The Hearth and the Hogmanay

The brute force winds that howled around Caisteal Inbhir Lòchaidh in late November had carried away the memory of Ashworth and heralded the approaching Scottish winter. Inside the great stone walls, a restorative warmth had settled on the household- the mingled scent of peat smoke, damp wool and the steady, comforting fragrances of Seonaid’s ongoing medicinal work.

Valkyrie, now moving without the tell-tale stiffness of bruised ribs, had dedicated the earlier part of December to fulfilling her duties as Laird. The wool from the estate's sheep had been sent to Fort William some weeks ago, to be woven into the distinctive Gerehardt tweed. 

Today the sun was bright in a clear, pale blue sky. We trekked up into the hills with the ghillies who had already selected from the herd the deer to be culled for this winter's venison. I also had my first encounter with Dearg, the magnificent Lochaber stag. James proudly told me that Dearg had successfully seen off all-comers for the past seven years. His progeny provided some of the finest venison in Europe. 

"Today is a special day," Valkyrie said, her voice soft with emotion. "Watch."

A short distance ahead James, standing surprisingly steady for his twelve years, braced a lightweight hunting rifle against his shoulder. He took careful aim at a three-year-old buck browsing near a patch of frozen heather. I started as the shot rang out- a sharp crack that echoed off the hills- and the buck dropped instantly.

"A clean kill," Valkyrie whispered, tears already glazing her eyes. She strode over to the body, kneeling to touch the wound. She then approached James and spoke to him in the Gaelic, the words sounding ancient and solemn, and with her thumb, she spread a streak of the buck's blood across his face. James's smile was radiant.

Returning to my side, she leaned in, her voice thick. "He has passed the test of stewardship. With this blood ritual, he formally takes the mantle of Laird of Lochaber. He is ready." 

I felt a profound sense of pride for the young man, now the Laird, in whom the entire province of Lochaber would place its trust.

Later we were gathered in the Great Hall, dominated by a roaring peat fire in the hearth. It had become the core of our daily life and I spent most of my afternoons there. There were many books to peruse, some more than a few centuries old. Valkyrie allowed me access to the estate ledgers. Years and years of careful management of the estate recorded in bound red deer hide. Name's, births, marriages and deaths. Rituals and gatherings. Carefully calculated tallies of wool, mutton, venison, hide, potatoes, neaps; everything that the estate produced. And the great book of the family tree going back some 6 centuries. Names had changed, but the estate remained a testament to a highland heritage.

Laird James, whenever he was at his ease, continued his earnest attempts to teach me the Gaelic. Mairi, the magnificent Deerhound who had once faced a murderous Earl, was our constant, tawny companion, now devoted solely to lounging before the hearth. I, who once regarded the dog with cautious respect, now habitually offered her the corner of a sandwich, a clear sign of my complete and utter acceptance.

One evening, after dinner, James was conducting my Gaelic lesson to the amusement of Valkyrie and Seonaid. "You must say the word, Thaddeus," James insisted, holding up a small, carved wooden deer. "Fèidh."

I concentrated, my uvula attempting to reproduce the guttural sound. "Fèidh..."

Seonaid, watching from her chair as she mended a thick woollen sock, nodded approvingly. "Better than many a Lowlander," she murmured, her sharp eyes twinkling- high praise indeed. James, justly proud of his lineage, then pivoted to history. "Lochaber formed part of the Province of Moray from the early 12th century. It was first recorded as a provincial lairdship at the end of the 13th century..."

The history was grounding; the language was belonging and I tried my very hardest to be worthy of belonging to this great family.

Now, the household moved into the Christmas fortnight with a shared, profound sense of relief. The Great Hall was in readiness, decorated in the traditional Gaelic style.

Valkyrie and I spent a crisp afternoon overseeing the distribution of the Laird's annual Christmas gift to the crofter families. The gifts were functional but meaningful: cured venison, a cask of winter ale, and blankets woven from the very same Gerehardt tweed as our own jackets. This simple act of shared fabric and shared bounty cemented my place; I was no longer the outsider, but a quiet contributor to the clan’s welfare.

The true celebration arrived on Hogmanay. As the midnight bells of the distant village kirk chimed, the door of the great hall was flung open to welcome the first visitor. I found myself swept up in the frantic energy of the reels and jigs, laughing when James nearly tumbled over his own feet. Yes, even a twelve year old Laird had his fill of winter ale.

The night ended with Valkyrie and I standing together by the freezing windows, looking out over the quiet, snow-dusted village.
"Another year is gone," Valkyrie said, a soft melancholy in her voice.

"And we survived it," I replied, my voice firm. "Thanks to a brave Laird, a careful Matriarch, and a very loyal hound." He paused. "The future is sound, Valkyrie. The Sentinel is sleeping, and the only force we face is the winter."