Fiction: The Gruagach by Bob Johnston

Photo Source: Unsplash

The parking lot was empty. Curwen had not expected that, and felt a momentary twinge of concern. He was heading into deep forest and, much as he preferred to be alone on these obsessive little adventures, he still liked the idea that help was nearby if he took a tumble.

A cloud sailed in front of the sun and the area suddenly darkened and cooled down. Rain began to patter on his peaked hood. He looked down to the main road, but there wasn’t the sound of a vehicle, even in the distance.

“Enjoy the peace.” He whispered the words, pulled his rucksack on, and, after checking that the car was locked for the third time, he set out on the tourist path. Twenty paces in he stopped to adjust his pack and clothing, an old ritual.

He bent forward and let the rucksack shift up on his back. With a well-practiced pull, he tightened the shoulder straps and stood straight. The pack sat higher and more comfortably, and he continued walking into the trees. His destination was roughly Loch Annan, deep in the heart of the Annan Forest, but he wasn’t troubled where he ended up. To the north he would eventually hit the Galloway Tourist Route, to the west the River Nith, east the River Annan, and, if he got completely lost and went south, he would end up in the freezing waters of the Solway Firth.

The rain found its way through the thick forest canopy but Curwen was well protected against it. Good boots, proper outdoor clothing, and a long poncho. And yet that Scottish rain found ways through the most ingeniously manufactured clothing. A trickle pulsed down his neck in a pattern of chilly entry, followed by quick warming, and then cool, slow soaking of his shirt collar. Time and again he had been warned against wearing cotton outdoors but always gave into its effortless comfort. Right up until it got wet.

He found a bank of ferns and sat down. His compass confirmed he was still on a north bearing so he would either find the loch or the main road at some point. He looked through the trees and breathed deeply. This was where a human being belonged, not stuck at a desk fifteen hours a day. The first burst of smells had almost bowled him over when he left the parking lot; mud, grass, tree bark, manured fields, flowers. Now his nose was adjusting and sifting them apart, almost able to trace their individual points of origin.

Curwen stood and took a deep breath.

“If there is a spirit of this place, a being who watches over it, another human who simply lives here, if there is anyone who can help a walker by lending him their ears, please let me see you.”

He spoke rather than shouted, but his voice carried through the persistent pattering of raindrops on ferns and his own nylon poncho.

He smiled as the only answer was a light surge of wind from the north.

“Then I will speak with the forest itself.” He turned a full circle and studied the chaos of green around him. “I have become detached from my self and my past, forest. I am a Scot whose people were once Britons, while others were Irish, others Picts, and others from the islands to the west. My tongue is English, but was once Scots, once Gaelic, once Erse, once Norse, once British, once a northern dialect of Welsh. I live in buildings of concrete and glass but gaze at the distant hills which I seldom actually visit. I have come here today to…”

His voice trailed off. A woman spoke behind him.

“You don’t know why you have come here today. No one ever does.”

He wasn’t startled by her voice, which was clear but soft. He turned and studied her. Medium height, dressed in loose woollen clothing, with a wide brimmed velvet hat that barely contained her wild, curly, red-blonde hair. Her face was tanned and dirty, making it difficult to get an impression of her features. If she had been standing even ten yards further back, the greens, browns, and greys of her clothes would have merged into the background. She took a step towards him.

“I am not, I’m afraid, the spirit of this place but I am something from the Gaelic past you were telling the forest about. I am a Gruagach, and I am also detached from what I should be.”

She looked into his blue eyes and he looked back into the forest brown of hers. And there they stood as the rain fell and the hidden sun crossed the sky. Curwen did not know what a Gruagach was but he was aware enough of the wee folk from his grandmother’s stories so many years before.

He felt relaxed. Whatever this creature was he felt no sense of danger about it and accepted the unspoken offer to simply be there with her and, for the first time in so long, just think. His grandmother’s tales were just the usual old folklore stuff, although he was aware, even as he sat on her lap, that she was not old enough to have lived in any of the rural environments she described so vividly.

He suddenly started and took a deep breath. It wasn’t the stories, it was granny herself. She had not been telling her four- year- old grandson stories simply to entertain him. She had been articulating her own sense of detachment through those stories. And he had been affected by her dissatisfaction with her life and the world she lived in.

“How did you know?” he whispered.

The gruagach smiled. “I didn’t and I don’t, but it’s always much the same stuff that brings your people here. The same things that trouble me. Once I wandered the woods and among people’s cattle herds. Somehow my presence helped and the people made me gifts of milk. Such milk, rich and filled with cream. Now all I have is water.” She smiled and looked up, letting the rain streak the dirt on her face.

Curwen copied her and smiled as the drops forced him to shut his eyes.

“I know what I want, gruagach. I want to love the rain.”

He looked at her and she nodded.

“Stay with me then, and learn to love the rain. Your company reminds me of the people of the farms.”

She held out her hand and Curwen took it. Then, stepping off the path, and onto a narrow track he had not noticed before, she led him away from his detachment, to an older world that his grandmother had plainly sensed in some way.

 Bob Johnston lives in Scotland where he loves, and is inspired by its landscapes and legends. He can be found at bobjohnstontfiction.com which includes links, stories, and further information.