Homecoming
by Annemarie Allan
“They say, if you step through the heart of the tree, you will travel the road of its memories, into the past.”
The voice had the soft, sibilant quality that Leila recognised as English spoken by a native Gael. She turned to see a gaunt woman with wispy grey hair standing at her elbow. One eye was milky with what looked like an untreated cataract. The other stared at her with a measuring look that made Leila vaguely uncomfortable. She shifted her gaze from the network of broken blue veins across the woman’s wrinkled face, her eyes travelling down until they stopped at the bottle-shaped bulge in the pocket of the threadbare coat.
Hoping the old woman would get the message, Leila turned away and leaned into the railings set into the stone wall. Her legs still ached from this morning’s tramp across Glen Lyon to the House of the Cailleach, one of the last remaining shrines to the winter queen, goddess of death and rebirth. In the end, it turned out to be nothing more than a heap of weatherworn rocks with a dank, dark space at its centre. Cailleach Mhor, the blue-faced hag, was not at home - at least not to American visitors with twanging, midwestern accents.
Behind its protective wall, the yew didn’t look particularly impressive either. The original trunk was no more than a stub and most of the remaining branches were bowed down by age, spreading out rather than up.
“Fortingall is a Christian church, but the yew was here long before Christ gave himself to be hung on his cross.”
It was obvious the old woman wasn’t going to give up without some kind of response and a quick glance around the churchyard made it obvious that no-one was close enough to come to her rescue. Ray was busy with his camera, while Mark and Ellie were heading for the church. Leila sighed and turned back. The woman smiled, revealing a mouthful of stained and jagged teeth. She gestured to the words carved into the slate path.
“Those stones tell you that many have walked here before. Some of them took the path through the heart of the yew.” Her voice sank to little more than a whisper. “Will you try it? I think you want to.”
Leila smiled and nodded. The old woman stared at her with unnerving intensity for a moment longer and then, with an abrupt movement that made Leila blink in surprise, she spun round and shuffled off down the path. Leila watched until she rounded the corner of the church and disappeared from sight, then she turned back to the yew.
In the deep cold of Wisconsin winters, through the weight of its humid summers, she had dreamed of returning to this village, the place her mother’s people had once called home, but it was far too late. The yew was just one more disappointment among many. Scotland’s past had either faded away, like the tumbled stone of the shrine to Cailleach Mhor, or it had been polished and smoothed to such a shiny finish that the whole country felt like nothing more than a gigantic theme park. She should have saved her money and taken a trip to Disneyworld instead. At least there, she would have escaped the wind and the rain and the midges. Even the promised wildlife had failed to materialise, apart from a few opportunistic hawks patrolling the edge of the highway.
“Leila head-in-the-clouds.” Ray slipped a companionable arm around her waist. “How about a quick look in the church before we go back to the hotel? I don’t know about you, but I am totally ravenous and the dining room got great reviews on TripAdvisor.”
Hours later, bathed, clean and slightly too well-fed, Leila sat in the lounge and sipped whisky while the others planned tomorrow’s itinerary. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
Mark was consulting his Blackberry. “We’ve done the Fortingall Yew, and the House of the Cailleach, but I’d like to check out the Crannog reconstruction on Loch Tay. I’ve always wanted to know what it felt like to live in the Iron Age.”
“Fair enough.” Ellie nodded her agreement. “And after that, we head for the Kyle of Lochalsh, then over the sea to Skye!”
“That okay with you, Leila?” Ray asked.
Leila sat up and put her empty glass on the table. “It’s not over the sea. Not any more. They’ve built a bridge.”
Ray laughed. “Over the bridge to Skye, then. What do you think?”
She reached inside her bag and produced a packet of cigarettes. “I think I’m going outside.”
Ray’s eyes widened. “Leila, I didn’t know you smoked.”
“Well, I do now.” She pulled the cellophane off the pack, crumpled it into a ball and dropped it on the table, knowing it was unfair to dump her disappointment on her fellow travellers, but somehow unable to stop herself.
It was cold outside, but at least the rain had stopped. She lit the cigarette, blew a dragon’s breath of smoke out through her nostrils and tilted her head. Above her, the sky glittered with a million points of light and she could feel herself growing smaller and smaller, an insignificant speck crushed beneath the weight of all those diamonds winking in the sky.
Guessing that some of the dizzying sensation came from her first cigarette in over ten years, Leila stubbed it out and set off down the drive. She had no coat and the air felt damp and chilly, but she was determined to have at least a few moments of solitude before she rejoined the others.
