The Legend of the 13th Snowman

Prologue

The Scottish Nation – 1307 AD
Eve of New Years Day

1.

Dunnellon draped the tartan loosely around his shoulders, crouched low, and moved silently in the snow. One by one, he visited with the men and women, assessing their concealment, and offering words of encouragement. Some held swords; others carried ox-yokes as their weapons. The warriors lay in glazed furrows, on either side of a narrow trail, invisible among the trees and boulders. Clansmen on horseback were concealed behind them.

A land war had erupted between the two rival clans over Clan Cameron’s attempt to expand its holdings. If the Northlanders intelligence was accurate, an armed Cameron raiding party was moving in to attack their village with savage force.

The clansmen needed little motivation. Each claimed descent from the Chief’s house and each believed that protecting their clan against intruders was a divine mission - their birthright. Since they were the first to "raise smoke and boil water" on this land, they would defend it to the very last.

The Northlanders prided themselves on chivalry and honor. They were faithful, and brave, devoted only to the Chief’s interests, and ready to sacrifice their lives in his service.

The sky was a brilliant blue where the sun's leading edge poked up over the soft nose of the mountaintop. Dunnellon retreated to his vantage point higher on the hillside and positioned himself against the base of a large boulder. He smeared a handful of mud over his face, withdrew the sword from his belt, and waited.

Despite his hallmarks of resilience and fortitude, and for all of his legendary courage and his military traditions, his was a fragile presence. He was fiercely proud of his clan and fought for it on the thin soils and among the grand, inhospitable ranges. His charge at Douglas Row, and the battles at Murtown, Ardross, and the Isle of Donan, carved his name into clan folklore. Nevertheless, lately he found himself becoming detached, weary, perhaps.

More and more, his thoughts had turned to growing old, and his diminishing role as the Chief and Protector of Clan Northlander. The security of his kin was the reason he awoke in the morning. Not once had he failed in his duty. However, age was reducing him to where he could no longer afford the clan the protection required.

The time was near for him to step aside and enjoy the dignity and privileges of a Chieftain, but none of the responsibility. Soon, he would be among those needing protection, dispensing wisdom instead of security.

Dunnellon fingered a jagged scar that ran across the back of his right hand. It was a signature from an earlier battle.

"What you are, I once was. What I am, you will be." His father's words resonated in his mind. He had not understood their meaning when he was a young warrior, but he knew now.

His face reflected in the sword’s blade. The yellow gold of his shoulder length hair faded into mostly jumbled layers of gray and silver. His beard was nearly white, except for the occasional fingers of blond weaving through it. His wife told him it was "like the ashen ring that surrounds the camp fire." He was an aging warrior.

_____

Thick columns of gray smoke float effortlessly upward from the enormous pit, carrying with them the greasy aroma from the wild boar that turns slowly over the fire. The smoke evaporates into wispy tendrils, disappearing into the late afternoon purple haze that blankets the imposing mountains, and thick forests to the West. Occasionally, flame licks a pocket of fat, and the ensuing wet explosion of suet burns the men turning the spit.

Nearby, clan children, dressed in colorful garments made especially for these rituals, display their acrobatic skills, amazing their parents with handsprings and cartwheels. Others talk quietly, some shriek with laughter.

Hundreds of Clan members stream into the clearing, constructed especially for ceremonial functions and warrior training. Many carry torches; some hold infants in their arms. The warriors ride horses and have stained their faces with battle colors. Their women dress in similar hues.

Several Clansmen are musicians and entertain the crowd with lively and rhythmic melodies. Three young women break from their group, hike their skirts, and dance through the assemblage.

On the edge of the encampment, far outside the view of the revelers, men armed with broadswords and crossbows patrol the perimeter, lest an enemy Clan be foolish enough to attack during the celebration of Gardagh, the ancient phrase for “shedding the skin.”

When the Clan Chieftan determines that his heir-apparant is prepared to accept the Gardagh, he must prove his valour. Two warriors guide him, blindfolded, on a two- day journey from his Clan. Armed only with a knife, he is tied to a tree, in the night, on enemy land, and forbidden to attempt escape until sunrise. He must survive from “full moon to full moon.” If the young boy returns, he is the Heir Protector.

Abruptly, the jubilant music stops, replaced by a steady, urgent drum beat. It is accompanied by a rhyme chanted in Gaelic asking for invisibility and protection.

"O Vanannan, Hiarn y ching dorrinagh, Chur dy brattagh harrin nish!"

It imparts a sense of eerie restlessness. The Clan gathers in the center of the clearing, their eyes focused on the Chieftan’s dwelling.

The sun, now just a thin slice of fiery brilliance, edges the mountain top, casting long shadows across the fields.

Two Clan warriors, faces painted and colorfully dressed, exit the hut. One carries a thick, flat, brown stone. They are followed by John of Northland, Clan Chief, and young Dunnellon. They enter the center of the clearing and face the Clan. The stone is placed in front of the Chieftan. A sea of torchlight dances before them.

