Chapter 5
Rowan
When three o’clock rolled around the next day, I once again found myself in the main street of Lochinver, the village bursting with life.
Loud, joyful chatter filled my ears, laughter bubbling up from one group to the next.
Children flitted about, their faces painted with bright colours or covered by gruesome plastic masks, while others were dressed as pretty fairies with delicate tulle wings.
Delicious smells wafted through the air from long tables lining the sides of the road, each one filled with a feast. I wondered, as I strolled past, if all the restaurants in the town had contributed, for the sheer amount of food was staggering.
My stomach growled at the sight of it. There were barrels of apples pushed off to one side, and those sticks I had seen the day before stacked neatly in piles.
As I mingled with the townsfolk, eating and drinking and listening to the gossip, a voice boomed through a loudspeaker.
“Testing. Testing. One, two, three. Folks, the parade will begin shortly, so if you would kindly clear the road. Thank you.” A loud screech followed, and a chorus of laughter rippled through the crowds.
I moved off the street, making my way further along the path to where the crowds were not as concentrated.
As I waited, I eyed the ever-present clouds looming overhead.
They had been threatening most of the day, sprinkles of rain keeping the air cool and the ground damp.
I had replaced the fluffy jumper I’d been intending to wear with a long-sleeved wool shirt and had my green waterproof jacket tied about my waist.
Quiet descended, dropping over the town like a veil, and I turned my attention forward again.
A drum sounded, a heavy drone vibrating in the distance.
Then another joined in. And another. Soon there was a pulsating chorus of beats, all moving in my direction.
From my vantage point, I could see a group of people advancing down the road.
They wore robes, reminiscent of Druids of old, their hooded faces covered in white paint.
Others wore barely anything at all, firesticks twirling around their heads.
Leading the progression was another robed figure, face painted black, carrying a lit torch.
They danced down the street to the beat of those drums. Twisting and gyrating.
Bending and curling. The firesticks zigzagged through the air, embers floating off in the wisps of wind.
When the procession reached the pyre, the robed man in front held out his arms. With a torch in one hand, he raised his other and shouted his words to the gods of old.
He gave thanks for the harvest and for the feast that would come.
I was unable to hear the full extent of his speech, but a great cheer went up as he turned and lit the fire.
When the pyre roared to life, cloaked villagers emerged from the crowd, carrying the cut sticks I had seen earlier.
They each caught a flame from the fire, and with a trail of skipping children, they walked the road, illuminating the lanterns that lined the path.
I watched them walk by me, and with a smile at those who followed, I fell into step behind, heading for home.
Orange and pink painted the sky. The hues tinted the waters of the loch with the warmth of the setting sun. My smile was just as warm, and when I reached for my phone, it carried through in my tone.
“Hi, Sarah. How are you?”
“I’m starting to feel better,” she replied, though she still sounded congested. “Why are you smiling? And what’s that noise?”
“The village is having a Fire Festival for Samhain. It’s just finished, so I’m walking away so I can hear you better.”
“Village? What village?” she asked, suspicion evident.
Shoot! I realised my mistake too late and scrambled to reply. “Uh…” Think quick, think quick. “Dean Village. Dean Village in Edinburgh,” I said, discharging a breath.
“Oh, right,” she replied, with no hint of doubt.
I quickly changed the subject, eager to distract her from my slip-up. “I’m glad you called. I wanted to talk to you about something else I found in Dad’s papers. It’s my birth certificate, but there’s a mistake on it. It has me listed as a boy.”
The silence was so loud, I swore I could hear crickets.
“Sarah? Are you there?” I briefly glanced at the phone screen, checking for service.
A heavy sigh sounded before her response came through, thick with emotion. “Rowan, you know I love you. And your parents…they adored you more than anything in this world.” Her words carried a sense of sadness, and for some reason, it made my chest tighten with apprehension.
“Yes?” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.
“There’s something you should know. Something that happened twenty-five years ago. Something I have wanted to tell you for a long time, but your mother forbade me.”
