similar vein, Chinese tradition has the mên shên, the door-gods. An old legend relates that within the branches of an enormous peach tree, growing on the slopes of Mount Tu Shuo, was the Door of the Devils, through which malicious spirits would cross into our world. Eventually, the Door was guarded by two spirits. The good kind, presumably, though they may have just been looking for a fight. Their duty was to capture those spirits who had harmed humans. The evil spirits would then be bound and fed to tigers.

By Taiwankengo under the Creative commons licence

All this led to the legendary Yellow Emperor, Huang-Ti, to have portraits of the two spirits painted onto peach-wood panels. These were to be hung above the palace doors to ward off evil spirits. I don’t know if legend tells whether or not the paintings work as wards, but mên shên are apparently still hung on doors throughout China. Make of that what you will.

Might or wit?

Straying back to Scotland, our very own brownies may seem tame compared to the might of their foreign counterparts. But perhaps what they lack in strength they make up for with cleverness, defending their home in the manner of Kevin from the Home Alone movies. In Summer Sorcery I had fun taking this notion to its logical (or not) extremes, allowing brownies some magical tidying capabilities, inducing objects to pack themselves away neatly. It would not be too hard to imaging a burglary being hampered by a well placed paddling-pool which, on being accidentally stepped in, might fold itself up around the unsuspecting intruder. I expect they would have many more such tricks.

Legends tell of a last resort that brownies may call on. In a few tales, if offended or threatened sufficiently, brownies have been known to turn into a boggart — an entirely less friendly being. According to folklorist Katharine Briggs in her Dictionary of Fairies, a boggart is ‘almost exactly like a poltergeist in his habits.’ That magic word ‘almost’ gives us a little wriggle room, and she doesn’t clarify exactly how a boggart is unlike its Germanic counterpart. I’m not sure finding out would be worth the risk, though. It’s far easier to just be polite and keep our brownies happy.

This is far from an exhaustive look at brownies, let alone their varied kinfolk from abroad. If there’s anything I’ve missed, I’d love to read about it in the comments.

Awakening

Notes:

At the moment the delightful Culzean Castle is showing off a collection of marine themed woven willow sculptures. Naturally, I had to take a look. There’s a bit of information with each one — either little factlets in the case of real world subjects, or a drop of folklore for those of a more fictional disposition. Definitely go check them out if you can.

The kids and I had been chatting about dragons earlier in the day, so they were on my mind when I saw this chap. Clearly not a dragon, but it struck me that perhaps it would want to be. After all, who wouldn’t.

Consciousness flickered somewhere behind the wicker eyes. Not a lot. Just the tiniest seed of a dream of a thought. It would not take long, however, for that seed to grow. Staycations and outdoor spaces had been a must and so a steady flow of people had come and look. With so many minds wandering in flights of fancy it had only been a matter of time before one stuck. After that one, more notions accumulated and as they did, the gathering speeded up. Like gravity building a planet one mote of stardust at a time.

Summer heat accelerated the stream of minds until what had once been a mere structure — no more than willow and steel — nearly had a mind of its own. For days it was stuck in that ‘almost’ state. The minds that happened by were not enough to make the leap into life. There was nothing wrong with those minds. They had the capacity, but they were busy. Awash with thoughts of work and childcare and money and schedules, they had no room left for the sort of wakeful dreaming that was needed.

One day a girl came to visit the sculpture. She’d been before, in too much of a rush to stop and consider. Something had struck her about that particular sculpture. Like it was waiting. She settled on a nearby bench, took out her watercolours and sketch pad and started to paint. As was her way, she tried to put herself into the mind of her subject, tried to fathom what it would want, where it would go if only it could.

Pigment spread over paper. The girl fell into a rhythm: brushstroke, glance, brushstroke, glance. In the interval between glimpses, something changed.

“Thank you for waking me,” said the creature that wasn’t a sculpture any more.

The portal

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.

The Cat

This week’s story prompt is the statue of Towser, who was once the distillery cat at Glen Turret. According to Guinness World Records, in her lifetime Towser caught over 28,000 mice. I found out about her from the book ‘Rebel Cats: Brave Tales of Feisty Felines’ by Kimberlie Hamilton. It’s well worth a look if you’re into cats. Or stories for that matter. Or off-beat history. Or… you know what, go get a copy and see for yourself.

Anyway, on to this week’s story…

Evening shadows flickered against the cobbled path. A mouse darted across from the old customs office toward the more productive foraging ground of the brewing shed. It paused under the statue, perhaps some remnant of ancestral memory inspired extra caution.

It looked up toward my rooftop vantage point at the precise moment the moon dropped her blanket of cloud. I froze, disturbing not even one mote of dust, but the moonlight was shining full on me. I suspected my hunt was up, for the time being at any rate. A moment later it scurried on leaving a small heap of droppings beneath the statue of my great-great-great-great-great- (you know, I lose count) grandmother. An insult that I would not let stand. To be fair, I’d planned to eat the creature anyway, but, you know…

The moonlight glinted strangely off my ancestor’s bronze as I turned to track the mouse. I held myself still for a heartbeat longer, curious to know what I had seen. Was it the light or had the likeness of my forebear moved? With a subtle shake, cold hard metal was replaced with soft, silent fur. Very-great-grandmother turned to stalk our prey.

