Synopsis "storms of the scottish isles (in English)"
Dark tales of creatures and beings on the remote islands of the North Atlantic. There is an archipelago where Chance has provided an eclectic combination of scenery, objects, peoples and mythology. Mountains rise high directly from the sea. Huge cliffs, navigable caves, sea-carved monoliths, skerries, and over five hundred islands dot the ocean. Ancient tombs, brochs, duns, large standing stones and circles, cairns, and Stone Age settlements too numerous to count cover these islands like salt on pretzels. Black houses, castles, churches and cathedrals, mills, crofts and distilleries give evidence of clans, communities and crafts of more recent times. Water kelpies, nuggles, sheen, fisher-folk, selkies, and trows join the usual collection of faerie folk in island mythology. Scots' English, Gaelic and Old Norse are all still living languages, and each inhabited island has its own community, history and identity. Sun, wind, storm, warm and cold, mist and clear can all occur within one day, and each resonates with the landscape. Hundreds of these isles stretch from the Sea of the Hebrides, through the North Sea and into the Norwegian Sea, some of the most violent waters in the world. These are remote lands, sparsely inhabited, somewhat difficult to traverse, often wet and boggy with few trees and surrounded by open sea. All of these things impact the imagination, but asked to pick one, I would pick the storms. Think of the roar of the unimpeded wind, the driving rain flooding the one lane roadways, the clouds enshrouding the peaks, the lightning flashing around the ancient monuments, the waves smashing on the cliffs and the people in oil skins and boots who must tend the sheep or fish the sea, struggling against the blow. From "The Lady in the Peat" "Rain pours into the coffin, matting the dress, the hair and the noose against the body. Mud washes over the brink of the hole into the grave, and dirty runoff forms rivulets like those of a volcanic eruption. A slurry of mud pours from the peat pile into the pressing crowd. Lightning illuminates the scene as if a flash camera is snapping shots for the morning news. Thunder roars to a crescendo drumming out all conversation. The crowd closes in to get a better view of the monstrosity, ... only to be repelled in terror as the corpse suddenly sits bolt upright, eyes wide open and screams over the howl of the wind and the crack of the lightning, 'Why d'ya na leave me alone!'"
