by Lisa Tuttle
He jumped up and, without looking back at either of us, pushed his way forward to the front of the queue. People gave way before him, not even annoyed by his presumption. He had the natural authority, the innate arrogance, of someone who deserved to be first.
I realized that the loss I felt was not for Amy, but for a younger, bolder self, someone not yet worn down by failure.
“What'd you go and do that for? What if he had gone home? We do need him.” Laura was staring at me, obviously annoyed.
“It's no good unless he loves her. And he had to know that. If we just needed somebody to bargain with Mider—hell, I could do that. But if Peri comes back with Hugh, it'll be for love.”
“How can you be so sure of that?”
I thought of all the stories in which visitors to Fairyland, dragged back into reality by well-meaning, interfering friends, had simply pined away and died, like the maidens abandoned by the ganconer. People needed something more than everyday life to live for, they needed some sort of magic to give it meaning, and love fitted the bill. But looking at Laura's tight, anxious face, I thought she might not understand. Hadn't her own life been dedicated to shutting out all possibility of magic, the supernatural and, probably, romantic love as well?
I shrugged and got to my feet. “This is a fairy tale, isn't it? Come on, we should be boarding.” I tried to give her my arm, but she wouldn't touch me.
In Glasgow, a rental car had been reserved in Hugh's name—he was paying for it. He and Laura both took it for granted that he would drive, and I should have had no quarrel with that: Years of living as a pedestrian meant I was out of practice, and the traffic on the roads around the airport was even worse than I remembered. But when I crawled into the tiny backseat to sit alone, the feeling of being not merely unnecessary but actively unwanted intensified. Laura had been cool to me throughout the flight, and Hugh was ignoring me.
The noise of the car made it difficult to follow any conversation in the front seat, and it became impossible once Hugh turned on the radio. Leaning forward all the time was uncomfortable, and as most of my contributions received no response, I gave it up to sink back in my seat and into my own thoughts.
We quickly bypassed Glasgow and left its suburbs for open country. As we traveled steadily west, my heart lifted at the sight of the green hills on the horizon. What is it about scenery? It sounds such a negligible thing, mere distant background, and in fact I, like most people, spend most of my life in rooms, or on streets lined with parked cars and buildings, scarcely ever lifting my eyes to anything more than a few feet above my own head. I'd never claim that I needed nature, or wilderness, or wide-open spaces in my life; certainly, in all the time I was in the city, I never felt “scenery” was something I lacked.
But at the first glimpse of wide green pastures dotted with grazing sheep, of sloping, dark green conifer forest behind an open stretch of water gleaming in the murky daylight, I felt something inside me relax and expand, and I wondered, with faint surprise, how I had managed to survive without it for so long.
When we reached the shores of Loch Lomond, Laura sighed, “Oh, God, it's so beautiful.”
Even on a dull day, beneath a low, grey sky, the water of the loch gleamed like a silver mirror, reflecting back the steep hillsides. In the narrowing distance down the water, mountains stretched away, the peaks rising until they disappeared into low cloud.
“Like the cover of some bloody fantasy novel,” said Hugh.
It was true, we were entering another world. Rocky slopes rose up on one side of the road, and the gleaming water of the loch stretched away on the other. The radio signal was by then very weak, the sound annoyingly patchy and scratchy. Finally, Hugh switched it off and the eerie silence of the mountains settled upon us.
As the road rose, twisted and turned, taking us farther into a haunted, unpeopled, mountainous region, my brain buzzed. This landscape affected me more powerfully than any art or music I'd ever encountered. It was real, it was natural, yet, like art, it worked on my emotions and my imagination as if it meant something more than itself.
We passed a ruined house—only the chimneypiece and a few low, stone walls remained standing—and the sight of that ruin, lonely in a little glen, shadowed by the dark hills, stirred feelings of loneliness and loss. I thought vaguely of the Highland Clearances—the long, sad history of people forced out of their houses and off their land, dispossessed. My own great-great grandparents might have been among them.
