The Elven Boots - part 2

It was a year since I had last sat by this burn by the Fairy Bridge. Legend has it that 900 years before, a fairy queen left her one-year-old baby boy, son of the Clan Chief of Macleod, on the grassy bank by the Bridge, draped in a silken shawl. Through what she described as a 'twisted line', I was her descendent, and it was to her that I had promised to return a year later to the day. 'You are of my line', she had said – five words scorched into my memory.

After that meeting, I had spent the night in my hotel bedroom tossing and turning, trying to process the events that had turned my world upside down. My head throbbed, and after two days of wandering aimlessly along the shore of Broadford Bay, it was still pounding away. It settled to a dull ache all the way South; it was still aching when I picked up the phone and rang Terry, my only close friend, who happened to be a consultant psychologist.

Maybe Terry was right – I had been the victim of a psychotic episode. He had wanted to refer me to a psychiatrist for treatment with antipsychotics. He had thought it a terrible idea to come north to Skye again. But I chose to face the interminable traffic and roadworks up the M6 before passing into Scotland and eventually reaching the western highlands and Skye. Two days later, a year on and to the day, I set out for the North of the Island and the Fairy Bridge.

The drive to the Fairy Bridge was quiet but wet, the rain forming rivulets down the windscreen. The muddy ruts sent shudders through me as I turned down and parked at the pull-in by the Bridge. I leant over and grabbed my boots from the passenger well, slipped off my driving shoes and tried to put them on. These strange boots, bought from Fogarty's in Brome, my hometown, connected me to that day of promise. But now, they were betraying me. When I left Skye a year ago, they had lost their weird, shape-changing power. But they had remained a perfect fit. That is until now. 

The ground was sodden; I would need to change out of my driving shoes. But my boots were of a different mind. The right boot became a left boot as soon as I slipped it on. The left boot did the same, making its displeasure clear – it did not want to be worn. This nonsense continued; first, one boot, then the other. I was well used to their weird behaviour, but this was stupid; I gave up, put my driving shoes back on, jumped out of the car, sat on the bank above the burn, and waited.

It was as it was a year ago, but what my heart longed for was absent. Where were the gentle cadences of the flute that had been playing and drawn me across the Bridge? Where was the narrow path of grass of brilliant green on the other side of the Bridge? Where was the smell of jasmine and woodsmoke? Where was the magic that had lifted my spirits and given me such hope?

I might have dozed, I don't know, but I was getting cold in the brittle wind blowing from the North. Skye – a land of mystery and myth and, as the stories would have us believe, magic. Today it looked ordinary. But Skye drizzle is unique; it comes at you from all directions penetrating even the most waterproof gear. Seams are its speciality; none can resist its chilly fingers as it prizes open any crack or pinhole and soaks the clothing beneath. Water was now trickling down my neck; my shirt collar was starting to chafe, and the soaking cloth added extra misery to the wind's chill. I realised I was shivering.

I got back in my car, I loved Skye, but today it felt empty, drained of meaning, nothing but 'in your face' scenery, and rain – rain today, rain yesterday and rain tomorrow – the three weather conditions of the Island. I switched on the car's ignition and turned up the heating. I sat with the engine idling for a few moments, cursing my foolishness. I headed back to my hotel, dreaming of a hot shower and the quiet comfort of my room at the back of the Hebridean Hotel. 

The following day, I decided against another drive to the Fairy Bridge. Today I would stop at Sligachan and walk the pass to Glen Brittle on the other side of the Island. I decided to stoke up on a full Scottish before I left. A waitress came over to take my order. Her name badge said 'Elli'. "What's Elli short for?" I had asked the morning before. "Eleanor", she had replied as she noted down what I wanted.

"You're brave," she commented when I asked for the 'full Scottish' breakfast – eggs, black pudding, sausage, bacon and all the trimmings. 'Where are you off to today?' she enquired.

"I thought I would drive to Sligachan and do the Glen Brittle walk.' I replied.

She laughed. "A couple did it yesterday and got soaked – I haven't seen them yet this morning. Today looks better, although the Cuillin catches any foul weather about."

She was right, of course. The Black Cuillin formed a massive range of jagged peaks and valleys across the middle of the Island and were often shrouded from view by clouds and rain. But half an hour later, I was on my way. There is only one road north to Portree, and today it was slow, with a steady flow of visitors' cars and campervans. 