The church shone pearly white in the moonlight, but the yew was no more than a deeper blot of darkness within its enclosing walls. Leila gripped the iron bars, thinking of the old woman, challenging her to step into the unknown. It suddenly dawned on her that apart from hotels and shops and restaurants, the woman was the only local person she had spoken to since her arrival.
It might have been the whisky, or the nicotine in her bloodstream, or maybe just a yearning for one abiding memory to take back home, but before she was aware of making any conscious decision, she had pulled herself up on to the wall and climbed over the railings. Moments later, she was standing inside the protective enclosure that separated the yew from the rest of the churchyard.
She moved forward through the darkness beneath the branches, finding her way by touch alone until she reached the decaying stump at the heart of the yew and then, taking a deep breath, she stepped across the stump into the space beyond.
One minute passed, then another. Leila stood in the empty silence, every sense stretched to its limit. There was nothing but the thud of her own heart beating in her chest. The message was clear. As far as this country was concerned, Leila Dewar was simply one more tourist looking for something that wasn’t there, something that had never existed in the first place. Unable to bear the darkness a moment longer, she walked forward, her fingers reaching for the stone wall that would lead her out of the enclosure, away from the brooding presence of the ancient tree.
The dark seemed to go on for ever, but at last she saw the gleam of moonlight ahead and quickened her steps. Moments later, she stopped dead, staring at the stand of silver birch directly ahead of her. The trees stood separately, each in its own space, their slender trunks topped by a cascade of shimmering leaves.
Leila frowned, trying to work it out. She was no longer inside the enclosure that held the yew. Somehow, without noticing, she must have walked through a break in the wall, into the narrow circle of woodland that surrounded the village. High above her, the moon slipped in and out of the clouds, setting the silver shadows dancing. With a sudden lightening of her spirits, she set off along the faint trail that meandered between the trees. There was an air of tranquillity here, as though the trees welcomed her presence. Perhaps this wasn’t the mystical experience she had hoped for, but at least she would have this one small adventure before she returned to the hotel and the relentless itinerary.
Birch soon gave way to mixed woodland, oak and ash, rowan and pine. Leila hurried on, expecting at any moment to see the trees thinning out. Instead, they crowded ever closer, the path narrowing until it was almost impossible to follow. Twiggy fingers reached from the tangled undergrowth to snag her clothes as she stumbled over knotted roots and fallen branches. The wind that set the leaves dancing tugged at her hair and she pushed it back from her face, wishing now that she had turned back when she had the chance, before she allowed the magic of the birch grove to draw her so deeply into the woods that she had no idea how to find her way out.
Something crashed through the bushes a little way ahead. Leila stopped, listening intently, telling herself it was only a deer disturbed by her passing. She knew it was important to keep her imagination under control. The last thing she wanted was to twist an ankle and be left helpless and alone in the dark beneath the trees. When silence returned, she set off again, forcing herself to slow down.
Moments later she heard branches creak and groan as something forced itself free of the undergrowth and erupted on to the path directly in front of her. Leila stared, disbelieving, at the huge bulk of the creature as it swung its heavy head from side to side, nostrils opening and closing as it sniffed the air. Then it stopped moving, the tiny eyes fixed on her with an intensity that froze her where she stood. They stared at each other, eye to eye. There was no mistaking the hunger in that hot red glare.
Leila told herself it was impossible. There were no bears in this country, not any more. They had disappeared long ago, along with all the other wild things that once inhabited this land. But then the wind changed, bringing with it the rank, musky odour of the beast and blind instinct kicked in.
Ignoring every piece of advice she had ever been given, Leila turned and ran. From close behind came a low, rumbling growl. The earth shook with a rhythmic thud as the impossible bear began to move. With a monumental effort she forced herself to run faster in spite of the stitch in her side and the branches that tore at her face. Leila drove her body forward with every ounce of strength she possessed, while all the time that rhythmic thud drew closer until the feel of the creature’s hot breath on her back generated one more spurt forward. Seconds later, she slammed into a tree and flew backwards into a tangled mass of roots.
Stunned by the collision, she lay rigid with fear, her breath coming in ragged gasps. A sliver of drool dripped into her eyes. The creature’s rank breath filled her nostrils. Leila laughed, a harsh grating sound that had nothing whatever to do with humour. She understood now. That soft voice, urging her to take that step into the unknown, those spiky teeth and the starburst clusters of blue veins on that shrivelled face. Cailleach Mhor had come to her after all, not in that neglected shrine on the bare hillside, but in the churchyard at Fortingall.
As the huge claws ripped into her soft flesh, sending her heart’s blood spurting over tree and leaf, Leila knew she had finally left the theme park behind. This, at last, was real.
