A Very Weird Story

 

I've spent part of the summer rereading all my work. I've often felt myself to be a bit of a square peg trying to fit in a round publishing hole. Too many different kinds of books, I thought. Until a friend  pointed out that maybe the publishing industry itself never had a convenient commercial box into which my work might fit. Which is probably true.

Anyway, having had some welcome rights reversions, I've had a whole tranche of my work republished, as well as starting on a couple of new projects. One of the pieces I've reread is a short novella (or longish short story) called Rewilding. And given that we're heading for Hallowe'en, it's free on Kindle from Monday 5th October, for five days, so if you like the uncanny and unsettling, give it a try.

Where did the story come from? 

I had been visiting friends on Skye, where I saw the broch in the above picture. I'd also been listening to an excellent talk by a young man who had made an adventurous and fascinating solo journey across the Scottish Highlands, and it had struck me that most young women would think twice about doing such a trip. They might well think twice and do it anyway, but it would still give them pause for thought. What if the woman in the story, perhaps a young woman with a slightly troubled background, decided to feel the fear and do it anyway? It's a shortish hike, and no big deal for an experienced hillwalker, which she is. Four days, staying overnight in three different bothies. I'd been reading about Highland bothies. What if, at some point on that journey, she has an unusual encounter? 

The second bothy is remote, and she's alone. She's predictably spooked by the silence and the absolute darkness but she can bear it. She reflects on all those reasons why women may be frightened by their own vulnerability, usually involving men. 

'We are constantly aware of our surroundings. And when you think about it, it’s no way to live, is it? It’s exhausting. I remember our self defence instructor pointing out that no animal would ever get into a confined space like a lift in a situation where it felt threatened. Yet women do such things all the time. We ignore our instincts and put ourselves in harm’s way out of politeness. We sacrifice our own safety and security to the feelings of men.'

But harm's way can take many forms. And do we always understand that? Or even want to understand it? 

Without giving away too many spoilers, here's a 'footnote' to the story. The other source of inspiration, if you like. You should know that there are various mythical water beasts in Celtic mythology. Some belong in that category of creatures invented to keep children well away from standing water. Mill ponds in the North of England have Jenny Green Teeth who will drag you under. Scotland has a variety of cautionary 'monsters'. There is the water bull, the tarbh-uisge who gets a mention in The Curiosity Cabinet and who is commemorated in various Gaelic place names, including one on the Isle of Gigha. He's a massive amphibian bull, ugly and weird, but mostly mischievous rather than really dangerous, unless provoked to violence. Then there's the kelpie, who tends to haunt fresh water and who will entice children in particular onto his back, and then hold them fast and drown them. (The statues are just amazing. Go and look at them if you can!) Finally there's the each-uisge, the true water horse, perhaps the most terrifying monster in British folklore. He's a shape shifter, who can appear as a handsome and charming young man who, like the kelpie but worse, may drown you and eat you.

However ... to add another twist to the tale, there's this extraordinary song sung here by Julie Fowlis.  It's a traditional song about the each-uisge of Celtic belief. And yet in this song, he's also a sorrowful abandoned lover with, heartrendingly, an abandoned child too. Which, of course, doesn't mean that interacting with him couldn't also be a perilous undertaking. Who knows? 

By the way, the most amazing description of a water horse was written by Gillian Philip, in her magnificent and seriously undersold Firebrand trilogy. Undersold rather than underrated, because the reviews were deservedly wonderful, but she is another fine writer who seems to have been let down by a publishing industry that often neglects talent and originality in favour of celebrity.

Anyway. Rewilding. This isn't a ghost story and it isn't a horror story. Who knows what it is? It even disturbed me, when I reread it. One of those 'where did that come from?' moments. Read it and see what you think. I hope you get the same wee frisson that I certainly had from writing it! 

Here again is the link to the eBook. 

The Kelpies

Don't Come To The Highlands - Read This Instead!

Dun Beag Broch, Skye

My spooky little novella, Rewilding, is currently free on Amazon Kindle, and will be till the end of the week, so download it now, even if you don't want to read it till later.

I wrote this late last year, after a trip to visit friends who live on the beautiful Isle of Skye. We've been talking on the phone now, lamenting the fact that we won't see each other for a little while.

The cover picture is of the amazing Dun Beag Broch on that island, although that isn't where this particular story is set - but it was certainly one of the things that inspired it. The other was this extraordinary song by Julie Fowlis - not just beautiful, but very unusual because it is sung from the point of view of the 'water horse', (not the kelpie who is a little more benign) pining for the woman who has deserted him, when this creature is usually portrayed as one of the most dangerous of supernatural creatures.

This long short story that I called Rewilding, hardly long enough to be called a novella, but certainly too long for a short story - seemed to arrive all of a piece, the way things sometimes do. I could see it so vividly in my mind's eye that it was almost like taking dictation. It's a theme I may well go back to later - something that intrigues me. After all, I have a Masters degree in Folklore, and every now and then my fascination with these things rears its head all over again.

Some years ago, when we were driving back from the Isle of Gigha, on one of those sunny, cloudy, gorgeous days that you so often get in this part of the world, we were heading down the side of Loch Fyne. As anyone who has driven along this stretch of road knows, there's a range of high hills on the opposite side of the loch, treeless and smooth. As we rounded one of the many bends, we were more or less facing these hills, where intermittent cloud shadows and sunshine chased each other.
And then ...
'Are you seeing what I'm seeing?' I asked my husband, who was driving.
''Yes,' he said. 'And I can't stop anywhere.'
He couldn't of course, and he had to keep his eyes on the road. So there are no pictures.
But briefly, straight ahead of us, the cloud shadows had formed a clear image, like a sharp projection on the hillside, of two huge horses, rearing up, black horses, manes flying in an unseen wind.
It was uncanny. I have never seen anything like it before or since. And it faded as quickly as it had come.

I think that experience too fed into the writing of this story. In my head, there's a sequel. Maybe I'll write it.

Meanwhile - please, please, please don't go to rural areas, thinking to 'escape the virus'. All you do is endanger those of us who live here. But you could escape into a story instead!