My heart soared with pride and joy. Tonight I would not hunt alone. I slipped into the shadows to join the chase.

Home Invasion

Naida flitted past the boundary rock that marked the edge of her garden. She breathed a sigh of relief to be within the safety of her glamours once more where no human eye could see things for what they really were. Not that it would make much difference. Those great lumps wouldn’t recognise truth if it jumped up and bit them. From what Naida had seen, it biting them wouldn’t even help them much.

To the outside world, Naida’s house was a random pile of rocks by the side of a stream. To those who could see the truth, though, it was a beautiful stone cottage. Her bluebell-trees were back in season — at last—casting a little shade over her moss lawn. This wasn’t just a house. It was a home.

The glamours weren’t just visual illusions. To humans and other predatory animals the whole area gave off an air of unease. Something that would make them wander away in the other direction as if they’d planned to do that all along. She was safe in her home. No one wou—

Something was there. On top of her cottage. Her beautiful roof! A large flat object. A human object. She could feel the arrogance pouring off it. Its shiny transparent surface allowed Naida to see the contents. A pencil and notepad. Somehow a human had taken notice of her home. Not only that: it was settling in. Bullying its way through the world, redefining her house as a table!

Naida started forward. Her wings lit up with incandescent fury. There was no way she’d settle for this. She would sort out this human intruder! And with the glamour still in place the human wouldn’t even know what had hit it.

The human skipped into the clearing humming happily to itself. It stopped a few metres away from Naida. “Oh,” said the girl. “Hello there. I’m Emily. Do you live here?”

Warped

It was happening again. Will staggered to the side of the close. The cold stone wall pressed against his pounding head, a still point in the chaos. This was his third episode in a week. It was definitely getting worse.

He didn’t understand what was happening. In fairness, no one did. The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong. At least not conventionally. He’d had an episode during one of their investigative MRI scans. That had put the radiologists in a tizz. They hadn’t observed anything unusual. Whatever Will had experienced was clearly in his head. Except that one hairy problem. There were a dozen slices missing from the scan. If he’d got up and left the scanner there would be blurring. If there had been a machine error there would be electronic evidence of that in the data too. Instead the scan data seemed to show that he had simply stopped existing for the duration of the episode. Like that made any sense.

The twisting disorientation worsened until even the wall’s support was too insubstantial. He felt it in his gut. A writhing unease that somehow lured him toward the epicentre. He lifted a foot and stumbled forward. An uneven tread, so common in Edinburgh’s back alleys, bucked his foot off sending him tripping downward. He expected the pain of hitting hard stone steps but it never came.

Will rolled down the grassy slope that shouldn’t have existed. Struggling to sit up his hands disturbed a clump of weird looking flowers, kicking up a cloud of particles. He sneezed violently three times.

The cobbled streets and close tenements of Edinburgh’s old town had been replaced with a rolling grassy hillscape. Stonework that had been relied on for centuries were nowhere to be seen. It was like Will had fallen out of his world and into another. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it?

As soon as Will had considered the question, the lurching, twisting sensation was back. A tugging in his gut lured him forward once more and he fell with it. The pain as his forehead hit paving stones was almost welcome.

Snailsbane

Snailsbane snuffled through the dandelions. It had already been a good night’s hunting. Four slugs and a snail had already fallen to his sharp teeth. Perhaps, he mused, some worms would round the meal off well.

A sound snagged his attention. Even better: a caterpillar! He pushed past a clump of garlic, filling the air with its hefty aroma. The subtle quiver of a gooseberry leaf gave away his prey’s location. Nuzzling under the leaves he spotted the creature. A small green grub with a black head. Perfect! Sawfly larvae were delicious.

He rummaged the rest of the leaves. Where there was one sawfly larva there were usually more. This time, however, he was out of luck. Not surprising, given the recent cold snaps. It would still be too early for most of them.

A much larger sound caught his ear and he froze. Was that cat back? It wasn’t a threat to Snailsbane, of course. The stupid thing couldn’t get around his spines. Certainly not with its tongue, like it had tried last time. There was no helping some people.

He turned to the source of the noise. Ah. That explained it. Those Two-legs again. A pair of them this time, sitting on their ridiculous frames underneath a shelter so large it barely counted as one. Useless for cosying up in. The creatures were waving their strange black rectangles at him again. Madness. From their body language they apparently thought they were being quiet. Strange beasts. They had their uses at least. The smallest of them had built a little house for Snailsbane. A tiny shack of a house compared to Snailbane’s own under-shed palace, but you had to give him credit for the effort at least.

He turned away from the Two-legs. The evening was still young and Snailsbane fancied stretching his legs. Unhurriedly, he strolled to the fence and wriggled under to whatever adventures the night still held.