The Magic Ring of Brodgar

“Yes, of course, as soon as we return, we’ll go there.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Megan, if there's anything I can do for you, don't hesitate to ask. I'm always ready to help.”

The girl nodded in appreciation and said, “Tell me, are there any other inhabited castles around here besides Castle Raven and Castle Mal?”

“In the nearest thirty miles, definitely not. However, there are some abandoned ones that hold historical value for tourists. There are many such places throughout Scotland.”

“Don't you find it boring living here all the time?”

“Not at all. We’re used to a measured way of life. I don't know anyone who could get bored with a such beautiful place. We don't stay locked up at home for weeks. We work, have fun, hunt. There are a lot of deer, wild boars, and hares in the local forests. It's a true pleasure. We, Highlanders, really love our local, traditional festivals, and they happen quite often. I hope you get to attend such an event. The next one is in four days. It's called the Witch's Night, or Fern Night. According to Celtic beliefs, it's the only night of the year when you can see the fern flower bloom. It lasts only a moment. It's very difficult to pick the flower, especially since evil forces do everything to prevent it, sometimes even driving people to madness.”

“I've never heard in my life that ferns could bloom,” Megan exclaimed in surprise, looking at Warren with wide eyes, trying not to miss a word of his story.

“The fern flower is mythical, supposedly revealing the secrets of the magical world to its owner. It also grants clairvoyance and power over evil spirits. Evil forces try in every way to distract the hunter, for example, by calling out to him with the voice of a loved one. And if one turns around at the call, it could cost them their life. It means looking into the eyes of death.”

“That’s terrifying! Do locals really believe in this to this day?”

“Of course, Megan. You can't imagine how many people head off into the bracken before midnight. Each one of them hopes that they will be the luc ky one. Some even go into the forest!”

“Do you know at least one person who has actually had such luck?”

“Not yet,” laughed Warren. “But my grandfather knows many legends related to it. He believes in the fern flower bloom, as do many of his age. They say that in the past, most northern Highlanders had abilities for clairvoyance, witchcraft, and so on. Our land is special, and so are the people here. Well, I'm skeptical about it, but my wife, Glenn, believes everything my grandfather and his peers tell her. If you're interested,” he continued with a smile, “she can tell you a lot more. I, for one, love this festival like the others, simply because the whole north celebrates. Our people have fun, dance and play the bagpipes. Ale, cider, whisky, flow like rivers. Various Northern Scottish dishes are available to choose from. Lots of local game. Meat that's cured, grilled on coals, pan-fried, stewed, and anything else you could want. Almost all the townspeople and neighboring villagers come here. After all, the forest is nearby, and most ferns grow near us too. Tents, wooden tables, and benches are set up on the hill.”

“Warren! It sounds wonderful! I can’t wait for this festival!”

“We Highlanders just need an excuse to have fun! Well, Megan, here we are.”

“Thank you. Your story was absolutely fascinating. If you and Glenn have got time this evening, I would love to hear more legends related to the traditions of Northern Scotland.”

“Of course! Tonight, after dinner, we'll happily share with you all we know about our north over a glass of whisky by the fireplace.”

“Great, I’m already looking forward to it,” Megan spoke joyously, pleased with Warren's openness and the fact that he harbored no resentment toward her for the previous day's events.

When Megan got out of the car, she found herself in front of a long two-story building made of large stone blocks. This style, she noted, was a common feature of most historical buildings in Scotland. The distillery was situated on a hill. From there, magnificent landscapes opened up. Megan thought it would be impossible to get used to such beauty. Surely, these views could never become dull.

“How long has this distillery been here?” she asked her cousin.

“From the 15th century. It was built by our ancestor William McKenzie, in 1486. Naturally, a lot has changed and improved inside since then. But externally, it remains as it was centuries ago.”

At the entrance to the building, a large oak barrel lay on its side, with "Mal Scotch Production" painted on it in white; the clan coat of arms was underneath.

Gregor, who had come with them but had remained silent the whole way, swung the door open, gesturing for them to enter. The girl immediately noticed a distinctive smell – malt, as it seemed to her.

Megan didn't consider herself an expert in this field. She had never been fond of strong alcoholic beverages, preferring ale or cider instead. She had only drunk whisky once in her life, a few years back, and now barely remembered how it smelled. Inside, there was a reception desk and a small sofa. A pleasant-looking blonde woman – around fifty, dressed in a smart business suit, immediately approached the visitors.

