Reddrozen

The land along the cliff is bleak, colorless and barren. I've hiked for a few hours; my backpack feels heavier with each step. The cliff is a sheer drop to the churning sea below. I'm beginning to think that I've been sent on a wild goose chase when I see a dirt path. Though woefully overgrown, it's the only thing that looks different from the hard rock and coarse patches of sea grass.

With renewed excitement I adjust the load on my shoulders and follow the path toward the cliff. There it switches back and forth, descending gradually through a dense patch of trees.

A few days ago, in a pub, I overheard two men arguing about Story Week. One claimed that it was merely a legend, the other maintained that it had been real. When I asked the innkeeper, he had shrugged. "It's an age-old tradition in these parts. Storytellers come and tell their tales in return for food and drink. According to lore, the first one was held in a hamlet called Redd Rozen. Though no one has ever seen it. Supposedly only the "one right person" can find it." He had shrugged again. "If it's there, it'll be to the west along the cliffs."

I have hiked these parts for the past few weeks and though the scenery is great, the villages quaint, the people warm and friendly and whisky excellent, it was all starting to look alike. So, this morning I packed up and set out on foot along the cliff.

When I leave the trees behind, I see meadows with sheep and fields with ripening grains and flax. Here and there a field with recently planted potatoes and winter greens. Below the fields, colorful cottages rest lazily against the hillside that embraces a small bay. On the far side of the bay, on the top of the hill, is a castle. Small as castles go. From where I stand, I can see a crenelated forecourt with draw bridge and a large square tower, adorned with turrets, balconies and parapets along the roof.

The sun is low in the sky when I pass the first few cottages. The village is quiet, except for the call of the seagulls, the clucking of chickens and the occasional bark of a dog, announcing my arrival to its mates. I follow the narrow cobblestoned street down to the harbor. Here I find a small crowd of maybe a hundred people, mingling, laughing, gossiping.

One by one they stop talking and stare at me.

I do the same. It is as if I've walked into Brigadoon. They are all dressed in simple homespun, hand-dyed, hand-made clothes. Long sleeves, long skirts and aprons for the women with some kind of head covering. The men are wearing homespun shirts, dark rough woolen trousers and dark, brimmed caps. I hear the clatter of wooden clogs on the cobble stones. Not a scrap of denim, or a thread of polyester to be seen. Except, of course, for my dress. I don't know what possessed me to wear my long denim dress today, instead of my usual jeans, but I'm glad I did.

One small girl, maybe five years old, is brave enough to step forward and touch the fabric of my dress. Her mother pulls her back quickly.

"It's okay." I assure her. There is no reaction.

I try again. "Good afternoon." I smile and look around. "My name is Mary Anne." An audible gasp travels through the crowd. I'm not sure why. Has no one ever introduced themselves? Should I have waited to be asked?

The little girl's mother dips into a brief curtsy. "Welcome, Milady." She whispers.

"How'd ye git 'ere, then?" One of the fishermen asks.

"On foot." I tell him. "I took the path from the cliff." Pointing over my shoulder toward the trees.

"A path?" Another wave of murmurs and whispers.

I nod. "Yes, I heard about Story Week, a few days ago. I hoped I could listen to some stories and maybe find a place where I can spend a night or two."

"Yes, Milady." The girl's mother says softly, shyly. "Won't there be plenty of room at the castle, now?" She motions for me to walk with her up the hill to the castle. The crowd follows. When I ask, she tells me that her name is Reina and her daughter is called Oonia.

We cross the drawbridge and courtyard. Once inside, my new friend introduces me to Astride, the chatelaine of the castle, who assures me that my bag will be taken to my room. She urges me to please have a seat, over there near the fire, in one of the large chairs. From this seat I have an unobstructed view of the Great Hall.

As soon as I am settled, a young man, dressed in tunic and tights, places a tray on a nearby table. He has brought me a decanter of the local whisky, roast meats and fresh bread. I am tired and thirsty and make short work of my first glass. The question, as always, is whether to have another. Drinking is not the answer, I know, though oblivion has its advantages and may give me respite from my dream.

A dream that haunts.

I can close my eyes any time and be back in that first dream. When I was barely seventeen, I woke to his kiss, no more than the stirring of warm air across my cheek. I saw him perched on the side of my bed. His hip touched mine, leaning over me, his hand rested on the covers. He wore his red-golden hair fashionably long. His blue eyes were clear, smiling. Shifting to my side, I made room for him on my narrow bed. Later, I realized that I had not been afraid or even surprised. It was as if I had been waiting for him; had known that he would come.

