The Magic Ring of Brodgar

“I've never heard in my life that ferns could bloom,” Megan exclaimed in surprise, looking at Warren with wide eyes, trying not to miss a word of his story.

“The fern flower is mythical, supposedly revealing the secrets of the magical world to its owner. It also grants clairvoyance and power over evil spirits. Evil forces try in every way to distract the hunter, for example, by calling out to him with the voice of a loved one. And if one turns around at the call, it could cost them their life. It means looking into the eyes of death.”

“That’s terrifying! Do locals really believe in this to this day?”

“Of course, Megan. You can't imagine how many people head off into the bracken before midnight. Each one of them hopes that they will be the luc ky one. Some even go into the forest!”

“Do you know at least one person who has actually had such luck?”

“Not yet,” laughed Warren. “But my grandfather knows many legends related to it. He believes in the fern flower bloom, as do many of his age. They say that in the past, most northern Highlanders had abilities for clairvoyance, witchcraft, and so on. Our land is special, and so are the people here. Well, I'm skeptical about it, but my wife, Glenn, believes everything my grandfather and his peers tell her. If you're interested,” he continued with a smile, “she can tell you a lot more. I, for one, love this festival like the others, simply because the whole north celebrates. Our people have fun, dance and play the bagpipes. Ale, cider, whisky, flow like rivers. Various Northern Scottish dishes are available to choose from. Lots of local game. Meat that's cured, grilled on coals, pan-fried, stewed, and anything else you could want. Almost all the townspeople and neighboring villagers come here. After all, the forest is nearby, and most ferns grow near us too. Tents, wooden tables, and benches are set up on the hill.”

“Warren! It sounds wonderful! I can’t wait for this festival!”

“We Highlanders just need an excuse to have fun! Well, Megan, here we are.”

“Thank you. Your story was absolutely fascinating. If you and Glenn have got time this evening, I would love to hear more legends related to the traditions of Northern Scotland.”

“Of course! Tonight, after dinner, we'll happily share with you all we know about our north over a glass of whisky by the fireplace.”

“Great, I’m already looking forward to it,” Megan spoke joyously, pleased with Warren's openness and the fact that he harbored no resentment toward her for the previous day's events.

When Megan got out of the car, she found herself in front of a long two-story building made of large stone blocks. This style, she noted, was a common feature of most historical buildings in Scotland. The distillery was situated on a hill. From there, magnificent landscapes opened up. Megan thought it would be impossible to get used to such beauty. Surely, these views could never become dull.

“How long has this distillery been here?” she asked her cousin.

“From the 15th century. It was built by our ancestor William McKenzie, in 1486. Naturally, a lot has changed and improved inside since then. But externally, it remains as it was centuries ago.”

At the entrance to the building, a large oak barrel lay on its side, with "Mal Scotch Production" painted on it in white; the clan coat of arms was underneath.

Gregor, who had come with them but had remained silent the whole way, swung the door open, gesturing for them to enter. The girl immediately noticed a distinctive smell – malt, as it seemed to her.

Megan didn't consider herself an expert in this field. She had never been fond of strong alcoholic beverages, preferring ale or cider instead. She had only drunk whisky once in her life, a few years back, and now barely remembered how it smelled. Inside, there was a reception desk and a small sofa. A pleasant-looking blonde woman – around fifty, dressed in a smart business suit, immediately approached the visitors.

“Good afternoon, Miss McKenzie. My name is Kirsty, I’m the head technologist at the distillery. Warren, Gregor, it’s good to see you. If you’re ready, we can proceed further. I will take you to the production technology and show you the distillery.”

“Thank you, Kirsty; lead the way,” Megan said.

In the room where the first stage of production took place, there was a huge vessel.

“This is the mash tun, where barley is added. Then, water is poured into it and left for 4–5 days. This is called the malting stage. During this time, the starch turns into sugar. The barley grains, after this process, need to be thoroughly dried with hot smoke from peat. We do that here,” the woman pointed towards an open door to another large room. “The peat subsequently gives the barley a unique aroma, which becomes an integral part of the future whisky.”

