Wings of Change

Dun Charlabhaigh

I am speechless as he pushes open the gate. We duck beneath the capstone and through the entry to the stone tower. It is a narrow opening, and long; I immediately know that defense of such a tower would be a simple thing. Two or three armed men could hold this entry against an entire horde of attackers.

I look at Biré's well-muscled back as he leads the way into the broch. This is a strong family. An alliance with them would not be a bad thing. And if that alliance was forged through a partnership between a future clan leader and another clan's seer, well—

Inside the broch the air is surprisingly clear, considering the thickness of the walls. The room we come into is wide and round; smaller chambers open around the wall and within I can see carefully-packed piles of provision baskets, sacks of grain, and rolled fleeces. The center of the large chamber is taken up by a firepit with a large spit. A woman with the same golden-brown hair and sea-green eyes as Biré stirs a bubbling pot of stew. My eyes follow the tendrils of smoke and steam upwards from the firepit, see that they flow easily through small openings in the stone walls around our heads, past the wooden platform of the next level.

"Mam," Biré says to the woman stirring her pot, as he ducks his head respectfully. "This is Aati of the Damnonii. I have brought her to meet you, and to see the broch."

She straightens, pushing a strand of hair back from her face. Her features are sharp, but her eyes are kind. "My son is proud of our home," she says, a smile crossing her lips. "Our clan is strong, and we are able to defend ourselves well here."

Biré is a little embarrassed, but he reaches for my hand to lead me to where stone steps nestle between the double stone walls. His Mam doesn't miss the touch and looks meaningfully after us.

The stone steps are deep, and steep, but sturdy as they rise between the walls. The broch is built as if a smaller tower were nested inside a larger one, with the stairs winding upwards between the two. Doorways open from the stairs into large round rooms, each one a little smaller as the walls lean in towards the top. Through the doorways I see beds constructed of stripped logs piled with sheep-fleece bedding and warm furs. There are neatly piled possessions between the sleeping areas, and even small stone cupboards spaced into the walls.

There are three levels above the ground, and it is clear that this is a large clan. "How many are the Epidii?" I ask curiously, as we climb to the very top of the broch and emerge onto a wooden platform beneath the sky. The stone walls rise as high as our waists, behind which defenders could crouch, protected from missiles flying from below. Alba's Hebridean sky is crystalline blue above our heads, and the ever-present flock of falcons circles through the air.

"We are nearly three hundred strong," Biré says proudly. "Almost fifty live here in the broch. My grandfather is the Laird of the Epidii." His shoulders straighten further as he looks out over the countryside from this high vantage point. "The rest are scattered across the island. If we are attacked, all come to the broch for safety."

Has he brought me here as a warning, to show me how strong his clan is? But I have felt a connection with this boy from the beginning. This is not a warning, but a welcome, I am sure. Biré wants to impress me, not frighten me. His eyes on me are soft, not like the pounding, relentless sea, more like the small waves which ripple on the loch shore.

I step closer, reach out a hand to him. Without warning one of the flock circling overhead drops, darts between us with a wild cry. Then all of the birds follow, as if trained; they flash around our heads in a mad dance of feathers and wind. I duck instinctively, but Biré throws his arm around my head protectively and draws me into his chest. Beneath his leather jerkin I can feel his heart thumping wildly, and I look up to find a vein in his neck pulsing. He is beautiful, this boy. I think that he could almost be a falcon himself, sleek and powerful and golden.

I feel like a tiny falcon myself, a kestrel, blood beating wildly, wings poised to launch me into the air. If I were a bird, I swear there is no creature on earth that could fly fast enough to catch me now.

No one but him.