Our first kiss was sweet, soft, tentative.

Over the past forty years, these nightly dreams have become more vivid, explicit and powerful. I still don't know who he is or why he lives in my dreams. All he'll tell me is that 'someday' we'll be together. All I know is that he has spoiled me for all others. His long golden hair is slowly turning silver, as is mine. His blue eyes are still bright and warm. His bottom lip is just a tad fuller. I know that tugging on that lip with my teeth will evoke a groan ... and more ...

Yeah, maybe another drink. Maybe I won't dream tonight.

"Good evening, Milady. May I tell you the true story of Liam and Mary Anne?"

I look up to see an old man standing in front of me. He is short, elf-like. Laugh lines are deeply etched in tanned skin and radiate from faded, but twinkling, blue eyes. A short, bulbous nose nestles comfortably in a white moustache, which tops a long white beard. The luxurious growth below his nose more than compensates for the dearth of hair above. Small teeth glisten through his moustache when he smiles.

I nod, turn over one of the extra glasses on the table, pour some of the whisky and invite him to sit down. I'm not surprised that he knows my name. A good storyteller will use his audience's name to intrigue and hold their attention.

"Ta, Milady. I will tell you the true tale of one of our own as it has been told to me by my father and his father before him."

He vaguely waves his hand back, indicating many generations in the past. He takes a deep swallow of the whisky and daintily cleans his moustache with his thumb and forefinger.

"Many, many years ago, there lived a lad, Liam was his name. He was first born to Laird Colin the third."

The old man takes another sip of his drink and settles comfortably in his seat.

"This handsome, and admittedly somewhat impetuous, young man met a beautiful young maiden, Lady Mary Anne was her name. They met by chance in the marketplace. She had accidentally dropped her purse. Our hero saw the mishap, retrieved the purse and returned it to her. He was so enchanted by her that he returned to the market each week to see and charm her. Over time they fell in love."

The old man takes another swallow of his whisky and looks at me to make sure I'm still listening.

"However, once they learned who they were, they had a decision to make. Would they deny their love or meet furtively? For their fathers, their clans were locked in a longstanding and often bloody feud."

While reaching for his glass, the old man drops his voice, as if to impart a special secret.

Of course, secret assignations cannot be kept secret for long. When the maid's father, Lord McLeod, learned of her meetings with young Liam, he at once arranged for his daughter to be wed to another. A man from whom he needed favors. Her betrothed was a much older man, who had already lost two wives in childbirth and needed a mother for his bairns."

My storyteller tsk-tsks and drains his glass. He cocks one nearly nonexistent eyebrow. I smile and refill his glass. He tips his head in thanks.

"When her father told Mary Anne of her impending nuptials and that she would be leaving within the week, the beautiful maid sent a desperate message to our hero. Young Liam sprang into action and readied himself to come and rescue his true love."

I smile and nod while my storyteller takes more fortification. After all, no story would be complete without some ill-advised bravery.

"Lord McLeod intercepted young Liam's response and sent his daughter to her betrothed at once. Without letting her bring much of anything, not even her trousseau, merely accompanied by her maid and a groom."

The old man leans forward, glancing right and left. His voice has dropped dramatically. I can't help but lean forward to hear him.

"History tells us that Lady Mary Anne never wed the man. It seems she never arrived at his home. Rumors have it that she was waylaid by highway men and might even have been sold into slavery."

He shakes his head and scoffs.

"Rumors!"

He avails himself of some more whisky.

"On the other hand, Lord McLeod never received the boon and aid from his supposed son-in-law. In fact, the man accused Lord McLeod of lying and cheating and claimed that he was still owed a bride."

A shrug with his palms up. A shake of his head as if to tell me that the truth of Lady Mary Anne's fate has no bearing on this tale.

"Lord McLeod, in the meantime, had brought the local witch from the village and instructed her to wait in his daughter's chamber. He told her to give young Liam a poison when he came for maid Mary Anne."

Apparently, storytelling is thirsty work, for somehow his glass is empty again. He takes it upon himself to fill both his and my glass before he continues.