Moving ahead into the next room, Kirsty showed a massive purpose-built machine designed to grind malt into flour. Next to it was another huge mash vat.

“In this vat,” she continued, “we mix the grain with hot water, and keep it for about twelve hours. Then, in the cooled wort, we add yeast for the fermentation process to occur. After that, the contents of the vat are transferred into these copper stills. In there, the heat increases to 86 degrees Celsius. The alcohol rises up through the tubes then cools back down into a liquid state. This process is called distillation. It usually happens twice so that the content reaches 70 degrees. Then, we pour the obtained liquid into oak barrels and send them to the warehouse. The minimum period the liquid must age to be called whisky is three years. During this time, the spirit evaporates from sixty to forty degrees. The longer the whisky stays in the barrel, the richer its color and taste become. Whisky is the water of life, as they say in the north of Scotland.”

The small procession moved on, listening to Kirsty.

“And in this room, we proceed to bottling and packaging. As you can see, there is nothing complicated; just barley, water, yeast, and time.”

“Are the grain and barrels local?” Megan inquired.

Warren took the liberty in answering this question.

“The best Scottish grain grows here in the north. We have peaty heather fields which are unique to us, giving barley a special flavor. And we order oak barrels from Andalusia, Spain that come with sherry. The best barrels for whisky are those from sherry.”

“Thank you! You explained everything in great detail.”

They also visited the warehouses where barrels filled with whisky are stored. Megan tasted one of the aged single malt varieties, twenty years in maturation, noting that the flavor was very rich and the alcohol was barely noticeable. “Now I understand what good Scottish whisky means!” she said with a smile.

For another two hours, they remained at the distillery. Gregor and Kirsty educated the new owner on employee work details, explained how many people were involved in the production, and much more.

6. Legends of the North

After going up to her room, Megan sat on the bed and reflected. Too many events had occurred during the three days she had been here. It felt like a whole week had passed since her arrival. Meeting new people who had now become her family; the harsh and majestic beauty of the nature and the castle she was living in; an attempt on her life; visiting her own whiskey distillery… She had experienced so many different impressions and emotions, more than she had ever experienced in London with its fast-paced, event-filled life over a year.

Megan didn't immediately notice the strange rustling at the window. Turning around, she saw a black raven. It sat on the outside windowsill, staring intently at her. The thought that this bird was constantly watching her made her uneasy. Trying to calm herself, she thought that there were probably many such birds in this area.

After resting for a bit, she went down to the hall and waited for her cousin. Soon he appeared and said, “Well, Megan, are you ready?”

“Yes, let’s go.”

Upon entering the chapel, which was about hundred yards from the castle, Megan admired the ancient structure.

“It's beautiful,” she remarked, examining the old building closely.

“Yes, and this chapel remembers all the marriages, baptisms, and funerals of the McKenzie clan. It was built at the same time as the old castle.”

Inside, to the left of the altar, there was a massive wrought iron door leading to the family crypt. Warren opened it with a key, and Megan shivered at the realization that the burials were so close to the castle. She feared anything associated with death.

The young people moved down the grim, quiet corridor, passing other doors, but these were not locked. After passing several, they stopped at the penultimate one.

Warren swung it open for his cousin, “Go ahead.”

Megan was frightened, feeling as if dozens of eyes were watching her from all sides. She saw a recent burial to the right of the entrance. Unlike the others, it was not covered in dust. Fresh flowers stood in vases at the gravestone. The stone bore the name, birth date, and death date in large letters. It was her grandfather's resting place.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. Only now did she fully comprehend that he was no longer among the living. He would never come to her in London again. He would never call her to Castle Mal. She was already here. She had come, but it seemed Malcolm had to die for his beloved granddaughter to finally be in his homeland. These thoughts made her feel even worse. She whispered to herself, Here I am. You waited. But I can't hug you now, or tell you how much I love you, how much you mean to me, how much I miss you! Forgive me! Forgive my late arrival. You will forever remain in my heart and memory. I love you, Grandpa! I promise to do everything in my power to ensure that everything in our estate goes as you would have wished. I've already grown to love your beloved north and your home with all my heart.

