Grounded

Hannah clutched the smooth stone securely as she shifted to face the squall. Viewed from the battlement, the hillside curved like a reclining woman. To the east, it dipped from hip to waist then rose to ribs and the cliff of a shoulder. To the west, it became a gently sloping thigh, curvaceous calf, then spiked ankle as land met sea.

            The wind spat angrily in her face, leaving sequins of moisture across her cheeks. Drops clung to her lashes. Salt seasoned her lips. Ginger hair adhered to her cheek forming the intricate patterns of an ancient map. She felt joyful.

            The stone seemed to pulse within her palm. Perhaps the intensity of her grip caused her own rhythm to rebound, or did this morsel hold the energy of past souls? Brick coloured and porous, the fortification fragment had clearly been shaped by human hands. Destroyed by mankind as well.

            Ancient ancestors, 13th century residents of this realm, had staked their claim against both neighbour and nature. Built a bastion. Created a castle. Placed a palace, on the shore of this sea that had no end. Water, fierce and furious, constantly reached towards the stronghold, slapping the strength from its walls for centuries.

            The stone held warmth on this blustery Scottish afternoon. For 800 years this shard had witnessed human drama. Love, lust and lechery. Contention, conflict and combat. The arrival of new life and departure of the dead.

            Hannah’s ancestors had been warriors. Hardened, both in body and spirit, by the harsh elements and brutal culture. One forebear had beheaded his own father. Not content to wait to inherit his legacy, Willem de Cormier dragged his parent from a comfortable bed and separated him from his head in the lower chambers of the castle.  Willem then reclined on that very same mattress impregnating his father’s second wife five times, three of which were sturdy sons to carry on the lineage.

            Willem had no way of knowing that those sons would all be lost in pointless battles over unproductive, rocky terrain. It was Rachel, his eldest daughter, that was Hannah’s ancestor. She was a Celtic princess, with hair as red as the blood her brothers shed. Ancient ballads refer to Rachel as a sorceress. She used beauty and sexual electricity to bend powerful men to actualize her desires. 

            Hannah had come with the goal of capturing that bold spirit, that strong essence that might serve her when she returned to the digital dramas that comprised her world. The rock she held felt so smoothly rough, so substantially porous, it was everything she wanted to become herself. Strong yet receptive. Steadfast and yielding. She believed balance is true power.

            Hannah slid the stone into her pocket. It would travel home with her. Make the journey across that sea to a shore that was unimaginable when the structure evolved. Like a talisman, the stone would root her to the past from which she arose, from which she flourished, for which she’s grateful.