Read Online Highland Portrait by Shelagh Mercedes - Free Book Online
Authors: Shelagh Mercedes
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possible the one place she would never have chosen to travel was the United Kingdom in the 1600’s. If this was the 1600’s and if anybody were to find her here in jeans, with a backpack full of 21 st century items she would surely be branded a witch, or a whore or something else god-awful and that would be the end of her. She’d be barbequed before she had a chance to find her way back to Texas. The population had been a superstitious lot and she had no desire to be the object of their fears.
She slowly took in her surroundings letting her senses post information. She noted the intensity of the sky. Only air with no haze, no smog or pollution particulates could ever be that clear or blue. She could see that beyond the stones, the landscape was rolling hills green with foliage and sweet grasses, scattered trees and a lot of rock.
She was startled at the silence. There was no noise pollution, no background drone of highway traffic, no low humming of electrical wires, no manmade sounds of any sort and the absence of that noise felt oddly liberating, imparting a sense of physical well being. As she attuned herself to her surroundings she gradually picked up the beautiful sound of water moving over rocks and the chirping of birds. She couldn’t remember ever hearing birds so clearly, their songs like conversation, sounding alarms about her disturbing appearance. Were she able she would gladly accommodate them and leave as soon as she could, but she had no earthly idea which way to turn, or if she should stay there and wait for a ghost to show up.
She stood a moment and listened to the water. She had never actually listened to water before but she could hear it, noting its musical quality. Sure, she had been to the beach many times hearing waves crashing and the tides moving, and the memory of hurricanes would always be with her as a testament to the power and glory of moving water, but this sound was different. It was delicate and lyrical, nature’s sweet laughter. She now understood the phrase ‘babbling brook’.
She took a deep breath and smelled her environment. Pine and heather. And dirt, she could actually smell the dirt. Close to her foot she noticed a small plant that looked like heather, but was white, not pinkish lavender, so this must be a different variety. Or maybe it wasn’t heather. Whatever it was, it was pretty and Stella liked pretty flowers of any sort so she picked a sprig of it and inhaled. It smelled like heather so she tucked it in her hat band thinking she would press it when she got home.
She continued her survey noting the stones, the plants, the ground, the air. Wherever this place was it did not yet breathe poisons, but was clean and filled with sweetness. Trees stood tall and strong, thick branches reaching toward the sun, the ground covered in the rich compost of ages past.
She walked toward the sound of the brook she thought to be right past the standing stones, but she stopped at the edge of the circle, unsure whether she should go beyond it. If she went past the circle, would that break the spell and send her home or would it release some other magic that was worse than being lost, all alone with no notion of where she was?
Or would walking past the stones commit her to staying here, trapped forever in a place that could yet reveal itself to be hostile, although so far it had manifested no danger but only pleasant stirrings to her senses. Would stepping past the stones put her in a time and place that she did not want to be? Was that Scotland past those stones, and more importantly, was it Scotland in the 1600’s?
She knew the stones held the key and she had to figure out what, exactly, she was to do. Cautiously she approached the largest stone, and taking a deep breath hesitantly reached out her hand, palm up and lightly grazed the rock.
Nothing.
She looked around and all was the same, no swirling mirages of magic, no loud noises
She slowly took in her surroundings letting her senses post information. She noted the intensity of the sky. Only air with no haze, no smog or pollution particulates could ever be that clear or blue. She could see that beyond the stones, the landscape was rolling hills green with foliage and sweet grasses, scattered trees and a lot of rock.
She was startled at the silence. There was no noise pollution, no background drone of highway traffic, no low humming of electrical wires, no manmade sounds of any sort and the absence of that noise felt oddly liberating, imparting a sense of physical well being. As she attuned herself to her surroundings she gradually picked up the beautiful sound of water moving over rocks and the chirping of birds. She couldn’t remember ever hearing birds so clearly, their songs like conversation, sounding alarms about her disturbing appearance. Were she able she would gladly accommodate them and leave as soon as she could, but she had no earthly idea which way to turn, or if she should stay there and wait for a ghost to show up.
She stood a moment and listened to the water. She had never actually listened to water before but she could hear it, noting its musical quality. Sure, she had been to the beach many times hearing waves crashing and the tides moving, and the memory of hurricanes would always be with her as a testament to the power and glory of moving water, but this sound was different. It was delicate and lyrical, nature’s sweet laughter. She now understood the phrase ‘babbling brook’.
She took a deep breath and smelled her environment. Pine and heather. And dirt, she could actually smell the dirt. Close to her foot she noticed a small plant that looked like heather, but was white, not pinkish lavender, so this must be a different variety. Or maybe it wasn’t heather. Whatever it was, it was pretty and Stella liked pretty flowers of any sort so she picked a sprig of it and inhaled. It smelled like heather so she tucked it in her hat band thinking she would press it when she got home.
She continued her survey noting the stones, the plants, the ground, the air. Wherever this place was it did not yet breathe poisons, but was clean and filled with sweetness. Trees stood tall and strong, thick branches reaching toward the sun, the ground covered in the rich compost of ages past.
She walked toward the sound of the brook she thought to be right past the standing stones, but she stopped at the edge of the circle, unsure whether she should go beyond it. If she went past the circle, would that break the spell and send her home or would it release some other magic that was worse than being lost, all alone with no notion of where she was?
Or would walking past the stones commit her to staying here, trapped forever in a place that could yet reveal itself to be hostile, although so far it had manifested no danger but only pleasant stirrings to her senses. Would stepping past the stones put her in a time and place that she did not want to be? Was that Scotland past those stones, and more importantly, was it Scotland in the 1600’s?
She knew the stones held the key and she had to figure out what, exactly, she was to do. Cautiously she approached the largest stone, and taking a deep breath hesitantly reached out her hand, palm up and lightly grazed the rock.
Nothing.
She looked around and all was the same, no swirling mirages of magic, no loud noises
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