The Protector is unusually tall for a Northlander. His silver hair is tied back, accenting pale blue eyes. Streaks of green and black color stain his face from the center of his forehead to the base of his neck. He pans the crowd slowly.

“My beloved Clan,” he begins softly, “before Almighty God, and our ancestors who were first to raise smoke and boil water on this land, and of my solemn vow, I present to you, Dunnellon, Warrior and Heir Protector. Step forward, Dunnellon.”

The young warrior steps forward, his heart beating madly. He is a thin sapling, not quite as tall as John. Long waves of golden hair cascade down to his shoulders, framing his angular face and pale blue eyes. The left side of his face is painted white. He wears the Truis, traditional leather breeches and knee length woolen shirt, gathered at the waist by a knotted sash.

“Tonight, just as the dark replaces the light, and the cold replaces the heat, so shall the man replace the boy,” John-the-Protector proudly proclaims. He turns to Dunnellon.

“You have conquered all challenges, and vanquished the fears of a child. Are you prepared, young Dunnellon, to accept the life of a warrior and Heir Protector?”

“Aye. That I am,” the young warrior replies, nodding his head.

“Then kneel before God and your Clan,” John motions to the stone.

Under a canopy of emerging stars, like a supplicant before Holy Communion, Dunnellon kneels on the Lia Fail,the Stone of Destiny. It is said that the stone was Jacob’s Pillow at Bethel.

“The Clan Chieftan’s purpose is, foremost, to protect his Clan and face them without shame or fear.” John begins the ritual. He pauses to let his words impact. “Will you do the work of a Warrior and accept the responsibility of Protector?”

“Aye, father, with vigor and enthusiasm.” Dunnellon responds.

“Will you be loyal and faithful to God, your Protector, and your Clan?” John asks.

“I will, with God’s continued guidance.”

John takes a gleaming, double-edged, sword from the warrior standing next to Dunnellon, and extends it high into the air so that it is clearly visible to the Clan. The handle is made from gold, and the Clan insignia is inlaid in emerald.

“Dunnellon, this is your Protector’s sword. Use it with wisdom and courage, and let it remind you daily of the traditions and honor you must uphold.” John lowers the sword and hands it to Dunnellon, who continues to kneel...

_____

He was the master of his life, steadfast to the service of God. His work, protecting his kin, was all he had known. If sitting around the fire with the women was to be his future, he wanted no parts of it.

"God is changing things around a wee bit," he whispered into his wife's ear before leaving for the battle. "He is turning under the dead leaves, and we're his horses and plows."

Dunnellon reached into the leather pouch hanging from the knotted sash around his waist. Carefully, he withdrew a sprig of evergreen, brown and brittle with age.

_____

…The second Warrior holds out a wooden box from which John-the-Protector removes a small, brown, worn leather pouch with rawhide drawstrings at the opening. He handles the pouch very gingerly.

“Rise, Dunnellon,” John commands.

Dunnellon rises, slipping the sword into a scabbard on his sash.

“Dunnellon, behold this simple pouch.” John extendes the pouch to the young warrior. “It has been reserved for you by the Ancients, and contains a sprig of evergreen as a symbol of everlasting life. Wear it always, and let its light guide you to eternal truth, and provide you wisdom to hear the answers to your prayers.” John ties the pouch to Dunnellon’s sash.

“I humbly accept the Sword of the Warrior, and the pouch of the Heir Protector,” Dunnellon affirms, rubbing the pouch. It feels weighty. “I vow to keep my faith steady, my courage resolute, and bring honor always to my Clan.”

“Then, as Protector, I embrace you as a Warrior, and Heir Protector, my son.” He turns to the Clan. “The Gardagh is concluded! Let the feast begin!”

_____

Dunnellon momentarily regarded the sprig of evergreen, and then carefully replaced it in the pouch.

"Get ready, men! Hold tight," he commanded, and slowly drew his sword up into the air, signaling his fellow warriors that the time was at hand. The first of the Cameron invaders marched into view across the clearing.

2.

The ambush was swift and sudden. The impenetrable fortification surrounding them made defense easy. The Northlanders waited until the intruding clan passed their position and then attacked. In combat, they were a merciless and brutal people, and took no prisoners. The ferocity of the ambush served as a warning to others never to intrude on their land. It took the Camerons’ entirely by surprise.

The battle, furious and intense, was nearly over within the first minutes. Most of the Cameron foot soldiers lay dead on the ground. Only a few remaining stalwarts pressed on swinging their swords and invoking the name of their deity.

A Cameron fighter, seeing the hopelessness of the battle, made a break for the woods. Except for his wi' dragon, a short handled knife with three double-edged blades set in a triangle, the soldier discarded his heavy weaponry to lighten the escape.

