Short Takes

[Mad Lews]

Well it's not what I set out to write but you all know how that goes. I may fluff it up a bit and submit it as a story or perhaps just leave well enough alone. It would be a modern somewhat darker retelling of the legend of Tam Lin with some of my own twisted thoughts thrown in.

A Bit of a Sacrifice

O I forbid you, maidens a',
That wear gowd on your hair,
To come or gae by Carterhaugh,
For young Tam Lin is there.

The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, 1882-1898 by
Francis James Child

I've lived all my years in the village of Chauterfield, in the lovely gray thistle glen some thirty miles into the Scottish Highlands. Chauterfield lies a few miles due south of a stark bluff that the locals call "The Mound". A spring issues forth mid way down the western slope of the bluff. It skips and splashes its way near the forested path down to the floor of the glen. This would be what's always been called the "Burn of Bliss". From the eastern face of the bluff a waterfall drops straight down some eighty feet onto the rocks below then follows it's time worn path down into the valley. It has always been called the "Burn of Sorrow". A half-mile below the bluff the two burns meld into a stream that is dammed at the northern edge of the village to form our millpond above the village green.

The name "The Mound" isn't for the bluff itself but rather for the strangely symmetrical raised circle atop the bluff from the center of which protrudes a vaguely phallic rock nearly six feet in height.

The Mound is not mentioned in any local tour guide and yet it attracts a steady stream of tourist who take the meandering five-mile trek up the bluff for the fine view of the valley.

Memories run deep in old backwater places like this and the mound always played a pivotal role in the lands about our village. It has never been a cheerful place and the locals avoid it at all times but most especially during those weeks before summer solstice.

We're known as a close knit group and will rarely speak of local history to strangers unless pressed (or fresh from the "Hound and Pheasant Pub" where we might become a bit too talkative as the evening progresses.)

A castle stood on the bluff in the mid-eighteenth century. It was the last stronghold of the Jacobite's, and stood defiant for over a year after the Bonnie Prince had fled to hide behind Papal skirts. On the eve of the summer solstice in 1747 the castle fell to an overwhelming English force. There were 63 men defending the castle but none survived its capture. Bloody King George ordered the castle torn down stone by stone and the rocks scattered about the glen. It took a company of Royal Engineers three months to accomplish the task but not a one of the lot dared to touch the mound. The defenders were buried together in an unmarked grave but ten years later a secret monument was erected in the local cemetery which lists each of the 63 men's names and their clan as well as a mysterious 64th entry for an "Abigail of the Mc'Doland Clan".

If the local archeologist is to be believed (and why not? He is local.) this was also the site of a Roman fort nearly two millennia ago. It would have been the northernmost settlement built by the Romans nearly 40 miles beyond the location of Hadrian's Wall. It's construction must have predated that structure by at least fifty years. The few artifacts that have been found include Stone blocks with chisled Latin inscriptions marking the completion of a northern gate signed by a centurion Flavius Victrix commanding the 2nd century of the sixth Legion. Almost all other bits of pottery, glass and metal from the Roman era show evidence of destruction from intense heat so it is likely The Jacobite's were not the first to be massacred on this spot.

More recently there was a poorly explained suicide pact which left five lads, up from the university on holiday, dead at the base of the falls and a lone unknown young lady wandering the wood's, quite mad. That caused quite a stir back in 1936. Since that time we haven't tried to clear the woodland during the summer solstice and almost every year a tourist or local disappears for a spell.

Present day legend has it that the mound now only seeks a virgin lass. That tale may well be the invention of the local lads trying their best to protect their sweethearts from a virgin's fate.

It was two elderly women; birder's out in the early morning mist, who found the girls body. She lay on the hollow of land where the two burns mingled. She was naked, bruised and alive, but completely unresponsive. It was almost as if her mind had fled her body to some better place.

We knew how to deal with these situations but the two birders who found her called in the county authorities. That was unfortunate for they in turn called in more outsiders and a " Major Crimes Unit" came up from Edinburgh to investigate.

She was a blonde tourist from New Zealand, a schoolteacher I believe. As luck would have it she was one of five young ladies who had happened to win an all expenses paid mid summer trip offered by our local tourist board.

She was no real help to the investigators. She had obviously been assaulted, but other than some bruises and abrasions she was in fair shape. She occasionally whispered what one Inspector swore he thought sounded like " Tram Line" but in any event she seemed completely disconnected from reality. They found no semen so the investigators concluded the assailment must have used "protection" to hinder their investigation. The local constable rolled his eyes at that one but said nothing and let the professionals have their way.

She had nearly torn off two fingernails in the struggle. The scrapings yielded a lot of detritus but no trace of human flesh. The investigators were also at a loss to explain her lack of clothing until one of the local lads took pity and lead them up to the top of the bluff and then to the mound. They found some bits of her pink cotton nightgown and a white terry cloth robe but it only added to the investigator's puzzlement.

What little was found was in such tiny fragments it was impossible to tell what had happened. It was almost as if her clothing had suddenly turned as brittle as fine porcelain and then shattered into a million bits. More peculiarly some of those strands of cloth were found imbedded in both trees and rocks at distances up to forty paces from the mound.

The special team mucked about for a few weeks complaining of the lack of local assistance. The woman's cuts and bruises were treated and then she was sent away to a psychiatric ward with a diagnosis of " hysterical amnesia". There was a whiff of scandal some 28 days later when an orderly of 23 years standing was let go. When the unnamed occurrence reoccurred at the next rising of a new moon the man was reinstated with back pay and a proper apology. On the third month when the near comatose patient was fully restrained and the incident happened yet again our village council stepped forward and offered to take the poor woman into a suitable local nursing home.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief and life returned to normal. The woman remains nearly catatonic but for those evenings when a new moon rises. It is then that you can find her naked on her hands and knees panting grunting and thrusting back against an ethereal lover only she can see. The following morning will find her as unresponsive as ever with fresh bruises and abrasions though we all know they are purely psychosomatic. Throughout the month her belly swells with the growth of the moon in an accelerated parody of gestation. This too can be explained away by the psychiatric professionals that oversee her. When the new moon is born her womb empties and then her lover returns.

It has been going on for almost nine months now. If all goes as it always has she will awaken after the thirteenth lunar cycle. She will have lost a year, and whatever maidenly virtue she had arrived with. We should all be grateful. There's been no deaths for nearly seventy years now. The old gods have become much less demanding. I guess all things Scottish mellow with age. The Villagers often take up a collection for the befuddled lass when she wakens and before they send her on her way.

But enough of this sad tale. Lets raise a pint of bitter now for It's time to look to the future. The council has sent out five new prize vacation packages in the afternoon post. The women are all young, and single, every one of them with golden hair. Hopefully at least one of them will tickle Tam Lin's fancy.

Copyright © Mad Lews 2005