A few miles north, I swung around the hairpins at the head of Loch Ainort, past the waterfall at Eas a Bhradain and on to Loch Sligachan. Cars were parked by the side of the road as visitors took selfies with the ever-present, ever-patient highland cows. I had met many of these red-haired shaggy beasts with their fearsome horns, but they were the most peaceful of all the animals I encountered on my travels.

I parked up and slipped on my boots, forgetting my boot trauma of yesterday. They were happy boots – a good sign. The cloud was high, and sunlight sparkled across the slopes of Sgurr nan Gillean. Sligachan Falls were in full spate as I climbed the steep slope, away from the hotel and the monument to Collie and MacKenzie – two early twentieth Century climbers who did much to open the Cuiliin to climbers and walkers alike. The going was hard, but I was alone as I crested the ridge and absorbed the view of the Cuillin's western battlements silhouetted by the rising morning sun. In the distance, I spotted the flash of an eagle quartering the hillside, oblivious to the harassing attention of two crows. At long last, I felt at peace with myself.

The rocky path became difficult as I descended towards Glen Brittle; some fifty yards ahead of me, the track was broken by a series of rock steps. A solitary, elderly woman was carefully working her way through them. I held back to give her time and space. She looked uncannily like my mother, about the same age and build but considerably more agile. I caught up with her as the path flattened; she stepped to one side to let me through.

"Good morning", I said as I passed.

"Is it" she replied – her voice waspish. She waved her hand in a peremptory dismissal of my presence. Good lord, I thought, just like my mother, surely there can't be two of them. I shrugged, said nothing, and kept on walking. She had put me in my place with barely a word and a flick of the hand. A gesture that punctured my mood and brought, rushing back, a lifetime of memories of a mother who refused to be pleased. I felt stupid; I walked quickly, trying to get ahead and away from the woman and my memories.

I was only thirty yards ahead when I heard a cry behind me. The elderly woman had slipped and fallen. By the time I got back to her, she had picked herself up and had perched herself on a rock ledge. She was ashen white and very annoyed with herself.

"Oh, how stupid," she said as she unlaced her boot.

"Wait a moment; what do you think you have done?" I asked.

"What do you think?" It wasn't a question; it was a put-down.

"If your foot went over, it's almost certainly a sprain. Can you put your weight on it?"

She tried and then sat back down and took off her unlaced boot. 

"No, I can't", she replied.  

Taking off the boot was not a good idea, but it was done. I always carry a basic first aid kit when hiking. 

"I have some strapping; would you like some help with it? I was surprised when she agreed and took off her sock.

"What's that?" She asked as I pulled out a roll of cohesive bandage. I couldn't resist:

"It's horse bandage, perfect for this sort of injury".

I knelt to look at the proffered foot; there was some swelling; I looked up at her and tried to look reassuring. Her scowl wasn't promising.

I took her foot, but the swelling had suddenly disappeared. It was a young woman's foot, beautifully shaped with skin the lustre of new gold. I held her foot in my hand, staring at it for a long second, my mouth open in disbelief, my mind frozen. Then I felt her hands gently clasp my head. I remained transfixed, staring at the impossible. I felt a kiss on the top of my head. My heart started to pound. I couldn't look up. I knew who had me in her hands.

"Alfie, my beloved". Her face was against mine, the smell of jasmine blossom flooding my senses, and her golden hair covering my eyes. She spoke softly, but her words were finding my heart, and I could feel again that something that had touched me and given me hope a year ago. It was the feeling of being loved. Banríon, the fairy queen, had me in her arms, claiming back the child she had surrendered centuries before. Like wine flowing into a dry and empty vessel, her love, pure and unconditional, were sweeping away the barriers I had built since childhood. Barriers – walls of stone – built brick by emotional brick to protect me from the pain of rejection by the woman who gave me birth.

I took her hands and sat beside her on the rocky slab, question after question racing through my mind. She smiled and stroked my face; the sun, now well above the distant peak, was putting sparkling highlights in her hair. She was beauty incarnate. Everything I could ever want was sitting beside me, smiling, touching, loving me. Banríon was here; she wasn't a psychotic episode; I wasn't mad, or, if I was, it was a madness I could bear.

