Page 2 of Laird of Secrets
There in the pale light, Dougal saw a blue haze. Thousands of bluebells were scattered along the ground in a dense carpet beneath the birch trees, delicate bells drooping gracefully on slender stalks. As he and his father walked through, dewdrops shed on his legs and kilt hem. He had seen wildflowers in profusion, but never like this.
John MacGregor took a small silver flask from inside the folds of his plaid. Handing it to Dougal, he withdrew two more flasks. “Here, at dawn, we collect the fairy dew, and we thank the fairies for the blessing. The dew and our gratitude give the whisky its special magic. We will fill the three flasks and add it to the brew later. It will pour out as if the bottles are bottomless, though it will suddenly disappear when it is time to make it again.”
Dougal looked around dubiously. “Collect dew from wee bluebells? That is impossible. Besides, it is a task girls would like,” he added with disdain.
John laughed. “Not from the flower petals, lad. Follow me.” He waded through the bluebells toward a few birch trees, pushing aside flower stalks with his boot to expose a natural well in the ground. “No one knows this place is here. The fairies guard it.”
The opening in the earth was only as wide as an ordinary kettle, its edge obscured by stones, flowers, and grass. Dougal peered down to see a dark reflection of water. Natural springs were common enough. He frowned, doubtful.
His father circled the well three times, murmuring in Gaelic. Then he looked at Dougal. “Walk thrice round the well, ask politely for your dearest wish, and thank the fairies. They will grant your wish to you.”
“Did all your wishes come true, Da?”
“I wed my dearest love,” John murmured. “I have a fine son.”
“What did you wish for today?”
John smiled. “Your turn.”
Carefully, Dougal traced careful steps around the well. I wish to be a brave smuggler like my father, he thought.
“Now this. Pay attention, lad.” John lifted his arms. “MacGregor of Kinloch is here,” he said to the trees, the air. “I ask your help in collecting the magical gift promised me and mine long ago. This is my son, who will one day be the keeper of this well in his turn.”
Hearing the sound of rushing water, Dougal glanced down to see bubbles churning in the well. A spout shot upward, the water dancing with rainbows. In the mist rising from the well, small lights soared up, circling around him. He stared in awe and delight, feeling delicious chills run all through him so that his hair and skin tickled.
“The lights!” He looked up as they flew in circles around him and his father, flitting and swirling around them like delicate motes of sunlight. But dawn had hardly bloomed yet.
“The Fey are showing us they are here. I am glad to know you can see them.”
“I have seen lights like those before. But I thought it was a trick of sunlight.”
“Sometimes it is only that, so we must look carefully to know it is the Fey.” John dropped to one knee and began to fill his flask at the waterspout. Kneeling, Dougal did the same, tipping the second flask to allow the water to leap inside. When all three flasks were full, the bubbling spout subsided, and the tiny rainbow lights faded too.
John stood. Dougal rose too, as the carpet of flowers closed to cover the well.
“There,” John said quietly. “Now you know the secret shared with our ancestor long ago. This is the source of the fairy water that we use to make uisge beatha an Ceann Loch an síthean, Kinloch fairy whisky. No one knows it is here.”
Dougal nodded. He felt reverent, almost like being in the kirk on Sundays. “Where are the fairies? I thought we might see them.”
“They are here. The lights told us that. If they wanted us to see them, they would have appeared. Now listen, and remember. Circle the well three times, make your wish, then ask the Fey to bring up the water. Fill three silver flasks. And always leave a token of thanks.” John plucked a silver button from his jacket and set it beside the little spring. Dougal noticed, scattered amid the profusion of bluebells, buttons, coins, ribbons, and stones. Some looked very old indeed.
The buttons on his jacket were wooden and not very special. Dougal reached into his pocket for the small cairngorm he had found on the slope and left it beside his father’s silver button. John nodded approval.
They left the glade, walking down the steep hillside as the sun rose higher. Soon the mist burned away to reveal the long green glen with its meadow floor and a sparkling river like a silver ribbon. Cozy stone houses lay snug against the sides of the glen, and sheep wandered the meadows and slopes.
“What did you wish for, Da?” Dougal asked as they neared home. Kinloch House, the old stone tower where he lived with his father, his aunt, uncles, and younger sister Ellen, thrust up from a low bank of fog. The stone was crumbling in places, ivy softening the broken edges. Three hundred years old, the place always needed repairs, and Dougal often helped his father and uncles fix and shore up. Though it was old and shabby, he loved all its familiar, quirky flaws.
“My wish?” John MacGregor shrugged. “I asked that my son be Kinloch’s finest and best laird someday so that he could save our glen from any harm to come.”
“Will harm come? This is a peaceful place.”
“The world beyond is not always peaceful, even if our glen is so.”
“But Da, you are the finest and best laird the glen has ever known.”
“I wish it were so, lad, I do. What was your wish?”
“To be like you,” Dougal said.