After standing by the grave for another ten minutes, she wiped her tears and said, “Thank you, Warren, for coming here with me. We can return to the castle now.”

“As you wish.”

Her cousin patted her shoulder sympathetically, and they headed back to the house through the chapel.

“Where is the key to the crypt kept? I would like to come here again to bring flowers to Grandpa.”

“In Malcolm's former office. In the drawer of his desk, you'll find the keys to all the doors in the castle.”

“Thanks. I'll go to my room. What time shall we meet for dinner?”

“At seven. Is that time convenient for you?”

“Yes, perfect.”

Megan spent the next few hours reviewing the documents previously given to her by Gregor. She also called her assistant Sam to check on the restaurant's affairs. He assured her that everything was fine and there was nothing to worry about. Megan breathed a sigh of relief, it's good to have someone reliable to count on.

* * *

When she came down for dinner, Glenn was already busily helping the cook set the table.

“Hi, Megan! Warren said you had a tough day today.”

“Yes, it wasn't the easiest. I'm so sorry I didn't make it here earlier while Grandpa was still alive. Things would have been entirely different.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself. It's all God's will. It must have been predestined for you to come to us when you did. Finella has prepared stewed lamb with mashed potatoes for dinner tonight. I hope you'll like it. This dish is very popular in the north. Sorry, we didn't ask in advance what kind of meat you prefer.”

“I'm not picky about food. I'll be very happy to try the local cuisine. Glenn, I've been meaning to ask, who takes care of the castle and its surroundings?”

“Finella is responsible for preparing lunches and dinners, and she also keeps the dining room clean. Everyone cleans their own room. About once a month, a cleaning company comes to mop the floors, clean the walls and carpets; basically, do a deep clean of the whole house. When needed, we call the gardener, who has been trimming our lawns and bushes for many years. Malcolm used to take care of everything. Now it's our responsibility.”

Over dinner, they discussed production matters, and Warren explained his management duties. Megan replied that his responsibilities would now increase and so would his earnings accordingly.

Towards the end of the meal, Glenn turned to the cousin of her husband, “Warren mentioned you're interested in the traditions and legends of our area. We'd be delighted to share everything we know about it with you.”

“And I'll be delighted to hear it!”

“Then we can move to the living room, and over a glass of whisky, begin our stories, which you've been anticipating like little girls. Oh, ladies, how you love fairy tales!” Warren said with a playful smile.

Megan took a seat on the sofa. The couple settled into armchairs by the fireplace, where logs softly crackled, adding warmth to the large room.

“There are no ghosts in the castle, right?” Megan asked cautiously.

Warren laughed and replied, “I've never encountered any, and Malcolm never mentioned any to me. So, I can assure you, there have been no ghosts here for at least the last seventy years. And you, I see, are quite the scaredy-cat. Afraid of everything.”

“Well, not everything, just inexplicable things: the darkness, and the dead.”

“You should be afraid of the living, not the dead! Inexplicable things are always explainable, depending on how you look at it. The dead, they’re sleeping peacefully and not making any trouble. Why do you have this fear? Did something happen in the past?”

“No, thank God! And hopefully, it never will. Perhaps, as a child, my friends and I told each other too many horror stories, and I was impressionable. Or, for example, that one movie about Freddy Krueger was enough. Left me scarred for life,” Megan said, laughing.

“So, maybe we shouldn't talk about legends today? They're all related to something, as you say, inexplicable.”

“No, no, Warren, it's different! This is about the history and traditions of your land. I really want to learn about them to understand what the local people believe in and how they live.”

Glenn spoke enthusiastically, “Scots, like many people closely connected with nature, are superstitious. They place great importance on omens, legends, and myths. We celebrate the start and end of the harvest, as well as honoring various saints. Many of the festivals and traditions in northern Scotland are inherited from the Celts. The nearest local one, as Warren already told you, is in four days. On Fern Night, witches' powers are enhanced so, – the most potent magic is performed, and it's the only night it can be undone. It's the most magical and mystical festival we have. And the next one after that is on the first of August. People wear masquerade costumes for it.”