My heart thudded, skipping a beat before thumping louder and louder. Harder and harder. I was at the end of the harbour now, standing next to the entrance to the woods. Flames disappeared around a bend in the trail, the lantern lighters moving on.
“You already know we holidayed in Lochinver,” she continued, unaware of my location. “But while we were there, something happened. Something that changed our lives.”
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “What happened?” I asked, voice trembling. “Is this something to do with the letter I found?”
“Yes,” she confirmed. Her voice grew quieter. “We…we didn’t know what we were doing. What the consequences would be.”
“What do you mean? What did you do?” I pressed.
“There was nothing particularly special about that day, except that it was Samhain. Nothing else stood out as extraordinary. We were at the hotel bar speaking with some locals and one of the patrons told us a story.” Her voice had grown distant.
A cough sounded and she choked out an apology.
“We were told if a sick child was left in the Culag Woods, a healthy child would be exchanged for it.”
“What?” I stared at the wooden sign in front of me. Culag Woods.
“We were young. A little bit drunk,” she admitted, her voice heavy with guilt. “So, we placed your bassinet in the tree, watching it the entire time. But…” She trailed off, and another cough spluttered in my ear.
“But what?” I asked. “Are you trying to tell me you believed a mythical story you were told – one about changelings?”
I had heard such stories before. My aunt herself used to read me fairy tales before bed. Tell me fables and folklore. It was one of my most treasured memories. But my parents were always so stoic and logical. They had actually believed in this nonsense?
It started to rain, and I glanced up as the soft drops fell upon my head. Stepping into the shelter of the trees, I moved further up the path.
“Rowan,” she whispered. “You weren’t the child we placed into that tree.”
My heart stopped. Along with my lungs. And my feet. Breath caught in the back of my throat, choking me. “What do you mean, I wasn’t the child you placed in the tree? Who was put in the tree, Sarah?”
“Your parents – they had a son. His name was Rowan. It was he who we placed in the tree. But then the mist came, and we got scared. It happened so quickly.”
I had a brother.
I couldn’t speak. My mind reeled as I tried to comprehend what she was saying.
“This is madness. What mist? I don’t understand. What are you trying to say?”
She sighed again. Loudly this time. “Rowan Lesley Anderson was David and Helen’s son.
That is why the certificate you found said ‘male’.
He had croup, so we placed him in the tree with this mistaken silly belief that he would get better.
But when we retrieved him, it was you. We were frantic!
We spoke to anyone who would listen. Asked so many questions.
But every avenue was a dead end. That letter was the last time your father made enquires.
We have not spoken of it since. Your mother refused to speak of it ever. ”
I shook my head. Shook all over. Anger swelled and swelled and swelled. “You mean to tell me you just found me in the woods and took me home?”
“We couldn’t just leave you there!” she exclaimed. “Nobody claimed you; they all said the same thing. Sìthbheire. Changeling.”
She-vair-eh. I had heard that word before. The man at the bar had said it, but I just assumed I had heard him wrong. Misunderstood his accent.
Suddenly, a memory from my childhood came to mind.
I would have been eight or nine at the time.
I had overheard a conversation that I hadn’t fully grasped.
An acquaintance of my mother’s had remarked on my red hair, enquiring where it had come from.
My mother had appeared nervous, and looked at me almost fearfully, before she laughed it off.
She had said it must have been a recessive gene.
Both of my parents had dark hair. Dark eyes.
I had hated my red hair for years following that encounter.
“But my name is Rowan?” I blurted out, her words sinking in.
“Yes. When we returned to England with you and not Rowan, your father arranged a transfer to Surrey almost immediately. The job was the perfect excuse, and we relocated within the week and cut all ties with our previous life. Your father had the birth certificate changed. It was easy enough to do in his position.”
My mind reeled again. “But where did I come from? I wasn’t their real child?” My voice broke. My heart fractured.
“Rowan, they loved you more than anything in this world. Don’t ever think otherwise.
You were the only blessing to come from the entire situation.
We grieved the loss of that little boy, but you were such a delightful, happy, healthy baby, we fell in love with you instantly.
I know I did. We don’t know how it happened or where you came from – all we were told was that the fairies had left you. ”