"That evening, our intrepid hero stole into Lord McLeod's castle. He may have been surprised, but not nearly as alarmed as he should have been, by the lack of resistance he encountered in reaching his ladylove's chambers. Feeling quite invincible and proud he burst into the room."

My bard smiles and whets his whistle again .

Lo, his surprise to find the old hag and not his fair maiden waiting for him."

He chuckles. The brew has brightened his mood and enjoying its effects he imbibes some more.

"The witch told Liam that his Mary Anne was lost to him in this life. But rather than giving him a poison as she had been instructed, she cast a spell on him and his love. Condemning them to be apart except in their dreams."

I gasp. This is not happening! There is no way this old man knows of my dreams! Nobody knows.

"Aye, Milady. He was told that for as long as he lived within these holdings, the village, the castle, aye this one, Castle Reddrozen, he and lady Mary Anne would be together in their dreams."

Suddenly my throat is dry. My breath uneven. I'm both chilled and sweating. With trembling fingers I pick up my glass and drain it. The old man looks at me and nods as if he knows what I'm thinking. What I'm feeling.

"The witch added that Laird Liam and all who lived here, would be locked from the world until such time that Lady Mary Anne would come of her own accord. None would be able to enter or leave until that time."

His voice has dropped to a whisper before he pauses and looks at me carefully.

"However, if he told her who he was, or somehow persuaded her to come, the spell would be broken, and their love lost."

Again, the old man lifts his glass and daintily wipes his moustache between thumb and forefinger. He regards me silently while my thoughts tumble through my head. Surely, it's just a myth, merely a story! Yes, my nightly visitor has left the image of a red rose on my pillow. Coincidence? I exhale on a shuddering sigh.

"It is said, Milady, that the two lovers have loved deeply, but only in their sleep, their dreams for nigh on five hundred years. Still, he lives within these halls. Still, he waits for his true live to come home."

The old man nods satisfied that he has faithfully retold the story as it had been told to him. He looks closely at me while he drains his glass and rises.

"Ta for the drink and your kind attention, Milady. Mayhap I'll tell you another tale next time."

I'm speechless as he walks away. His diminutive figure is immediately swallowed up by the mingling crowd. Stunned, confused, drained by what he told me, I sit back. How did he know? I've never told anyone of my dreams. He couldn't have known. My thoughts chase each other, round and round. I lean forward and refill my glass and raise it to my lips.

I look up as the glass touches my lips ... and...

... I see him.

There! Half in the shadows, at the edge of the Great Hall. Our eyes lock, maybe for just a moment, maybe for a lifetime. My lungs and my heart seem to have stopped functioning. He looks just like my phantom lover. I bite my lip, suppress a groan and lower the glass.

Maybe I don't need another drink.

When I look back to the corner, he's gome. I manage to swallow a sob. Of course! He's just a fantasy, just a treasured dream. The old man's story made me conjure him, that's all. You're an old woman. I tell myself. Stop already, move on! He's just a dream.

I swallow my tears and take a sip of my whisky, after all.

I'll be worse now, I warn myself. Now that I've seen him. Now that I think I've seen him. Even though what I thought I've just seen is no more than a mirage, I know I will, from now on, look for him. Every time I turn around, every time I glimpse someone of his size, his coloring, I'll hold my breath. And I'll be disappointed, again and again. I sigh.

"You're here. You've finally come home."

Oh, my! That voice! I close my eyes and sigh again. It's his voice. The voice with the slight lilt that I've heard in my dreams for more than forty years. Rich like chocolate, warm like a blanket and familiar like home.

Chills run down my back. I shiver and look at him ...

And groan.

"Mary Anne." He whispers my name as if it's a prayer.

He takes my hand and doesn't let go. We stare at each other for half an eternity. I see him and feel us. I recognize him and our history together.

He's here! He's real! he knows me.

I hear him expel a shuddering breath as if he has held it all this time. Leaning into me his whisper is a warm breath, a plea.

"Come with me."

The night is like magic. Familiar and yet new, comfortable and yet exciting and above all, real. We look, we touch, feel and kiss. We share, we laugh, talk and whisper. We sleep in fits and starts, almost afraid to miss one precious minute.

Early the next morning I feel different, lighter and stronger. I then realize I don't have those aches and pains I've grown used to. I turn to Liam and gasp. Next to me is the youth I first saw more than forty years ago, sitting on the edge of my bed.

We smile. We have our whole lives before us. Again.