The cold, dense air began to shift, and the snow continued falling softly from the thick, overcast sky. Nora pulled her hatdown over her ears and approached the monument. It had a large stone base and high above, on one pillar, sat a unicorn. St. Giles’ Cathedral towered over it on its left with its grand architecture. The street and the buildings almost seemed to meld together with their matching rich gray stones.
Nora spotted an older woman standing on the right side of the statue, holding a small sign that said Beckon Rock Tours. Excitement bubbled in her chest at the sight. This tour was a chance for her to get to know the city where her grandmother had lived back in 1943. A chance to immerse herself in its history, to uncover its stories that lingered in its Gothic alleyways and corners, and to forge a connection with her grandmother’s past.
“Hello, I’m Nora Cameron. I am part of your twelve o’clock tour,” she told the old woman as she walked up to her.
The woman looked to be about her parents’ age, with her silver-white hair peeking out from under a knit cap.
“Yes, Ms. Cameron. My name is Mairi. We are just waiting for a few others that will be joining us,” she said, her accent gracefully flowing from her as she pulled out a folded guide map from her pocket and handed it to Nora.
“Try and stick with the group, but if you wander off, this should help get you back on track.”
“Thank you,” Nora said as she took the map and tucked it into her jacket pocket.
Slowly people began to gather for the tour: a handful of Japanese tourists with large cameras around their necks, a Swiss couple with maps at the ready, and an American family of four—mother, father, and two sons. Once everyone had arrived, Mairi took charge, leading them up the Royal Mile. The first and most obvious landmark she highlighted was the cathedral and monument where they had met. Nora gazed at the massive windowsadorned with beautiful stained glass and the ornate spires that lined the edges of the roof and steeple. Pulling out her phone, she zoomed in, attempting to capture the beauty of the cathedral’s windows along with the sharp and powerful lines of its structure.
Opposite the cathedral stood the Dugald Stewart Building; its modern architecture and boxy shape sat in stark contrast to the centuries-old buildings surrounding it. It reminded Nora of the buildings in Boston. Finding it less than interesting, she turned away, deciding not to take a photo. Instead, she walked over to Mairi who was trying to gather the group’s attention so that they could continue on.
Just a few steps up the cobbled street, Mairi stopped, pointing down rather than up toward the towering medieval buildings.
“Here we have the iconic Heart of Midlothian. It marks the spot of the Old Tolbooth, a building used for many things over the years, the city prison being the most noted. In 1736, a mob stormed the Tolbooth to rescue a group of prisoners who were scheduled to be executed for their involvement in the Porteous Riots. The building was demolished in 1817, and the memorial was built in its place in 1886,” she told the group as they all looked down at the different colored granite bricks set into the cobblestone in the shape of a heart, with a circle in its center.
Nora had just snapped a photo with her phone when all of a sudden Mairi opened her mouth and spat on the heart. The group looked up at her, eyes wide and full of shock.
“For luck,” she chuckled, then waved her hand down at it, as if saying,Your turn. “As an act of defiance against the horrible things that happened on this very site, to ward off the evil and bring in the luck,” she told them, giving a nod of her head.
The first to spit on the heart were the two teenage boys, along with the rest of their family. Then the Japanese tourists and theSwiss couple, leaving Nora last. It felt weird to spit on something out in public around so many people, but Mairi didn’t seem to want to move on with the tour until everyone had their go. Nora looked down and spit, aiming directly at the center of the heart’s circle. Mairi nodded in approval and continued on.
“Well, that was kinda weird,” the mother of the American family said to Nora as they fell in step next to one another. “My name’s Lesley, by the way.”
“Nora, nice to meet you. That definitely wouldn’t fly back at home,” Nora said, and the woman chuckled and nodded her head in agreement.
They walked next to each other until the group slowed and came to a stop in front of a building reminiscent of a small castle. It housed a large turret on one end, complete with a balcony that looked straight out of a princess movie. The rest of the building broke away into sharp angles, giving its sturdy stone facade and its large chimneys a rather masculine feel.
“This here is the Writers’ Museum. It’s dedicated to celebrating the lives and works of three of Scotland’s most famous literary figures: Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns, and Robert Louis Stevenson. I suggest you have a look inside before you leave the city. It’s something not to be missed,” she said, waving her gloved hand at the elegant yet hard-edged building. The group marveled at the exquisite specimen as they all snapped photos and craned their heads up toward its spire that rested on the top of the corbelled corner.
Once everyone had their fill of the museum, they moved on, up the street, edging closer to Edinburgh Castle atop Castle Rock.
“Are any of you believers in the supernatural? Well, Edinburgh has a haunting history with witches. Back in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the city was a center for witch hunts,and many unfortunate individuals faced persecution here. One eerie reminder of this time is the Witches’ Well, located near the base of Edinburgh Castle,” she said, pointing up the hill toward the grand castle emerging from the rocks. Its large bordering walls perched below the sturdy gray fortress seemed to be made of the very rock it sat upon. It was regal and daunting, commanding attention as it stood sentinel over the city, a stone guardian overlooking the people of Edinburgh.
“It’s a memorial dedicated to the hundreds of women and men who were executed during the trials. There are bound to be some spirits wandering these streets from Edinburgh’s marked past, don’t you think?”
Nora shuddered at the thought of the lives lost in the hysteria, their blood once staining the very ground she walked upon. The grim thought cast a dark shadow over her mind. She tucked her hands inside her pockets, feeling suddenly exposed in the chilly air. As she glanced up the hill toward the well one last time, a sudden gust of frigid wind whipped down the street, blowing past her with such fury it stung her cheeks and tangled her hair.
“See,” Mairi said, lifting her hands into the air as the wind blew past the group and smiling as if her point had just been made. She moved forward and guided them up the street and then stopped in front of a large stark-gray building.
“This here is the National Library of Scotland. It was built—”
Suddenly a loud thunderous noise cut Mairi off and stopped everyone in their tracks. Surprised, the group looked around in a panic for the source of the sound.
“Oh, nothing to worry about. It’s only the One o’Clock Gun. Every day since 1861, except Sundays, a gun is fired from the castle at exactly one p.m. It was used to help ships synchronize their clocks. Now it’s more of a tradition. You get used to it after atime, but it does tend to scare the tourists the first time they hear it,” she chuckled.
Everyone let out a small laugh of relief. After all the talk of witches and ghosts that wander the old Gothic streets, the group was a bit on edge. As they began walking up the sloping street, Nora caught sight of a building she recognized. She stopped, pulled out her cell phone, and opened up the picture she had taken of her grandmother’s photo. Looking back up, she saw the very place her grandmother had stood back in 1943. The building to the left matched the one in the photo, and looming above it in the background was the castle.
All of a sudden that feeling came rushing back over Nora, and her body hummed with electricity. This was her chance to recreate the image. She remembered seeing a small wine and spirits store a few shops back where she could get a bottle of wine for the photo. She looked ahead at the group walking up the street, then looked back over her shoulder toward the shop. Her rational and organized mind did something she normally wouldn’t do. She broke away from her schedule and threw caution to the wind.
“I’ll catch back up,” she muttered to herself as she darted off in the opposite direction.
Chapter Nine
