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LOREN TEAGUE |
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novelist |
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Highlanders in the Glens of Time The key to creating a Scottish hero is found within the imagination of us all. Actors such as Mel Gibson in Braveheart or even Liam Neeson in Rob Roy have stamped on our minds that the heroes of Scotland have achieved immortality. And they never lose—even if they die. But it is the hero’s imminent struggle for survival, no matter what the odds, that we find so fascinating. Recently, I was hard at work on my Scottish historical romance, Highland Rebel. Only I had a problem. My brain was telling me that my characters were too heroic—their problems too enormous. But most of all, the characters were birthed in modern times by myself—a writer who hadn’t been home to the Scottish Highlands for 18 years. I did what any other writer would do. I headed straight to the library for inspiration. And there, armed with books about Scotland, I started to read and research. Then afterwards when I’d had enough of reading, I took a memory drive to reach back into my Highland roots. It was winter. I was seventeen. Snow fell heavily upon the roughened ground of Culloden Moor. I couldn’t see anything. Just miles of bleak countryside. I shivered, wondering why I had come to Culloden Moor in the first place. My family were at home beside a roaring fire while I blindly searched for gravestones of long forgotten heroes. When I reached the area where the graves were said to lie, I stopped to get my bearings. A full moon hung low in the sky, just staring at me. Some Scots would say the supernatural was at work, others coincidence. But whatever alchemy was present that day, I could feel some sort of presence. It was there in the whisper of the wind. A few steps later I came across my first stone marking a mass grave. Sadness knotted my stomach the way it must have done for countless women as they had searched for their menfolk after the infamous battle of Culloden in 1746. Questions swamped my mind. How would I feel if I lost a lover, a father and a brother all in one day? Sleet hurtled in my face in defiance of my question. By now late afternoon had darkened to dusk, and every shadow was a ghost. I tried hard not to look too close at the Highlander who now walked softly beside me. He made no footprints. I could not help but admire his finely woven plaid, and silver dirk tucked snugly into his leather belt. I longed to pluck the sprig of oak off his blue bonnet and take it home with me to press against a scented handkerchief. Even the secret smile lurking upon his generous lips hinted at secrets I would never know. In the wavering torch light, I made my way homeward. Then it suddenly came to me how that seductive power of imagination had worked its age old magic—and I had succumbed. There is an intrinsic need, within our hearts, to believe in something greater and more powerful than ourselves. That the land of Scotland has bred men and women as resilient and dark as the granite stones found within the glens is an essential part of creating a Scottish hero. When our senses are given magnitude, our imagination becomes infinite. Nowadays, the only Highlanders that ride wild are those found in the glens of time but it is heartening to know they only sleep for a while. That is, until the next writer come along and pulls them from their resting place.
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