I gazed out the window at a shadowy woodland, full of hiding places; at rocks and trees and ancient stone walls; at a stream that became a waterfall and fell, like a long, silver chain, down the flank of a dark green hill, and I thought of Fred. Where had she gone? Did she find what she wanted? Was she happy? Would I ever understand?
We'd been traveling for almost two hours when Hugh and Laura decided to stop in the village of Lochgilphead. They wanted a meal, but I was feeling somewhat carsick after so much rolling around—Hugh was not a gentle or a timid driver—and, besides, I'd eaten the snack lunch served on the flight, so we went our separate ways, agreeing to meet back at the car park in an hour.
I felt better as soon as I stretched my legs and walked around in the open air. Lochgilphead was attractively set at the head of a loch, bordered by a long, narrow green common where people walked dogs and children played on swings and slides. The village itself looked rather drab and far from ancient, but it seemed quite a bit bigger than Aberfoyle and was alive with people and activity on a warm, dry afternoon.
Across from the parking lot I noticed a bookshop, sandwiched between a wineshop and a store selling large electrical appliances. I went in and made for the “local interest” section, where I found just what I'd been hoping for, a locally published guide to walks in Knapdale, including the history and folklore of the area. After I'd paid for it, I took it down to the waterfront and found a seat by the grey stone war memorial. At first it was just a rehash of things I already knew, information I'd picked up from the books and maps in my own library. The sites I'd noted from the Ordnance Survey maps were described: Dunvulaig, with its connections to the mythical Sidhe, and the Iron Age Dun a'Chaisteal associated with the tale of Deirdre of the Sorrows. And then I found something new:
The material for many of the beautifully carved stones and crosses of Argyll was taken from the ancient medieval quarries of Doide, on the shores of Loch Sween, the site of which lies just north of Doide Bay. Here the seaward cliffs have been riven and split by centuries of natural erosion into a fantastical array of massive rock-slices, pinnacles, and overhangs.
One of the strangest natural formations to be seen in this wonderfully fine-grained rock is the Cachaileith na Sith, or Fairy Door, a small square recess furnished with incredibly realistic side jambs and lintel, situated in a prominent outcrop of rock by the east side of the road above Doide Bay. This most unusual physical feature (not marked on the map) has for long enjoyed the uncanny reputation of being an entrance into the “other world” of the Daoine Sidhe, the sweet wild sound of fairy music having been heard issuing from it on various occasions by folk still living in the locality.
I felt a distinct shock of excitement when I read that, but whether that was intuition, or the more academic pleasure that comes with any discovery, I didn't know. I was wary of trusting my own intuition, anyway, always preferring to act on reason, so I was eager to hear what Hugh and Laura thought, and shared my find with them as soon as we met back at the car.
Laura frowned. “A rock formation that looks like a door? So?”
“Whether it's a rock or an ancient burial mound isn't the point,” I said. “It's the fact that there are stories told about it; tradition connects it with the Otherworld, that's the point.” I looked to Hugh for support, but he hadn't forgiven me for what I'd said at the airport.
“Where is it?” he asked coldly, giving no hint of his feelings.
“On the road to Loch Sween, before we get to the caravan site.”
“Hang on,” said Laura. “There's not much else between here and the caravan site. I saw a couple of hotels in this village—why don't we book rooms for the night as long as we're here?”
“Sounds like a good idea,” I said.
Hugh included us both in his stony look. “Not for me. You can do as you like, but I'm not stopping.” He unlocked the car.
“I'm not talking about stopping,” Laura said. “But we're going to need somewhere to stay tonight, and we'll have more choice if we don't leave it till the last minute.”
“I'm not on holiday. I didn't come here to sleep in a hotel while Peri's lost.”
“Look, we've got plenty of time,” I said, deliberately calm. “Midsummer's eve isn't—”
“What is it with you and midsummer's eve? There's nothing about a specific date in the story of Etain; it was just a matter of her husband finding Mider and forcing him to deal. It didn't even happen at night.” He wrenched the door open as he spoke and got in.
