Of Roots and Magic

Lachlan took a sip of his coffee and stared through the window. People were rushing, passengers stepping onboard, other saying goodbye to friends or relatives. The flurry of activities was surprisingly soothing, he thought.

As he sat back more comfortably in his seat, he put a hand on the worn notebook sitting on the table in front of him. He felt so very relieved to leave London, which felt strange as he loved this city. Yet, here he was, on board a train about to leave King’s Cross station and bound North, in hope that the journey will help him settle his mind and soul.

The last six months had a much bigger impact on him than he had anticipated. He didn’t regret volunteering for the mission in Guatemala, but he had not expected to bring home such sorrow. He was an experienced professional, had been on dozens of sites, but digging mass graves, collecting bones, and trying to give the dead their identities back, reading, through their remains, what they had gone through; it had been soul crushing. Working on the Guatemalan genocide, that took place between 1960 and 1996, had all too clearly reminded him of the worst of what human beings are capable of. That period of the country’s history, also referred to as the Silent Holocaust, saw the killing and vanishing of an estimated 200,000 individuals, a vast majority of the victims being from the Maya population. Very few people knew or talked about it, despite the fact that similar situations still occurred today in so many other countries. Just look at the Rohingya in Myanmar, the Nuer in South Sudan, the Darfuris in Sudan, some even warned that the Ukraine war was the beginning of a genocide. 

He would probably volunteer again though, he admitted to himself. Not right now, but in few months. Giving a voice to the victims, telling their stories, was an integral part of who he was. It was one of the reasons he became a forensic anthropologist.

He had come home just a couple of weeks ago, back to the flat he inherited from his parents when they passed away two years back. It was usually his refuge. Not this time though. He had come back and tried to pick up his life where he left it, going to the gym, going out to dinner, even going to the theatre once. Truth was, he found it difficult to connect with his old life or his friends. While he was out there digging up the bones of people who had been murdered and tortured, his friends had continued their lives, rightfully so. They had gotten engaged or married, had babies on the way, bought houses, were worried about their next holidays, their next car, or which colour should they paint the living room walls. He struggled to relate with those somewhat mundane topics.

He had landed a six-month position at the University of Glasgow, as a visiting professor, and he had finally admitted to himself that he was in no shape to do the job in his current state of mind. He knew that he needed something to kick him back into gear. The universe must have been listening because three days ago, as he was foraging through his books, tidying his study, he found an old and worn little notebook, and as he held the precious item, he suddenly had the absolute certainty that Scotland was the place he needed to be. He bought a train ticket within the hour, organised lodging, packed his things in a small duffel bag, and informed his cleaning lady of his departure.  

What better way to find himself again, than to retrace the very first adventure he had ever taken, with his grandfather, when he was just a little boy in the late 1990s. It had been the first time he was away from his parents, the first time he stepped out of London. In so many ways, that one little adventure shaped the rest of his life. You might wonder how he remembered all of this almost 30 years on. Quite simple really. At the end of every day, his grandfather made him write an essay about all they had done and seen, which he then proceeded to review and correct with a red pen. Lachlan gently patted the notebook in front of him, containing those precious memories. He had read bits and pieces as he was packing for this trip, but now, he was going to read it end to end, and retrace each step.

Even without the help of the little book, he still remembered vividly how excited he had been on that Monday, all those years ago. He had awakened all but buzzing, had hovered behind his mother while she packed for him, making sure she was putting in his favourite clothes, the right books, the digging kit that Santa had brought him. By the time his grandfather arrived to pick him up at around 8pm, his mother’s patience had been wearing thin. As all little boys, he had been very energetic!

After a few more words of caution from his parents, and a promise to be a good boy, his grandfather had settled his backpack on his shoulders, picked up the small bag containing Lachlan’s things, looked at him and asked, “are you ready boy?”

Lachlan had nodded vigorously, before grabbing his hand. The two of them had stepped outside the family flat in Ealing and gotten in a taxi heading for London Euston. Once there, they had a little snack and a hot chocolate while they waited to board the Caledonian Sleeper. Lachlan still remembered the fear and excitement that had gripped him when he saw the train, his grandfather grasping on his hand firmly, as he directed them both to their compartment.

The train was late in the evening, leaving the station at 10:30pm. The excitement might have kept Lachlan vertical, but the instant his grandfather had tucked him in the upper bunk bed, he had fallen asleep like a log!

His grandfather had woken him up gently early the next morning, and he had spent a good hour gaping in pure awe, as they passed through the most extraordinary landscape. It was a completely different universe from London.

They had gotten off the train in Inverness, the first stop on their journey and had picked up their rental car before heading for a camp site where they stayed for two days in a caravan, on the shores of the Loch Ness.

His grandfather was a retired history teacher, and he was the most wonderful storyteller. During their walks, or when they sat around the fire, he had taught Lachlan about their Scottish roots, how he had grown up in the highlands, and the history of the clan they belonged to, the Clan MacLeod. His grandfather had told him all about the family traditions and how Leod, the founder of their clan, was one of the younger sons of Olaf the Black, King of Mann and a member of the Crovan dynasty, and how Leod owned Harris and part of Skye. They could also trace their lineage back to King Harald Hardrada of Norway, who tried to conquer England and was killed in 1066 at the Battle of Stamford Bridge.

