Chapter 1

678 Words
Chapter 1 Isle of Skye, 16th century Ethne M’Kynnon had taken a long time to die; many generations had passed through her healing hands. No other had lived so long. ‘May the Graces welcome thee,’ Katrin mumbled. ‘May they hold you close and coset thee …’ The chill in the ground reached through Katrin’s stockings and skirts, and skin to her bones. Before her, a low mound of freshly turned earth leeched its unprotected moisture into the air. By morning it would be rock hard. Warm breath plumed from Katrin’s mouth and became frosty mist. A hand-spun and quilted blanket stretched around her shoulders, each patch a loving reminder of mothers and grandmothers, of busy fingers gnarled and ache-ridden too young; their perfect stitching a counterbalance to the imperfection of everything else in their lives. Katrin kept vigil over the old woman’s grave. Ethne’s mind was clear, until the final fluttering of sunken chest. Ethne was the last of the three sisters. The youngest, Caoimhe, had fallen in love with an Irishman and sailed away to his homeland, never to be seen again. It was said that Lilas, the elder sister, raped and left for dead, had stolen her tormentor’s dagger. She used it to s***h his throat as he slept and then had thrown herself from Dún Ringill. Two sisters taken by the sea. One left to long life and solitary guardianship. … Bury that which I hold sacred beneath me. Place my oldest possession at my head … Katrin reached out to the headstone she’d placed in position as the sun set. It was the hearthstone by which Ethne often knelt as she cooked and brewed, where she set cauldrons of soup to keep warm, where countless children warmed their toes on frosty evenings as they listened to the old woman’s stories. One side of the stone was carved in ancient symbols: a quaich, a dagger, and circles within circles. Around the edge of the stone was a border of angled strokes. Facing the grave was an arched symbol: more of the angled lines and a tightly woven weave above the semblance of a skull. The stone was as cold as the ground that held the remains of the old woman in its embrace. Katrin pulled a pouch from the pocket of her skirt. Inside were the leaf-thin seeds of a wych elm tree. … Plant wych elm to shade me … Katrin dug a hollow behind the carved headstone and dropped the seeds inside. She covered them with earth, the pouch, and dried heather. Little enough protection from the heavy frosts to come, but what else could she do? … Share my story with your daughters. There will come a time when one of them will take my place … It was said that Ethne and her sisters were the descendants of Scáthach; that they could trace their blood to the Fortress of Shadows across the waters of Loch Slapin and Loch Eishort. Dún Ringall and  Dún Scáith had stood guard over the shared waters for centuries past. Scáthach had long since joined the mist of history and now it was Ethne’s turn. Katrin was glad she was not expected to take the healer’s place of guardianship. Sacred relics and villagers would not be her responsibility. She felt movement within her swollen belly, the first kicks of the child she carried, and wept at what she had lost this day and what she would lose in days to come. She would share Ethne’s stories nevertheless and let fate decide the rest. ‘Once upon a time, my daughter,’ Katrin rubbed her belly, ‘a crone as old as the world walked these fields and cared for these people, your family. Her magic kept us safe. She was one of three sisters borne of a people who no longer walk this earth …’ Katrin looked up to the black sky and glittering stars. A light drizzle had started. Tiny raindrops mixed with tears and numbed her face. Her clothes, damp now, started to freeze and Katrin trembled. She rubbed her arms for warmth and silently promised those who had gone before, and those yet to come, that she would remain vigilant. Winter would not last forever.
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