I quickly followed suit, guessing that it wouldn't take much for Hugh to drive off and leave me.
“Laura?” Hugh leaned across and opened the passenger door for her.
“She's my daughter,” she said quietly, not moving. “This isn't a holiday for me, either.”
He bowed his head. “I know. I'm sorry.”
She got in the car. “OK. I couldn't find her my way, so now it's up to you. Just tell me when there's something you want me to do.” She spoke looking out the window rather than at either one of us, and I guessed she meant to include us both.
We drove out of Lochgilphead on the road that ran beside the Crinan Canal, going north for a little while before jogging off to the west. This part of Scotland had once been the heart of the ancient kingdom of Dalriada, settled by the Irish who had brought their culture, their gods, and their tales of the Otherworld with them.
Soon we turned off the main road—which was narrow enough—onto a rough, single-track road that would take us the length of one of the many long, thin peninsulas that made up this part of the west coast. I noticed—and saw Laura's eyes register, too—a place offering “Farmhouse B&B” with a lower sign, swinging a little in the breeze off the sea, promising VACANCIES. Neither of us said anything. The plan we'd agreed on was to drive to the caravan site, looking out for the Fairy Door along the way, then park the car and go on foot to Dunvulaig, where we would camp all night if necessary.
After that farmhouse there was nothing, just empty hilly heathland to the left and the arm of the blue-grey sea that had been designated Loch Sween to the right. I had the map open on my lap; but as natural formations, even when given their own name and story, weren't marked on it, I didn't refer to it as I gazed out at the passing countryside.
Hugh gave a sudden cry, swerved the car, and stopped on the road.
“What's wrong?” Laura and I spoke together.
He twisted around in his seat to look at me, his eyes blazing. “Why didn't you warn me? Didn't you even see it? Some guide you are!”
“See what?”
“What?” Laura echoed.
Hugh put the car in reverse and whipped it backward into a passing place. “Are you blind?”
Maybe I was. I could see nothing special in the rough, rocky heath that rose up beside the narrow road.
“That's it—look, a door in the hill. Could it be more obvious?” He switched off the engine and, without waiting for further response, got out and walked a few yards down the empty road, then stopped.
I scrambled out after him, wondering if this was another evidence of his Second Sight. But when I reached him, I saw it, too: a huge, stone doorway set into the hillside. I couldn't imagine how I'd missed it until, as I shifted around trying to get a better look, I realized how the undergrowth and the rocks on the hillside combined to camouflage it. You had to approach from just the right angle to see the door in the hill, but when you did, the impression was incredibly powerful. As I stared up at it, even knowing it was an illusion, the hairs rose on the back of my neck.
It would have made a suitable entrance to a castle, or some great hall, yet there was no building attached; the doorway went into the hill. Clearly, it had been created long ago, and was no longer in regular use, because the flat surface of the pale grey stone that framed it was pocked and pitted, heavily patched with reddish brown and flaky grey lichens, overhung with weeds, sprouting dandelions, and long, tough grasses. Inside the rectangular recess created by lintel and jambs there was no door, but only more of the rocky hillside. Grass grew there along with green mosses and a few spiky bits of heather clinging grimly to the rocky soil.
“The Fairy Door,” I said as Laura came up between us. “Amazing. A natural rock formation, according to the guidebook, but it really looks like a door.”
“It is a door,” said Hugh. “That's the door Peri went through.”
“How could she?” Laura objected. “Are you saying it leads into a cave or something?”
“I'm going to check it out.” Hugh left the road to climb up the rocky slope. I started after him, then paused and turned to offer Laura a hand up.
She pulled away, her mouth a tight, angry line. Although her mind had been opened to other possibilities, I had the feeling it was open only a crack and could slam shut again at any minute.
Up ahead, Hugh gave a shout, and bent, then straightened. He was holding something tiny that flashed silver between his fingers. “Look at this!”