“Good afternoon, Miss McKenzie. My name is Kirsty, I’m the head technologist at the distillery. Warren, Gregor, it’s good to see you. If you’re ready, we can proceed further. I will take you to the production technology and show you the distillery.”

“Thank you, Kirsty; lead the way,” Megan said.

In the room where the first stage of production took place, there was a huge vessel.

“This is the mash tun, where barley is added. Then, water is poured into it and left for 4–5 days. This is called the malting stage. During this time, the starch turns into sugar. The barley grains, after this process, need to be thoroughly dried with hot smoke from peat. We do that here,” the woman pointed towards an open door to another large room. “The peat subsequently gives the barley a unique aroma, which becomes an integral part of the future whisky.”

Moving ahead into the next room, Kirsty showed a massive purpose-built machine designed to grind malt into flour. Next to it was another huge mash vat.

“In this vat,” she continued, “we mix the grain with hot water, and keep it for about twelve hours. Then, in the cooled wort, we add yeast for the fermentation process to occur. After that, the contents of the vat are transferred into these copper stills. In there, the heat increases to 86 degrees Celsius. The alcohol rises up through the tubes then cools back down into a liquid state. This process is called distillation. It usually happens twice so that the content reaches 70 degrees. Then, we pour the obtained liquid into oak barrels and send them to the warehouse. The minimum period the liquid must age to be called whisky is three years. During this time, the spirit evaporates from sixty to forty degrees. The longer the whisky stays in the barrel, the richer its color and taste become. Whisky is the water of life, as they say in the north of Scotland.”

The small procession moved on, listening to Kirsty.

“And in this room, we proceed to bottling and packaging. As you can see, there is nothing complicated; just barley, water, yeast, and time.”

“Are the grain and barrels local?” Megan inquired.

Warren took the liberty in answering this question.

“The best Scottish grain grows here in the north. We have peaty heather fields which are unique to us, giving barley a special flavor. And we order oak barrels from Andalusia, Spain that come with sherry. The best barrels for whisky are those from sherry.”

“Thank you! You explained everything in great detail.”

They also visited the warehouses where barrels filled with whisky are stored. Megan tasted one of the aged single malt varieties, twenty years in maturation, noting that the flavor was very rich and the alcohol was barely noticeable. “Now I understand what good Scottish whisky means!” she said with a smile.

For another two hours, they remained at the distillery. Gregor and Kirsty educated the new owner on employee work details, explained how many people were involved in the production, and much more.

6. Legends of the North

After going up to her room, Megan sat on the bed and reflected. Too many events had occurred during the three days she had been here. It felt like a whole week had passed since her arrival. Meeting new people who had now become her family; the harsh and majestic beauty of the nature and the castle she was living in; an attempt on her life; visiting her own whiskey distillery… She had experienced so many different impressions and emotions, more than she had ever experienced in London with its fast-paced, event-filled life over a year.

Megan didn't immediately notice the strange rustling at the window. Turning around, she saw a black raven. It sat on the outside windowsill, staring intently at her. The thought that this bird was constantly watching her made her uneasy. Trying to calm herself, she thought that there were probably many such birds in this area.

After resting for a bit, she went down to the hall and waited for her cousin. Soon he appeared and said, “Well, Megan, are you ready?”

“Yes, let’s go.”

Upon entering the chapel, which was about hundred yards from the castle, Megan admired the ancient structure.

“It's beautiful,” she remarked, examining the old building closely.

“Yes, and this chapel remembers all the marriages, baptisms, and funerals of the McKenzie clan. It was built at the same time as the old castle.”

Inside, to the left of the altar, there was a massive wrought iron door leading to the family crypt. Warren opened it with a key, and Megan shivered at the realization that the burials were so close to the castle. She feared anything associated with death.

The young people moved down the grim, quiet corridor, passing other doors, but these were not locked. After passing several, they stopped at the penultimate one.

Warren swung it open for his cousin, “Go ahead.”

Megan was frightened, feeling as if dozens of eyes were watching her from all sides. She saw a recent burial to the right of the entrance. Unlike the others, it was not covered in dust. Fresh flowers stood in vases at the gravestone. The stone bore the name, birth date, and death date in large letters. It was her grandfather's resting place.