“So, on that day, Scots are willing to forsake their beloved traditional attire? By the way, I’ve noticed that in daily life everyone wears it around here; even the men working at the distillery today were all wearing kilts.”

“Our traditions have been in our blood for a very long time,” began Warren. “Back in the early medieval era, the highlanders wrapped themselves in dense woolen cloth that protected them from the winds and cold of this region. They would wrap a large plaid around their waist and throw the remaining part over the shoulder and secure it. It was not only convenient and warm for walking but also for sleeping. This was especially appreciated by warriors who had to spend nights under the open sky. During battles, if the costume got in the way, they could easily throw it off with one hand and rush into battle in their birthday suits.”

“Are you joking?” laughed Megan.

“I'm not joking, it's true! Often in those times, highlanders fought naked because it was inconvenient to fight in clothes,” Warren said enthusiastically.

“What a sight! I can just imagine.”

“Over time, the costume evolved, and the kilt became a separate piece. It's still wrapped around the waist, fastened with buckles on the side, and a kilt pin at the bottom,” continued the cousin.

Glenn spoke again, “I'm really glad that Scots have preserved their love for the traditional costume and wear it in everyday life. It's truly beautiful. Don't you think so, Megan?”

“I completely agree. I really like it. By the way, I've already seen a man in a kilt playing the bagpipes near the castle in the evening, twice. Is he one of the neighbors?”

Warren raised an eyebrow, “Hmm, possibly. I also heard the melody yesterday. The bagpipe is the main Scottish musical instrument. You can often hear it, but mainly during celebrations or in local pubs. Playing it on the streets, just like that, without any special occasion, is rare.”

“At the festival, there will be plenty of bagpipes, and you can fully enjoy the magical music. By the way, legends say that the bagpipes were gifted to the Scots by forest fairies,” Glenn replied.

At that moment, Megan was thinking about whether the stranger from the hill would be there. But aloud, she said, “Forest fairies… What other magical creatures are found in these parts?”

“Many people with special abilities have always lived here. For example, old lady Innes, who knows a lot and can see into the future. People from all over the area come to her when traditional medicine doesn't help. Her house stands right next to the forest, like a witch's dwelling. She gathers various herbs for her potions and heals many with infusions and spells. Now, there are almost no people like Innes left, but in the past, the north was full of them. Legends say that the highlanders won many battles thanks to the power of charms and spells.”

“They say that in our family, at the end of the nineteenth century, we had a gifted great-great-grandmother, or perhaps some other ancestor. Her name was Margaret McKenzie. She could talk to animals and read their thoughts. She gathered herbs and healed an entire area of diseases. She helped people but only communicated with those in need. She always preferred the company of animals, explaining that they were kinder and more sincere than humans. She was engaged to a lord from a neighboring castle. However, he went missing, and she died of grief, unable to overcome his disappearance. Such a sad story,” said Warren.

“Indeed, very sad,” Megan replied.

“The castle passed into our possession after the disappearance of Lord Drummond, as he left no heirs and had no relatives. That's Castle Raven, where my grandfather and brother now live. By the way, you remember that we are going there for dinner tomorrow?”

“Yes, I remember. I’m really looking forward to seeing that castle!”

“It's truly extraordinary and looks completely different inside compared to Castle Mal. I think it will make a big impression on you,” said Glenn enthusiastically.

“I have no doubt about that. Tell me, Warren, where did Margaret get such a gift? Maybe she picked a fern flower?”

“According to legend, the founder of the clan was Aidan McKenzie. He married a local witch who bewitched him with some kind of love potion. They married despite her having no family or name. From her, along the maternal line, Margaret and a few other females in our clan inherited the gift. However, unlike others who had the ability of clairvoyance, Margaret could only communicate with animals and heal.”

“I definitely don't have any gift, which I'm quite happy about,” Megan said, laughing.

