The Magic Ring of Brodgar. Кейтлин Эмилия Новак

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      When Megan descended the staircase, she saw that Warren and Gregor were already waiting for her in the hall.

      “Good morning,” greeted the girl.

      “Good morning,” the men said in unison.

      “Have you had breakfast yet?” her cousin inquired.

      “No, I was just about to have a cup of coffee now. I didn't think you'd be ready before the appointed time.”

      “It’s all right, Megan, no need to rush. We’ve got plenty of time.”

      She quickly went to the kitchen. In two minutes, she managed to drink coffee and eat a small piece of shortbread. Megan didn’t like being late and felt uncomfortable if she kept someone waiting. Punctuality and perfectionism were in her blood. Brushing the biscuit crumbs off her fingers, she hurried back to the hall.

      After leaving the castle, they got into Warren’s car and Megan asked how far it was to the distillery.

      “We’ll be there in ten minutes,” he replied.

      “Warren, would you be able to take me to the family crypt afterwards? I’d like to pay my final respects to Grandfather, but I don’t dare go there alone. It’s a bit creepy.” She felt very awkward asking for anything after the unpleasant situation the day before, which she herself had created. But there was no choice; she had to establish a rapport between them.

      “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, СКАЧАТЬ