Had Peri worn a ring? I hurried to join him. It was just a coin, an ordinary, modern twenty-pence piece. His excitement baffled me. “So?”
“Peri had twenty pence to make a phone call.”
“That was two years ago! Anyone could have dropped it.”
“It was Peri.” He sounded certain. He gazed up at the doorlike formation. “What can we do to make it open for us?”
I knew some of the traditions: threaten to burn the thorns on a fairy hill, or dig into it until the owner comes out to speak with you. I didn't think either of those would work there. I couldn't see any hawthorns, or even brambles, and, anyway, this wasn't an ancient grave-mound. Doors, unlike graves, being meant to open, must require a different approach. A key? A magical password? It could be anything, and I hadn't a clue. I shrugged helplessly. “Maybe, if you knock . . . or call for Mider . . . ?”
“What's going on?” Laura had joined us.
I tried to read her expression and failed. “Hugh thinks the door must open sometime. That it did for Peri and might for him, too.”
She didn't say anything, but suddenly she rushed forward and began to clamber up to the looming rock formation. As I watched, she squeezed herself inside as best she could, flattening herself against the rocky, grassy earth and feeling about it with her hands, probing for any hidden nooks or openings. Finally, she inched back out again and stepped down carefully, slipping once or twice on loose rock, but eventually rejoining us. She was slightly breathless, her face was flushed, her hair tousled, and she'd managed to scratch her hand: I saw the tiny drops of blood beading up against her skin as she put it to her mouth.
“That's not a door,” she said.
“It is sometimes,” said Hugh.
Laura looked at me to judge. I thought of the old riddle—when is a door not a door? When it's ajar. But that was wordplay; this was a deeper riddle. I sighed. “I think we have to go with Hugh's perceptions.”
Laura nodded, her mouth turning down.
“But you don't have to stay.”
“Of course I do! I'm Peri's mother. There might be something . . . she might need me . . .” She waved her hand uncertainly. “Maybe this is craziness, maybe not. Anyway, I'm staying for as long as it takes.”
I had brought a waterproof groundsheet to sit on, but otherwise we were not well prepared for spending a night in the open. Leaving Hugh to keep his solitary watch in broad daylight, Laura and I drove back to Lochgilphead for supplies: drinks a
nd snacks to keep us going through the night, a bottle of insect repellent, and some yellow candles that were supposed to ward off midges.
Midges: tiny, bloodsucking furies impossible to avoid. Individually they are so tiny as to be practically invisible, but they gather in clouds wherever there's a warm-blooded, breathing creature, and their bites swell and itch every bit as much as those of the bigger mosquito. Laura, Hugh, and I reeked of insecticide, which we slathered on liberally, but if the strong smell discouraged a thousand midges, there were thousands more who weren't so fussy. Even when they weren't biting, the midges were a horrible pest: crawling on your face, in your mouth, ears, hair, everywhere. They arrived around five o'clock, and were our constant attendants on the hillside except when there was a breeze strong enough to blow them away. The evening was cloudy, still, and warm. There was no sense of immediately impending rain, but the sky was like moist cotton wool hanging low overhead.
Only after the sun finally went down, very late, did the wind pick up, blowing in freshening, salt-flavored gusts off the loch, finally dispersing most of the midges as darkness wrapped itself around us.
Although not far from the road, we weren't disturbed by traffic. Occasional cars went past during the day, but between nine and midnight there were, I think, only two cars, and after that the road remained empty.
As it grew a little cooler in the still, oddly light dark, Laura wrapped herself in her dark brown pashmina and we huddled closer together, talking quietly, while Hugh stalked the hillside like a restless spirit. Occasionally he planted himself directly in front of the door and shouted, but something about the acoustics caused his voice to be swallowed by the rocks: I couldn't make out his words.
I tried to keep track of Hugh, but occasionally I lost him among the rocks and heather. I'd brought along three small but powerful torches, but he did not use his, preferring to let his eyes adjust to the gradual darkness. It was a cloudy night, but behind the cloud cover was a full moon, so the darkness was never absolute.