Dunnellon quickly dispatched an enemy to his final reward, and set out after the fleeing Cameron soldier. There could be no escape and no survivors. The Cameron had a good head start, but his trail was easily visible in the snow. As the din of the battle faded behind him, Dunnellon tracked the footprints into the mountainside. Soon the only sound he heard was his own ragged breathing.

The trail disappeared into the edge of another great clearing. Ahead, a granite plain stretched into the side of the mountain, bordered by forests immense beyond their limits. The Northlander panned the horizon, but there was no sight of his enemy. The trail continued into the clearing, toward the mountain wall.

Dunnellon gasped for air, and his legs trembled. Despite the frigid air, beads of water streamed down the side of his face. A deep pain exploded in his head every time his heart beat. Kneeling on one knee, he rested his forehead against the cold bark of a Birch Tree. His thoughts turned to his clan.

_____

In the village, the Chieftain’s wife bakes oatcakes and lamb in preparation for the New Year’s Day feast. Oidche Challuinn, New Years Eve, is a time of gaiety and ceremony. Tonight, no one in the camp will sleep before midnight, nor will the fire go out on this night - lest the elves, as legend held, come down the chimney and dance in the ashes.

Tomorrow, on La Challuinn, New Years Day, a huge bonfire will be lit in the center of the village, and all will sing and dance in a fitting prelude to the dinner. Cowhide, singed in the fire, passes throughout the clan. Each member is required to smell the smoke. The ritual guards against all evil and harmful things.

_____

Dunnellon stood, surveying the treetops for any signs of the enemy. Again, there were only the footprints, leading into the center of the clearing where they made an abrupt right turn towards the mountain wall.

"You’re a crafty one, you are."

Dunnellon realized his adversary abandoned the direct route across the naked expanse of the plain. Evasion and concealment would be more effective if the Cameron hugged the rock face, although it was a longer way around to the other side.

Dunnellon ran alongside the enemy tracks until they ended at the mountain wall, behind an entanglement of unruly bushes and oddly shaped boulders. Long thorns curved downward into sharp points, and dotted the stringy vines. Fresh droplets of blood decorated the snow and several of the barbs.

Using the flat part of his sword blade, Dunnellon pried the thorny bush away from the rock wall and stared into the shadow. Hidden behind the rocks and vines was an opening into the mountainside.

"Aye, it is time we meet," he whispered. A smile widened across his bearded face.

After several fierce strokes of his sword, Dunnellon pushed aside the vines and entered the cave. He choked on the foul stench inside. A carriage with large wooden wheels sat close to the entrance. It was empty.

He moved quickly past the carriage, hugging the wall, feeling his way along the sloping dirt floor. Ahead in the distance, a soft light bubbled over the rise.

Suddenly, the quiet of the cave shattered. An invisible flurry of movement surrounded Dunnellon. He turned and swung his sword wildly about only to hear the hollow whoosh of the steel blade slicing through the air. In the surrounding darkness, just outside his reach, the air vibrated with a leathery flutter.

The warrior moved quickly, deeper into the cave’s dull glow. Shadows, sharp-edged and pointed, jutted up into the light. At first, he mistook the dark shapes for the rocks that protruded from the dirt floor. As he crawled closer, the shadows begin to scurry back and forth with a frenzied sense of urgency.

Dunnellon reached in his back pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his eyes. They were nearly swollen shut from a thick crust of mud and ice. Instead of the coarse woolen cloth, he felt the leather britches of his Cameron enemy.

Swiftly, the Cameron wrapped his arm around Dunnellon's neck, and plunged the wi' dragon into his back. Except for a slight arching, there was little struggle. The aging warrior slid off the knife, and fell face down into the dirt. The Cameron fled towards the cave's entrance.

Dunnellon struggled to crawl the remaining distance to the top of the incline. A fog slipped into the perimeter of his vision. Below him, a shrill, angry voice turned his attention. With his remaining strength, he pushed himself to the lip of the rise in time to see a shadowy figure thrust a pointed finger into the air.

“You will rue the day that you banished me." The voice held an eerie resonant screech. "Behold this valley. When the land is settled and thirteen families enjoy its harvest, I will begin your destruction. Oh, yes. Enjoy your time, for soon you will be serving me dinner, and cleaning my stables, forever!”

The words reverberated throughout the massive cavern.

Dunnellon lay sprawled across the spongy cushion of dirt, harnessing the little energy he had left.

"God, you've put me on this earth to protect my family, and with your guidance I've done it until now. If you're taking me home, I've got but one more favor to ask," he paused taking quick, shallow breaths. "There's something terribly wrong here. I'm asking for just this last chance to…”

Dunnellon frowned and slipped into the darkness. As the heat ebbed from his body, a soft light began radiating inside the leather pouch that his father gave him as a gift and hung from the knotted sash around his waist.