Una Murray lived in a thatch-roofed, white stucco cottage on several acres of land northwest of Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis. Her ancestors had worked the croft for generations, and her mother and father had purchased it shortly after their marriage. The cottage was small, only three rooms, but Una had modernized it with the help of one of her neighbors, Angus MacAulay. It had an indoor bathroom and an up to date kitchen, but the bedroom and living area next to the kitchen were much the same as they’d been for years.
Una never had been one to keep her home tidy. The rooms were clean but cluttered with a jumble of knickknacks and books of all kinds lying about. The main room contained wooden furniture stacked with woolen blankets and shawls, a small table and chair for eating and working on various projects, and a cooking area with a days worth of dishes stacked in the sink. She had electricity, but she’d always preferred candles and the light from her fire to keep her company in the evening.
Outside her home, Una had a small garden, some chickens, a few sheep, and two goats that wandered her property. The land was bounded by ancient dry stone walls, and she had lived all of her eighty-two years there. She was a part of the history and fiber of Stornoway and was well known to everyone as a loaner whose only communal ties lay with her closest neighbors and a few select members of the Druid and Wiccan community.
On this early November eve, Una had completed her chores for the day and was sitting down to a meal of tattie scones, hotch potch stew, and tea. The simmering bowl of lamb and vegetables was hearty enough to warm her insides while the peat fire in the fireplace calmed and soothed her shivers without. The weather had finally turned from sunny and clear to the usual damp and cold autumn drizzle that she knew would be with her for months.
As Una lifted the last spoonful of liquid to her lips and swallowed what was left of her scones, she added her dirty dishes to the others in the sink and wiped the table clean. Pulling her chair closer to the fire, she placed another brick of peat on the flames, and gathered her worn and tattered woolen blanket around her shoulders. Then she sat down and scooted up closer to the burning embers and placed her tired and achy feet on an old wooden stool. Clasping her blanket close, she stared into the flickering red, blue, and yellow flames that arose from the dense, black logs of peat and breathed out a deep sigh.
It wasn’t long before her eyelids felt heavy, and she could feel herself needing to go to bed. But, as was her usual custom, she fought off sleep for the moment and reached for her favourite single malt and snifter. She poured a wee dram into the glass to sleep by and breathed it in. It smelled of Scotland - peaty, rich, and earthy. Cupping the glass between her palms, she took her time with it until the last sip lay upon her palate and melted down her throat.
Another long sigh accompanied the completion of her nightly ritual. Then she laid the glass to one side and was about to get up to go to the bathroom when she was shaken out of her reverie. There was a loud pounding on her door. Una seldom had company, and hardly ever after dark. The pounding came again, weaker this time, but just as insistent. Then again, silence.
Keeping the blanket around her, she came to her feet, grabbed the iron poker that lay against the stones of the fireplace, and walked warily towards the four-paned window near the door. She glanced outside but couldn’t see anyone. She didn’t want to open the door, but she knew there was no getting round it.
Grasping the handle with one hand and holding the poker above her head with the other, she opened it just a crack. Peering out, she couldn’t see anyone until she glanced down. In front of her was a person bent over and kneeling on the ground. They were wearing a thick, brown woolen robe that was rain-soaked and hanging heavy over their frame. They had sandals on that were caked in mud, and their head was bowed and shielded by the hood of their robe. In the absence of a sash, the person’s left hand was clutching the front of the robe to keep it closed, and in their right was a long, wooden staff with a blood red jewel at one end.
Una instantly recognized the staff as that of a Druid priestess. It gave her pause, but then she opened the door a bit more and abruptly asked, “Who are ye? Why are ye at my door at this time o’ the night?”
The person glanced up, and Una could now see that it was a woman. Her long red hair was wet and matted against her forehead and face; her lips were blue and quivering. She spoke unsteadily and asked, “Can I come in? I’m soaked through, and…I’m weak and freezing…please!”
Sensing her desperation, Una laid the poker to one side, helped the woman to her feet, and said, “Come with me.” As soon as she touched her, it was clear that the woman had been speaking the truth. She was trembling uncontrollably underneath the wet robe and was so weak and frail that Una had to use all of her strength just to help her get up and walk over to the chair by the fire.
Once there, Una said, “Here, give me yer staff, and I’ll help ye out of yer sandals and robe before ye catch yer death!” In response, the woman only nodded. Una laid the staff to one side and knelt down in front of her. She took her sandals off and wiped the mud from her feet. She laid the leather sandals by the fire and removed the wet, heavy garment, which took some doing. Then Una wrapped her own blanket around the woman’s upper body.
There was some stew left on the stove so Una put it in a bowl and poured a healthy dram of whisky into a second snifter. She had to help the woman eat and drink because her hands were shaking uncontrollably. Then Una poured another dram for her and got some scones for her to eat. The woman’s trembling had eased just enough at that point that she could manage on her own, so Una put another brick of peat on the fire and placed an additional blanket around the woman’s legs. She studied her for a time and then asked, “So lass, do ye have a name?”
“Aye.”
Her answer made Una chuckle. She said, “Well, what is it then? I cannae just call ye, woman.”
That brought a slight smile to the woman’s lips. She sipped once more on the whisky, swallowed, and replied, “My name’s…Obsidian…Obsidian Ualas.”
“Ualas…ye don’t hear that name very often. I reckon it’s old Gaelic, eh?”
“’Tis.” Then Obsidian had a question of her own. “Can…can I ask you something?”
“Aye.”
“This’ll sound strange, but what year is it?”
Una tilted her head, confused by the request. “Ye want t’ know what year ‘tis?”
Obsidian merely answered, “Aye, I’m a bit muddled right now.”
It was clear that she’d been through a lot, so Una merely answered her question. “Well, ‘tis two thousand twenty six, lass. Ye dinnae know that?”
With the answer, Obisidian’s eyes widened and carried a flash of anger. The look quickly vanished and was replaced by one of complete despair. Then tears started to gather and glisten in the corners of her eyes. She glanced away, hoping that the old woman hadn’t noticed and whispered to herself, “So it’s true…”