“Well, that's good. It's probably hard to live with such a thing. To be honest, I don't believe in it. In my opinion, it’s just fiction to give a mystical aura to the clan's history and elevate its importance. Maybe Margaret did brew concoctions that actually helped people, but all that can be explained medically. Back then, there weren't many medicines, and she was known as a good doctor and pharmacist, choosing the right herbs for treatment.”

“And what about her communication with animals?” asked Glenn to her husband.

“Maybe she fed and trained them… set up a zoo next to the castle. And as for reading thoughts, someone probably embellished that part, and thus a legend was born. Most likely, she was just a regular woman with a talent in medicine and a love for animals.”

“And what about the other women in the clan? They had the gift of clairvoyance!” insisted Glenn.

“Perhaps there was only one such person in the clan – Mary. After all, clairvoyants exist all over the world, even today. We only know of Mary McKenzie, who truly had the gift. She lived in the castle from 1632 to 1679. It's said there were others, but no specific names can be given. Mary could see the future and could tell everyone what was, had been, and would be. So, I believe if anyone in our family ever had a magical gift, it was Mary.”

Megan, who had been listening to the couple with interest, asked, “And what do your grandfather and brother think, Warren? Do they agree with your opinion?”

“Yes, they also support this version.”

Glenn seemed a bit disappointed, “You can think what you like, but I believe in all of it. Megan, will you join us for the fern flower festival?”

“Definitely, I'm eagerly looking forward to the day. But I really hope we won't go searching for the fern flower at midnight. Those are the kinds of things I'm afraid of, even though I don't believe in them, you never know… what if…” the girl answered, laughing.

“Don’t worry; we won't be going after the flower. We'll just be enjoying the atmosphere and having fun.”

“Great! Warren, Glenn, thank you for taking the time to share all these stories with me; I truly found them very fascinating. To be honest, I didn’t expect such warmth and hospitality. My sincerest thanks to you both.”

“Come on, Megan! It was our pleasure. As I said earlier today, I hope with time you’ll see that we truly are your family and that you can count on us,” Warren replied, and Glenn added, “I’m also very glad you’re here. Being the only woman among three men, I’ve been missing having a female friend around. I really hope to find one in you.”

“Thank you, Glenn. I think we’ve already become friends. Overall, I’m very grateful that you both agreed to stay with me for a while. I can’t imagine what it would have been like for me alone in such a huge castle.”

Megan set aside her empty whiskey glass, wished everyone a good night, and went to her room. In her bedroom, she listened for any sounds, but all was quiet. She approached the window to see if the mysterious man in the kilt was on the hill. It was empty. With a peaceful heart, Megan took a shower and went to bed. Tonight, she was not troubled by irrational thoughts.

7. Sufferings

Despite Megan going to bed without any worries, her night was tormented by nightmares. Margaret, whom Warren had spoken about the day before, sat in a chair by the window in Megan's room, half-turned with her legs pulled up to her chest, crying, and occasionally pressing a handkerchief to her face. She wore a mourning dress, and her black thick hair was spread over her shoulders. The girl's face was in the shadow of the dimmed light.

Then Megan dreamt of the crypt. She was running through its corridors, hearing behind her, “You can't escape from the past.” This cry echoed from the tomb where Margaret's remains lay. And at the exit from the crypt, Mary, whom her cousin also mentioned, opened the door for her. She appeared to be about fifty years old and must have been a beautiful woman once. Mary said, “Go, it's still possible to change everything.” On a large stone by the chapel sat a black raven, watching Megan. And at the castle's door stood her grandfather Malcolm, who told her, “Thank you for coming, I'm very glad. Now I know you need to be here. It had to happen; the time has come. Mary is right; everything can still be changed. Go forward through life without fear, no matter what and in spite of everything. I will protect you, my girl.”

At these words, Megan woke up. It was six-thirty in the morning. Good thing it's light, she thought, or I would have gone mad with fear after such a dream. Regaining her composure, she noted that the window was closed, and everything was in its place.

Leaving her room, Megan attempted to recall where her grandfather's office was located. She stopped in front of one of the doors, feeling that Gregor had pointed her here. Upon entering, she realized it was Malcolm’s bedroom. Her heart clenched with sorrow. She caressed the pillow on the bed.