"A year has passed, and I cannot stay long." My face fell, I was stricken, but I had many questions I needed to ask: why couldn't she stay and why here, why not at the Bridge? She read my churning thoughts, and suddenly I understood; I felt like a fool. I had returned to the same place, as promised – or so I thought – on the same date, one year on. But the 29^th of February had passed, and I had not realised its significance. I had arrived a day late. She smiled at my consternation.

"Ask the sun and the earth what is a leap year?" she continued, "and they will reply that they do not know. They have no knowledge of calendars, nor do they count the passing days. Two days ago, day and night were in perfect harmony, but now the day is ascending, and the eternal powers are calling me back. The blessings of Summer are coming, ­and I must pass back into all things that live and grow. The eternal ones know of my love for you, dear Alfie, and they, like me, knew you were on your way. Your boots have brought you to me, and they will continue to guide you until all is fulfilled."

She paused for a moment. I wanted time to slow down; I wanted her to stay. "I have a task for you, dear Alfie, and I want you to promise me that you will come again when it is complete. Will you do this for me?"

I would have willingly walked through the gates of hell for her. "Yes, of course," I replied.

"I want you to return to your mother and give her what I have given you. I want you to love her as I love you. I know how much her indifference has hurt you; it is the hurt that generations of my line have inflicted on one another. You have the power to end it, if you will. When this task is done, we will be together, truly ourselves but truly one. I know this is a paradox, but if you can fulfil this task, you will understand and be fulfilled." She drew closer to me and kissed my forehead and my eyes. "You are not yet ready for your next step, but when this task is complete, you will be, and you, in turn, can give your children the precious gift of love – it is the birthright of every child." She paused. "To help you with your task, I have a gift for your mother. It is a jewel that, in its endless multiplicity, binds creation. It is beyond human sight and beyond price."

She touched my breast and drew forth a band of blue light. Spellbound, I watched as she made a tiny loop midway between us before drawing it on and into her breast. Satisfied with her handwork, she pointed her finger to her right and drew another band of light out of the air, doubling the loop she had already made before passing it on and releasing it. She did this repeatedly, creating multiple rivers of blue light, all combining to form a tiny rotating sphere where they crossed. She was smiling at me, laughter on her lips, as between us, the small globe, no more than an inch across, hung suspended like a ball of wool made from threads drawn from a dozen looms. Each ribbon of blue light shimmered and rippled as it flowed from its origin, curved around itself in flowing helices of light, and then flowed on before disappearing into empty space.

I didn't quite catch what she did next. With a wave of her hand, the bands holding it disappeared and were replaced by a suffusion of blue light, enclosing us in a glow the colour of a warm and cloudless sky. Then, pleased with her handiwork, she plucked the small rotating ball of light from the air and, grasping my right hand, placed it in my outstretched palm.

"It is a tiny ripple in the field of energy and love, which passes in endless waves throughout space and time. It is a creature of its connections; they are still there, but now you cannot see them." She started to laugh, like a child, as she looked at the top of my head. I put my other hand up to feel the source of her mirth. Her hair had fanned out into a halo of golden light, and my hair was also standing on end. I stared at the tiny but perfect spinning sphere. It was tingling as it lay there, rotating with the energy flowing through empty space. It was touching my skin but not touching. I could feel a strange sensation up and down my arm.

"Put it in your bag with your horse bandage", Banríon suggested with a laugh, and, as I registered her words, it was gone. "Don't worry, Alfie; like its tiny companions, it can jump from here to there faster than thought. It is in your bag, and if you hadn't guessed, it is electricity, pure and indivisible.

"It's an electron", I exclaimed; she nodded, "it's rather large!"

"Yes," she replied, "it's an electron, as you call it, but only you, I, and one other – your mother – can see it. Knowledge of me has passed from generation to generation to her, but she needs your love now and forever. The tiny artefact you carry in your bag is my message to her. She is dying, and you must make haste. Please be with her for the last few weeks of her life. She is mortally afraid; she knows what is coming, and in her heart lies deep regret – a regret that disfigures her and feeds her anger with you and herself. She is dying, and only you can undo the damage that has scarred her life and smooth the path she must now travel.

"I will, of course I will. When can I see you again?" I asked.

"In six months, when night and day are in harmony again, I will be where your boots find me."

She kissed me again, this time a gentle touch on the lips. Her hand flowed across my face. I didn't want her to go, but with that, she was gone.