Harkness – MacGillivray Stories

I ran into the forest after a morning’s work gathering shells from the shore. That unpleasant task is over, and it is now time to enjoy myself. Under the guise of washing clothes, I delve deeper into the forest. (I eagerly volunteer for such a chore, much to the puzzlement of my grandmother). Sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves and branches, rendering a speckled pattern on the forest undergrowth. In and out, I weave through the trees until the forest thinned. I emerged into a clearing and came to my ultimate destination in the heart of the wilderness: a magical stream. It was magical to me as a child of thirteen, as it sang to me.

“My name is Morag, and this is my story”.

In the embrace of nature, where the burbles of the burn and the whispers of the breeze speak to me, I have always found comfort. The gurgling burn that winds through Galmisdale is where I seek tranquility.

I find the sound of the water gently flowing over the pebbles soothing. It sounds like a song of acceptance and calm, with a melody I can understand. In order to cleanse itself of impurities before surrendering itself completely to the sea’s warm embrace, the burn snakes along as it flows down, leaving behind in its wake fragments of twigs and debris. Between the burn and the sea is a never-ending cycle of connection and separation; it resembles a pair of lovers who reluctantly must part ways, yet each believes they will reconnect at some later time. I experience a pleasant warmth in my heart with this thought.

Who could judge my wretched state? Certainly not An Sgurr, the imposing mountain that stands guard above the island with unyielding stoicism. And certainly not the burn, which—unlike the inhabitants of this unforgiving island—might mutter its misery to the moon; and yet, my burn won’t ever betray me and speak my name in disdain and condemnation.

My escapes are those moments when I stay near the burn. I can temporarily escape the weight of shame bearing on my shoulders and clinging on to me like a moss clinging on to a dead tree. I spend the remainder of my life under relentless assault from those who hate and despise me for being born out of wedlock. The islanders would never accept me as one of their own because of their strong ties to tradition and grim judgment.

I momentarily find peace while I rest by the burn. The water flows, not caring what society dictates about what should or shouldn’t be done, unfazed and uncaring. Nature accepts all of my perceived “flaws,” and she does not condemn me even when many people around me refuse to do the same. She accepts me for who I am. This is an important realization that springs to my innocent mind. In the company of nature, I am able to be who I am for a while before I return to the company of men and women, burdened by the shame that haunts me forever.