Nora stopped chewing; those last words stung, and she had to bite back a retort. They were finally having a normal conversation, and she didn’t want to rile things up even though his comment had been more than a little rude. She swallowed her bite along with her pride and said nothing.
He must have known that he had struck a chord because he quickly came back with, “I’ve never been to the US. What state are you from?”
“Vermont,” Nora said, finishing off her slice and reaching across the island to grab another piece. “You said you are a journalist on assignment. What are you writing about?” she asked, changing the subject and bringing the conversation back around to him.
“Yeah, I am writing an article about the top ten Outlander travel destinations,” he said in a disgusted tone of voice.
“Oh, is that so?” Nora said, trying to stifle a giggle as she thought back to his comment on the bus about her being on some Outlander tour. “Is that why you are so jaded toward all the sassenachs out there?”
“Well, you’re not wrong on that account,” he said. A slight laugh escaped his lips as he chewed a bit of crust.
“IsTartan and Thistlea travel magazine?”
“No, this is a special article I got stuck with for the Christmas edition. That bloody show has destroyed the Highlands in my opinion. You can’t even grab a bite to eat without some American tourist asking you if you’re related to any Frasers.”
“Oh, come on. I’m sure tourism helps these little towns.”
“Tourism may boost these towns, but Airbnb and sublets drive up prices so much that locals can’t afford to stay. It’s pushing them out of their own bloody villages,” he said, his tone tingedwith frustration.
Nora swallowed hard but chose to say nothing. The subject was obviously a sore spot with him. He grabbed another slice and headed over to the sofa.
Nora spun around on her stool to face him as he sat down and kicked his feet up onto the coffee table. Something about the way he lounged there, feet on the table, one hand resting behind his head, filled the room with the same arrogant demeanor he had sported when they first met. She had definitely struck a chord.
“Why do you really hate Americans so much?” Nora asked, finishing the last of her slice and walking over to one of the chairs that faced the sofa.
His eyes dimmed as he looked at her. He reached over and grabbed a book resting on the table next to his feet.
“Have a look at this,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. He seemed as good at diverting questions as she was. He pulled his feet off the table and stood, handing the book to her.
Nora ran her hand over the old cloth-covered hardback. There was no title on the cover, but the spine announced that it was a compilation of Highland folklore tales,The Legends of Highland Lore. Upon opening it, the smell of old paper and mold greeted her, and she carefully turned its frail pages. The book was quite old, published in eighteen twenty-five by a printer in Edinburgh. Nora carefully skimmed through the pages, finding beautiful block prints at the start of each new story.
“That is a first edition and quite a rare find. Worth thousands,” Alistair said as he watched her carefully fan through its pages.
“How do you know that?” she questioned him.
“My grandfather was a rare book dealer,” he snapped back, as if she had offended him by merely questioning him.
“It’s very beautiful.”
“Like I said before, don’t you think it odd that they would have all of these rare old books in a holiday property?”
“It is odd,” Nora said absently, still preoccupied with the beauty of the book. She stopped on a page three-quarters of the way through and paused. At the start of a new story, there was a block print of an old woman, with one light-colored eye and one dark, with a small scar above her left eye. She bore a striking resemblance to the old woman from the bookstore. The chapter was titled “The Cailleach.”
Suddenly the same surge of energy she had been experiencing since arriving in Scotland came rushing back, racing out from her core to the tips of her fingers and the bottoms of her feet. She felt her face flush, and her heartbeat rattled so rapidly in her chest she thought it might explode within her.
“Are you alright?” Alistair asked, his brow furrowed as he looked at her.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. I think I’ll head back up to bed. Do you mind if I take this with me?” she asked, holding out the book.
“Go for it. I have my own stack,” he said, pointing at a small pile of books resting on the edge of the coffee table.
“Thanks for cooking that pizza,” she said as she walked up the stairs.
“Goodnight, Nora,” she heard him say as she stepped out of sight. Her name on his lips sent a shiver through her, a sensation that she loved and hated at the same time. It was just like her to be getting butterflies from some guy who was a complete jerk. Why was it that women tended to like the bad boys, the ones with attitude and angst, she wondered. Just then Sam sprung to the forefront of her mind. She had thought he was one of the nice guys, not some bad boy with attitude, but it turned out he was just as bad, if not worse. At least with a bad boy you knew what yousigned up for. Taking a deep breath, she pushed any lingering thoughts about him out of her mind and crawled back into bed. She flipped back to “The Cailleach” and began reading.
Deep in the Highlands of Scotland, there exists a mythical figure known as the Cailleach. She is an ancient deity deeply woven into the fabric of Celtic folklore. Legend has it that she sculpted the landscape, dropping immense boulders from her apron pockets to create mountains, while her staff carved valleys as she traveled the land.
Referred to as the winter hag or queen of witches, she is often portrayed as an elderly woman with one eye reflecting the color of the sky and the other mirroring the hue of the earth. Her dominion extends over the winter season, reigning from Samhain to Beltane. As winter unfolds, the Cailleach’s powers intensify, veiling the land in frost until the spring arrives, marking the moment when she engages in a symbolic battle with her sister, Bride—the goddess of spring—and succumbs to the forces of renewal.