The voice had the soft, sibilant quality that Leila recognised as English spoken by a native Gael. She turned to see a gaunt woman with wispy grey hair standing at her elbow. One eye was milky with what looked like an untreated cataract. The other stared at her with a measuring look that made Leila vaguely uncomfortable. She shifted her gaze from the network of broken blue veins across the woman’s wrinkled face, her eyes travelling down until they stopped at the bottle-shaped bulge in the pocket of the threadbare coat.
Hoping the old woman would get the message, Leila turned away and leaned into the railings set into the stone wall. Her legs still ached from this morning’s tramp across Glen Lyon to the House of the Cailleach, one of the last remaining shrines to the winter queen, goddess of death and rebirth. In the end, it turned out to be nothing more than a heap of weatherworn rocks with a dank, dark space at its centre. Cailleach Mhor, the blue-faced hag, was not at home - at least not to American visitors with twanging, midwestern accents.
Behind its protective wall, the yew didn’t look particularly impressive either. The original trunk was no more than a stub and most of the remaining branches were bowed down by age, spreading out rather than up.
“Fortingall is a Christian church, but the yew was here long before Christ gave himself to be hung on his cross.”
It was obvious the old woman wasn’t going to give up without some kind of response and a quick glance around the churchyard made it obvious that no-one was close enough to come to her rescue. Ray was busy with his camera, while Mark and Ellie were heading for the church. Leila sighed and turned back. The woman smiled, revealing a mouthful of stained and jagged teeth. She gestured to the words carved into the slate path.
“Those stones tell you that many have walked here before. Some of them took the path through the heart of the yew.” Her voice sank to little more than a whisper. “Will you try it? I think you want to.”
Leila smiled and nodded. The old woman stared at her with unnerving intensity for a moment longer and then, with an abrupt movement that made Leila blink in surprise, she spun round and shuffled off down the path. Leila watched until she rounded the corner of the church and disappeared from sight, then she turned back to the yew.
In the deep cold of Wisconsin winters, through the weight of its humid summers, she had dreamed of returning to this village, the place her mother’s people had once called home, but it was far too late. The yew was just one more disappointment among many. Scotland’s past had either faded away, like the tumbled stone of the shrine to Cailleach Mhor, or it had been polished and smoothed to such a shiny finish that the whole country felt like nothing more than a gigantic theme park. She should have saved her money and taken a trip to Disneyworld instead. At least there, she would have escaped the wind and the rain and the midges. Even the promised wildlife had failed to materialise, apart from a few opportunistic hawks patrolling the edge of the highway.
“Leila head-in-the-clouds.” Ray slipped a companionable arm around her waist. “How about a quick look in the church before we go back to the hotel? I don’t know about you, but I am totally ravenous and the dining room got great reviews on TripAdvisor.”
Hours later, bathed, clean and slightly too well-fed, Leila sat in the lounge and sipped whisky while the others planned tomorrow’s itinerary. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
Mark was consulting his Blackberry. “We’ve done the Fortingall Yew, and the House of the Cailleach, but I’d like to check out the Crannog reconstruction on Loch Tay. I’ve always wanted to know what it felt like to live in the Iron Age.”
“Fair enough.” Ellie nodded her agreement. “And after that, we head for the Kyle of Lochalsh, then over the sea to Skye!”
“That okay with you, Leila?” Ray asked.
Leila sat up and put her empty glass on the table. “It’s not over the sea. Not any more. They’ve built a bridge.”
Ray laughed. “Over the bridge to Skye, then. What do you think?”
She reached inside her bag and produced a packet of cigarettes. “I think I’m going outside.”
Ray’s eyes widened. “Leila, I didn’t know you smoked.”
“Well, I do now.” She pulled the cellophane off the pack, crumpled it into a ball and dropped it on the table, knowing it was unfair to dump her disappointment on her fellow travellers, but somehow unable to stop herself.
It was cold outside, but at least the rain had stopped. She lit the cigarette, blew a dragon’s breath of smoke out through her nostrils and tilted her head. Above her, the sky glittered with a million points of light and she could feel herself growing smaller and smaller, an insignificant speck crushed beneath the weight of all those diamonds winking in the sky.
Guessing that some of the dizzying sensation came from her first cigarette in over ten years, Leila stubbed it out and set off down the drive. She had no coat and the air felt damp and chilly, but she was determined to have at least a few moments of solitude before she rejoined the others.
The church shone pearly white in the moonlight, but the yew was no more than a deeper blot of darkness within its enclosing walls. Leila gripped the iron bars, thinking of the old woman, challenging her to step into the unknown. It suddenly dawned on her that apart from hotels and shops and restaurants, the woman was the only local person she had spoken to since her arrival.
