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Authors: Claire R. McDougall
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the door, I strain to see if Fergus is standing sentry. But he’s not there among the stragglers still around the fire. We walk out into the breeze on the brow of the hill, and I have to stop. Sula stops with me, observing my surprise at what appears to be the sound of waves just below the cliff.
Sula must wonder why I am grinning at her, but what can I say? She may be a druid, but she would make no sense of my claim that one day the sea wouldn’t come in to Dunadd at all. I follow her down the hill, past the place on the rock with the foot imprint and the Pictish boar, but neither one is there.
On what is in my day a grassy plateau around an abandoned well, we come upon a wooden shack. Only as we enter do I realize that it is set over the well, and that in this day the well is not dry but is in fact a spring that runs with a gurgle, giving off a dank smell of wet stone. On the wattle walls of the shack hang ribbons and little pieces of rag, and here and there a clay foot or hand. The druidess picks up a wooden bowl and, when she inclines my head towards the water, I see that I am to be given my second baptism, this time presumably into paganism. I take a moment of pleasure to think how this would sit with certain nuns of my childhood acquaintance,but freezing water running its icy grip down my neck takes me out of that thought. I shiver, and then shiver again. Sula laughs. She gestures for me to drink from the bowl. The thought of tapeworms crosses my mind, another of those dangers I have been taught lurk in the wild, but tapeworms come from sheep, and I am not at all sure that they have sheep in this age. Whatever this age is. The water is ice cold and tastes peaty, tangy.
A line of dead pigs and goats lies outside the door of the kitchen, as though waiting patiently to be granted their life back. Farther off, something is roasting on a spit. These people certainly make more of Halloween than we do. Everyone is crowding the druid, talking so fast I can’t understand. I suppose it could be Pictish and not Gaelic at all. It depends who dominates the fort at this time.
A woman from a kitchen in a long tunic hands me a couple of grey bready articles that look more like something from the Middle East than a Scottish pan loaf. At the spit, a burly man with a beard cuts off a piece of meat from a small animal that I hope is not dog and hands it to me on the edge of his knife. Nice not to use his fingers, even in the Dark Ages. The druidess takes a piece of meat herself and ladles a piss-colored liquid with a lace of foam out from an earthenware jar set in the ground and into a wooden bowl. It is warm and yeasty, not an unpleasant drink. By the time I finish thebowl off, Sula is gone. I am left by myself on this heathen night of Samhain, crouched on the grass, glancing about for Fergus, feeling vulnerable and biting into the tough bread, which is made of some grain more mealy than I am used to. I put my head down and chew on the tender meat.
A dog barks suddenly down below the gates, the small bark of a lesser dog, but surprisingly clear over the cheering and the strange music and, of course, the drumming. A man comes from behind and fills my bowl with more of the hot, yeasty mixture. I see when he crouches beside me he has the tattoo of a boar right across his forehead. He steals glances at me as I sip and shiver in my modern clothes.
When I stand up, the man stays crouched. I try to walk, but the beery stuff has got into my step, making the men at the spit laugh. I see a smirk on the tattooed man’s face, as I turn and take my feet up to look for Sula. Or Fergus. The man of the tattoo doesn’t follow as I go back to the bare rock where the foot and the boar are still missing. There’s nothing here but what God saw fit to decorate the hill with. It hardly seems like Dunadd without the only part of Dunadd that is going to be left for the tourists. As I wander up to the summit and the warmth of the fire, I keep glancing
Sula must wonder why I am grinning at her, but what can I say? She may be a druid, but she would make no sense of my claim that one day the sea wouldn’t come in to Dunadd at all. I follow her down the hill, past the place on the rock with the foot imprint and the Pictish boar, but neither one is there.
On what is in my day a grassy plateau around an abandoned well, we come upon a wooden shack. Only as we enter do I realize that it is set over the well, and that in this day the well is not dry but is in fact a spring that runs with a gurgle, giving off a dank smell of wet stone. On the wattle walls of the shack hang ribbons and little pieces of rag, and here and there a clay foot or hand. The druidess picks up a wooden bowl and, when she inclines my head towards the water, I see that I am to be given my second baptism, this time presumably into paganism. I take a moment of pleasure to think how this would sit with certain nuns of my childhood acquaintance,but freezing water running its icy grip down my neck takes me out of that thought. I shiver, and then shiver again. Sula laughs. She gestures for me to drink from the bowl. The thought of tapeworms crosses my mind, another of those dangers I have been taught lurk in the wild, but tapeworms come from sheep, and I am not at all sure that they have sheep in this age. Whatever this age is. The water is ice cold and tastes peaty, tangy.
A line of dead pigs and goats lies outside the door of the kitchen, as though waiting patiently to be granted their life back. Farther off, something is roasting on a spit. These people certainly make more of Halloween than we do. Everyone is crowding the druid, talking so fast I can’t understand. I suppose it could be Pictish and not Gaelic at all. It depends who dominates the fort at this time.
A woman from a kitchen in a long tunic hands me a couple of grey bready articles that look more like something from the Middle East than a Scottish pan loaf. At the spit, a burly man with a beard cuts off a piece of meat from a small animal that I hope is not dog and hands it to me on the edge of his knife. Nice not to use his fingers, even in the Dark Ages. The druidess takes a piece of meat herself and ladles a piss-colored liquid with a lace of foam out from an earthenware jar set in the ground and into a wooden bowl. It is warm and yeasty, not an unpleasant drink. By the time I finish thebowl off, Sula is gone. I am left by myself on this heathen night of Samhain, crouched on the grass, glancing about for Fergus, feeling vulnerable and biting into the tough bread, which is made of some grain more mealy than I am used to. I put my head down and chew on the tender meat.
A dog barks suddenly down below the gates, the small bark of a lesser dog, but surprisingly clear over the cheering and the strange music and, of course, the drumming. A man comes from behind and fills my bowl with more of the hot, yeasty mixture. I see when he crouches beside me he has the tattoo of a boar right across his forehead. He steals glances at me as I sip and shiver in my modern clothes.
When I stand up, the man stays crouched. I try to walk, but the beery stuff has got into my step, making the men at the spit laugh. I see a smirk on the tattooed man’s face, as I turn and take my feet up to look for Sula. Or Fergus. The man of the tattoo doesn’t follow as I go back to the bare rock where the foot and the boar are still missing. There’s nothing here but what God saw fit to decorate the hill with. It hardly seems like Dunadd without the only part of Dunadd that is going to be left for the tourists. As I wander up to the summit and the warmth of the fire, I keep glancing
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