Two Kinds Of Truth(46)

We’re making our way down a hill when we pass a sign that points the way to the memorial stone, and not long after, we enter a small area of woodland. Soft green moss lies like a rich velvet carpet along the ground, dissolving the dead branches and rotting foliage that have long since fallen, all becoming lost forever beneath its dense soft mass.

I stop and listen, hearing the most magnificent bird songs.

“What are they?” I ask Jamie. “I’ve truly never heard anything quite so beautiful.”

“Ye can hear a mixture of blue, grey and coal tits,” he explains. “They all stay together throughout the winter months. It’s safer that way.”

“They sound so sweet, cheerful even.”

“Aye, that’ll be because they’ve plenty to eat for now.”

I stare up at the sky through the thin canopy, hoping to catch a glimpse of the birds, but I’m blinded by the dappled light, by the shafts of winter sun that slant down into the exposed gaps between the trunks of the trees. I’m half-expecting a grey wolf to emerge out of the shadows.

“Nae time to dawdle or we’ll ne’er get there,” Jamie says and sets off at a quick pace, surefooted as ever. I hurry after him. We’ve decided to walk down to the brae so we can both enjoy a wee dram or two. We’ve also agreed to meet Rhona and Gordon there. Before long, we climb over a small wooden stile and out into open fields, my excitement rising a notch when I hear loud music and the boom of drums. I start to dance around Jamie in a circle, much to his amusement.

He smiles then laughs. “Och, look at ye; I’ve ne’er seen ye act daft before.”

I let out a peel of laughter, hitch up the hem of my skirt, and twirl around him like an overgrown ballerina. His smile broadens, and he grabs my hand so I can do a complete pirouette.

“I’m letting my inner child out,” I say and jump in a puddle to prove it. Mud splashes across the front of my dress, and for a second, I’m fearful it’s landed on Claire’s cloak.

“Oh, Jamie, I’m so sorry—” but he waves a dismissive hand.

“Och, don’t mather. ’Tis only dirt, lass. It’ll disappear soon enough when it’s dry.”

I lift my skirt a little higher to check the mud hasn’t splashed across my legs.

“Wow, steady on. I have to say: ye really know how to drive a man insane with desire,” Jamie chuckles, pointing to my thermal leggings.

I laugh loudly and quickly lower my skirt.

We keep to the edge of the field and follow a drystone wall. I spot other people in the distance, ambling in the same direction, surprised by the number of tents that have sprung up overnight. There’s hundreds dotted across the horizon, stretching as far as the eye can see. There’s an array of young people and children milling around them, and I can hear distant laughter.

When we finally enter the festival, it’s almost two o’clock in the afternoon and the festivities are in full swing.

“Fancy a beer?” Jamie asks, and I nod. We head inside a small tent that’s heaving with revellers, and I stand and wait as Jamie goes off to the bar. The atmosphere is warm and friendly, he soon comes back with two plastic glasses.

“Where do ye wannae go first?” he asks.

I shrug. “I have no idea. Shall we walk around? See what’s on offer?”

“Sounds guid to me,” Jamie says, and we head out of the tent and into the heart of the festival. There are people everywhere. Some are dressed in outfits that must have cost a small fortune, dripping in sequins and heavy with countless folds of material, whilst other, more vivacious women, wear flowery skirts, tie-dye blouses, and bright coloured scarves around their necks. What I also notice are the Disney fans, those dressed in bright yellow ballgowns and who look to have stepped off the set of Beauty and the Beast.

A man walks by wearing a horned mask with a sharp pointed beak. He reminds me of a cockerel. Plumes of red and black feathers sprout from his head and I sense a dark side to his presence. I look down at my own clothes, at an outfit that could be classed as medieval, as I’ve certainly gone more for the Maid Marion style. I consider the beauty of paganism is to dress simply as oneself, to show who one truly is.

The festival is chilled and oozes with tranquillity. There’s a small band of people sitting in a circle with a guitar, singing joyful pagan songs. I don’t know the words, but I stop to listen and clap along with the beat, trying not to spill my beer.

Jamie taps me on the shoulder and then points into the crowd. It takes me a second or two to make out the figures heading towards us. I soon realise it’s Gordon and Rhona. She spots me and waves, I laugh out loud. She’s dressed like a fairy, has lavender and heather in her hair and is adorned with a set of pink nylon wings. The flowers look pretty, and as she comes closer, I smell fresh Rosemary. I grin when I see what Gordon’s wearing. He’s dressed in a long brown robe, which isn’t the least bit flattering. It fits like a sack, as though he’s just cut out the arm holes and pushed his head through a gap in the seam. As he, too, draws nearer, I notice he has a henna tattoo of a pentangle on his left cheek. He reminds me more of a clansman, what with his rugged good looks and thick ginger beard, one better suited to a battlefield re-enactment against the English than trying to look the part of a pagan.

“Ye look amazing,” Rhona cries as she gives me a hug, and Jamie shakes Gordon’s hand.