It might have been the whisky, or the nicotine in her bloodstream, or maybe just a yearning for one abiding memory to take back home, but before she was aware of making any conscious decision, she had pulled herself up on to the wall and climbed over the railings. Moments later, she was standing inside the protective enclosure that separated the yew from the rest of the churchyard.
She moved forward through the darkness beneath the branches, finding her way by touch alone until she reached the decaying stump at the heart of the yew and then, taking a deep breath, she stepped across the stump into the space beyond.
One minute passed, then another. Leila stood in the empty silence, every sense stretched to its limit. There was nothing but the thud of her own heart beating in her chest. The message was clear. As far as this country was concerned, Leila Dewar was simply one more tourist looking for something that wasn’t there, something that had never existed in the first place. Unable to bear the darkness a moment longer, she walked forward, her fingers reaching for the stone wall that would lead her out of the enclosure, away from the brooding presence of the ancient tree.
The dark seemed to go on for ever, but at last she saw the gleam of moonlight ahead and quickened her steps. Moments later, she stopped dead, staring at the stand of silver birch directly ahead of her. The trees stood separately, each in its own space, their slender trunks topped by a cascade of shimmering leaves.
Leila frowned, trying to work it out. She was no longer inside the enclosure that held the yew. Somehow, without noticing, she must have walked through a break in the wall, into the narrow circle of woodland that surrounded the village. High above her, the moon slipped in and out of the clouds, setting the silver shadows dancing. With a sudden lightening of her spirits, she set off along the faint trail that meandered between the trees. There was an air of tranquillity here, as though the trees welcomed her presence. Perhaps this wasn’t the mystical experience she had hoped for, but at least she would have this one small adventure before she returned to the hotel and the relentless itinerary.
Birch soon gave way to mixed woodland, oak and ash, rowan and pine. Leila hurried on, expecting at any moment to see the trees thinning out. Instead, they crowded ever closer, the path narrowing until it was almost impossible to follow. Twiggy fingers reached from the tangled undergrowth to snag her clothes as she stumbled over knotted roots and fallen branches. The wind that set the leaves dancing tugged at her hair and she pushed it back from her face, wishing now that she had turned back when she had the chance, before she allowed the magic of the birch grove to draw her so deeply into the woods that she had no idea how to find her way out.
Something crashed through the bushes a little way ahead. Leila stopped, listening intently, telling herself it was only a deer disturbed by her passing. She knew it was important to keep her imagination under control. The last thing she wanted was to twist an ankle and be left helpless and alone in the dark beneath the trees. When silence returned, she set off again, forcing herself to slow down.
Moments later she heard branches creak and groan as something forced itself free of the undergrowth and erupted on to the path directly in front of her. Leila stared, disbelieving, at the huge bulk of the creature as it swung its heavy head from side to side, nostrils opening and closing as it sniffed the air. Then it stopped moving, the tiny eyes fixed on her with an intensity that froze her where she stood. They stared at each other, eye to eye. There was no mistaking the hunger in that hot red glare.
Leila told herself it was impossible. There were no bears in this country, not any more. They had disappeared long ago, along with all the other wild things that once inhabited this land. But then the wind changed, bringing with it the rank, musky odour of the beast and blind instinct kicked in.
Ignoring every piece of advice she had ever been given, Leila turned and ran. From close behind came a low, rumbling growl. The earth shook with a rhythmic thud as the impossible bear began to move. With a monumental effort she forced herself to run faster in spite of the stitch in her side and the branches that tore at her face. Leila drove her body forward with every ounce of strength she possessed, while all the time that rhythmic thud drew closer until the feel of the creature’s hot breath on her back generated one more spurt forward. Seconds later, she slammed into a tree and flew backwards into a tangled mass of roots.
Stunned by the collision, she lay rigid with fear, her breath coming in ragged gasps. A sliver of drool dripped into her eyes. The creature’s rank breath filled her nostrils. Leila laughed, a harsh grating sound that had nothing whatever to do with humour. She understood now. That soft voice, urging her to take that step into the unknown, those spiky teeth and the starburst clusters of blue veins on that shrivelled face. Cailleach Mhor had come to her after all, not in that neglected shrine on the bare hillside, but in the churchyard at Fortingall.
As the huge claws ripped into her soft flesh, sending her heart’s blood spurting over tree and leaf, Leila knew she had finally left the theme park behind. This, at last, was real.
Artwork by Laura F Jones.
©' The Treacle Well 2013