My head falls into a dreamlike state as dark tresses of hair fan across the pillowcase. A lucid feeling sweeps over me as I feel soft puffs of breath leave my nose in a calm rhythmic beat.
I’m back at the beach, feet imprinted on the glistening sand below. A creature comes into view, nickering gently at me from the shoreline. It’s the horse from before! With nothing to break my trance-like state, I float towards this astoundingly beautiful animal. Soft ocre eyes gaze at me with intrigue, not startled in the slightest by the presence of a stranger. The horse nickers at me once, then again before looking expectantly at me. A small glint appears by the horse’s ear, so tiny that I almost miss it. The glint comes into focus. Two sparkling wings flutter gently in the night wind, a tiny head with flaxen hair is turned in my direction and violet button eyes peer at me decidedly. A small girl hoists herself upwards using silky black mane as a rope before dusting off a lilac dress that looked as if she’d crudely sewn several fallen flower petals together. She props herself against the horse’s ear before turning it forward like a lever.
“Ah, thank you, Thistle. I’m afraid she was never going to understand me otherwise,” the horse says in perfect English, not skipping a beat. Her tone reflects the soft timbre of the Highlanders. The faerie pats the horse’s ear before plopping down atop her head as if it was an old couch.
“No problem, Kelpers. I’d be right impressed if she’d have been able to understand ye like that. Hey, are you awrite dearie?” Thistle asks, noting my grey complexion and shocked expression. “You look aw’ peely wally!”
Flashes of moments appear before my eyes. A crackling fireplace, fuzzy matching socks, and the warm embrace of my mother as she cradled me on a tattered vintage rug that her own mother had picked out at a farmer’s market in her teens. Myths and legends filled my head as Mum recounted stories from her own childhood. Stories of a colossal shapeshifting horse-like creature with sticky skin that would wrap round your hands if you dared to pet them and drag you to the depths below. Stories of mischievous wee girls with wings born from the fallen pollen of flowers who said all the forbidden words you weren’t allowed to say at the dinner table and led cats away from their homes. Those were my happiest moments, tucked amongst my Mum’s embrace thinking of nothing in the world but how soothing the sound of her voice was. Sometimes, if I shut my eyes tight enough, I can still hears wisps of it pass by my ears. My heart aches for her still, I don’t think it’ll ever stop. I know all of these myths from childhood, tales from days of an older Scotland that would serve as a warning to young children to keep away from a loch’s edge lest a kelpie come and drag them to their doom, or to be wary of handsome strangers that could be a seal that sheds its skin to come upon land and whisk a woman away to a life below the water. Come to think of it, a lot of these myths had to do with lochs. I thought they were just that, myths.
I choose to comfort myself with the notion that I’m in a dream and that is the only reason a horse creature and a faerie are currently nattering away to me as if they’re catching up on the town’s weekly gossip.
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“I heard she kissed that vet boy!” Thistle giggles, kicking her tiny legs out in joy. “It’s hard to forget your first love isn’t it?” She asks, blinking at me in amusement. Wings come to life as she whizzes up to me, a breadth away from my nose. Her features are soft, as if carved into malleable clay by a loving artist.
“How did you know about that?” I ask in return. Thistle giggles once more, the sound spilling out from her like a dying engine.
“Do ye hear that, Kelpers? She wanders into our world, lays one on a lad, and ponders as to how we know about it?” She says, gesturing to Kelpie standing in the corner. The horse tosses her head in annoyance before gracefully shifting into a human being right before my eyes. She is not dissimilar to her equine form, large ocre almond shaped eyes glare at Thistle whilst delicate, spindly fingers pinch her hair and shoo her away from me. She emanates an easy power, sharp ethereal features swivelling round to focus on me. Raven hair falls in waves, defined shoulders cutting through and jutting outwards. A silken charcoal dress hangs off her frame with ballet slippers that wrap round her calves like crawling vines. Thick, dark eyebrows loosen and her expression softens as she stares at me.
“This world is not your own, Eilidh. We thought it’d be better to talk to you here rather than scare you the next time you go for a swim at Camusdarach,” she says.
“Why can I see you now?” I mutter, barely blinking. My frame is stiff, I am frozen as I am.
Kelpie shushes an enthusiastic Thistle who rushes forward to speak, “not you, you’re terrible at explaining things,” she warns her. “Eilidh, we’ve always been here. You’ve just never looked hard enough.”
“We thought you’d notice us after your Mum died but…” Thistle pipes in, arms twisted behind her back. The fizz in her eyes is gone as she locks eyes with me, in its place a somber solemness. “You must’ve really wanted to open that door here the other night. Talk about going the extra mile for a romantic moment,” Thistle nudges Kelpie who looks irritated beyond belief.
“What she means to say,” Kelpie starts, flinging a glare at Thistle once again, “is that different emotions can trigger this world for different people. For you, it was a feeling of love, not loss, that let you in.”
“LOVE?” I squawk, “the last thing I feel for that eejit of a man is love. He had his fun and then, and then he…” I look at the startled creatures before trailing off suddenly feeling the coolness of the mist around me ticking my arms. “Well, anyways. What is it that you both want, then?”
“Straight to the point, I like her,” Thistle says, winking in my direction. “That’s for you to figure out. Who knows, you might be lucky and have the wisps help you out.”
“Like Brave?” I ask.
Kelpie scoffs, “I hardly think we should be compared to a movie. No, not like Brave, you ninny. You don’t want to see a wisp. Frankly, they’re very haunting and awfully fond of imitating loved ones. If you think faeries are mischievous, just wait till you meet those wee buggers.” A distant ring sounds out behind them and Thistle sighs.
“I guess that’s our time up, for now,” she says. “Be sure to come back to Camusdarach when you can, though I’m sure you don’t need too much encouragement.” Before I can respond, the two disappear and the fuzzy image of a grizzly bear hovers over me.
“Ah, AHHHH!” I screech.
“Did you want eggs or a muffin for breakfast?” Innis asks, looming over me with a frying pan in hand.