Lachlan had drunk his grandfather’s words, going to sleep and dreaming of Scotsmen in kilts, fighting battles, dining in castles, riding to war. He wanted very much to be a Jacobite, not that he understood at the time quite what that meant, but it seemed like it was the right thing to do if you were a Macleod.

As his own train sped through the landscapes on this sunny Wednesday, Lachlan sipped the last of his coffee and caught himself smiling.

In between stories of clan, his grandfather had regaled him with the tales and legends of Scottish monsters. There were the mischievous and helpful Brownies, who would come out at night and perform chores provided you always left them a bowl of milk or cream, or even some cookies. You should always stay clear of the Bogles, the Scottish term for ghosts. And then there were the Kelpies, shape-shifting spirits inhabiting lochs, who could turn from black horse to human, or the Selkies, also shape-shifting water spirits who could turn from human to seal thanks to their seal skin. You could prevent the latter from going back to the water by stealing their skin, but beware, these creatures could be dangerous and vengeful. How he had shivered in fear and gasped in awe at the magic behind those stories.

All those moments he spent with his grandfather, during that trip and so many other they had taken afterward, guided him toward studying history at first, before orienting himself toward anthropology, to understand civilisation, the way humans evolved, the way stories and legends grew. He then became fascinated with going even further and giving bones their humanity back, telling their stories, their lives. In a way, he had become a storyteller too he supposed.

The first university paper he ever wrote was about the Blue Men of the Mingh looking for sailors to drown. Most myths and legends have equivalent across cultures and civilisation. The stories behind earthquakes for example, that humans made up before they understood the actual mechanics of it all. In Norse mythology, earthquakes were the result of the god Loki struggling against his bonds, while a poisonous serpent placed above his head dripped venom on his face. In Greek mythology, Poseidon caused earthquakes when he was in a bad mood and struck his trident into the ground. In a similar manner, ghosts were found in pretty much all societies across the globe. Not the Blue Men of the Mingh, though. That tale was one that couldn’t be found anywhere else in the world.

Every day, they would go on a long walk around some part of the loch, trying to catch a glimpse of Nessie, while his grandfather taught him the history of the Loch Ness monster, and how, if such a beast existed, whether it be a Kelpie or something else, it would have been thousands of years old because the first written record of Nessie dated back from the 7th century AD. The author was a man called Adomnan, who wrote about the life of Saint Columba a century earlier, the Irish abbot and missionary who founded Iona Abbey, and brought Christianity to Scotland, a learned man of his time. Saint Columba was said to have seen the water beast that mauled and drowned its victim and that he somehow scared it away from a swimmer, by making the sign of the cross and ordering the beast to leave.  Imagine a little boy, falling asleep, his head filled with fantastic beasts.

Lachlan’s train rushed through the British countryside, with brief stops at places such as York, Newcastle, Edinburgh, Gleneagle, and so on. He felt a tear in his eye, as he remembered his grandfather, hearing his deep voice, telling stories of The Laird O' Co', The Fiddler, and the Bogle of Bogandoran or the Ghost Piper of Clanyard Bay. Mile after mile, station after station, he started to feel more like himself again, some of the darkness slowly lifting away.

After Inverness, they had driven almost three hours to the Isle of Skye, where they had stayed in a little bed and breakfast for almost a full week. Their mission, while on the island, was to visit their ancestral home, Dunvegan Castle. His grandfather had told him about the legend behind the famous and magical MacLeods’ Fairy Flag, that hang in the drawing room. The now tattered flag made of faded brown silk and carefully patched up was said to have miraculous powers, ensuring clan victory in any battle it was unfurled in.

Once they had paid their respects to their ancestors, they started searching for dinosaurs. Lachlan remembered carrying his little shoulder bag, containing a brush, a little hammer and chisel and a magnifying glass as well as his notebook and pen. His grandfather had been so patient, letting him brush stones for hours. He had been on top of the world when he had found an intact trilobite. What a day it had been. He still held onto this small treasure to this day. It was proudly displayed next to other trinkets from his various trips, all of them memories, moments in time.

And once again, his grandfather had spent hours telling him about the land, the ice age, the dinosaurs. He had told tales of Scotland being a desert then an ocean floor, a tropical swamp, and even a land covered with a one-kilometre-high ice cap during the last ice age 18,000 years ago. Dinosaurs roamed this area during the Middle Jurassic, some 170-160 million years ago, such as plesiosaurs or megalosaurs. Lachlan listened avidly about the Cambrian, the Ordovician, the Silurian eras and so on, and about the dinosaur’s extinction 66 million years ago.

His grandfather would have been so very excited to hear that the largest fossil of a pterodactyl, a 170-million-year-old winged reptile, was discovered on the isle of Skye in 2017. He had sadly passed away three years earlier.

As his train slowed down, approaching its destination, Inverness, Lachlan felt a little ember in his belly, a fire reigniting. The world was still full of mysteries to solve and discoveries to make.

He stepped off the train and spent few minutes enjoying the feel of the sun on his face, taking deep long breaths. The sun warmed his soul, and with the sensation of his grandfather looking over him, he carried on his journey retracing his footsteps, remembering slowly that despite people’s cruelty and horrors, there was still a lot of magic in the universe, and he loved magic.

He had been right to leave London. This was exactly where he needed to be right now. On that last thought, he headed for the exit, and the start of his journey.