Sometimes I like to write nonsense. This is one of those stories.
Once upon a time, deep in the heart of these hills, there lived a Scottish born lass named Fiona. Fiona was new to the Appalachians. Her family had been tossed off their land by the lowland, invading English during the Clarences. Now, Fiona was renowned throughout the hollers and coves for her unmatched talent as a spinner of wool grown by her Granny’s sheep. Her nimble fingers would dance on her spindle as she spun. She was so skilled that no matter how rough the wool, her yarn was as soft and delicate as a spider’s web, so fine that even the mist clinging over mountaintops and creeks couldn’t compare. And she knew her skill as spinner was of great importance to her family because it meant the difference between the cold winter winds seeping into their bones, stealing their strength, staying well and warm until the Spring of the leaf. Her spinning also provided money and was well traded for all kinds of food to feed her younger siblings since her father’s passing.
On a chilly eve during the Fall of the Leaf, as the hillsides were draped in a thick blanket of fog that muffled even the whispers in these woods, Fiona sat by her crackling hearth, turning her Granny’s wool into thread. Her Granny was a wise auld soul who had seen as many seasons as the oak planted on the ridge above the house to watch over the family, and she observed Fiona with a knowing smile, her eyes like highland pools, reflecting the knowledge and secrets of generations before her.
“Fiona,” her grandmother began, her voice as comforting as the softest cottonwood down carried by the wind, “Ye’ve got yourself a gift that’s as rare as a Selkie. But remember, it ain’t just yer skill that makes yer thread so special; it’s the love and care ye pour into each and every twist. Good night, lass. Mind the door and let your heart lead always.” With that Granny kissed Fiona on the forehead, glanced to the door, and smiled as she headed off to bed.
Fiona nodded earnestly, taking her grandmother’s words deep into her heart, like seeds sown into fertile soil. With determination, she continued to spin, allowing the love for her family and friends and these hills seep into her threads, as the flames in the hearth flickered in approval, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
As the night crept on, the old clock struck midnight, and the wind outside howled like a banshee announcing death, as if the spirits of the mountains were sharing their dark secrets, rattling the shutters and causing the flames to dance even more. But Fiona spun on lost in her love. Suddenly, a knock echoed on the door, and it swung open of its own accord, revealing a world beyond the cozy hearth. In walked a peculiar figure, a wee woman no taller than a heather, her appearance as enigmatic as the moon’s glow on a starry night. Her eyes sparkled like emeralds, and her smile shimmered like a dragonfly’s wings in the sunlight, the air carrying the mysteries of the ancient wood lands far beyond these hills.
Fiona looked up, her heart beating like a drum, and her breath visible in the chill of the night, suddenly filling the room like Highland Mist. “Who might ye be?” She asked shakely.
“I’m Moira, the Greatest Fairy Spinner,” the other worldly woman responded, her voice as melodious as a mountain stream, tinged with the lilting cadence of Gaelic. “I’ve heard tell of yer remarkable wool-spinning skills, and I’ve come to challenge ye to a contest. To see if it is true that your skill is better than a Sìdh”.
Fiona hesitated, holding her breath. “And if I don’t accept ye challenge – then what?” She retorted.
Moira drifted closer on the mist, her feet not touching the ground, “Then you will never spin again.”
Suddenly, fiery determination burned in Fiona’s eyes, her heart filled with love for her kin, knowing she was the difference for them between warmth and the cold of winter. Wordlessly she nodded her head and took her worn wooden spindle in hand. The Fairy Spinner produced a spindle crafted from pure silver, and when she set it to whirling, it spun with astonishing speed, a silver thread weaving through the air, like moonlight on a midnight loch. The room filled with a soft, melodious hum as her spindle spun, a sound akin to the whisper of leaves in the deepest parts of the forest, a melody sung in the most ancient Highland tongue.
Fiona felt the weight of the challenge but fixed her gaze on her own spindle, pouring all her love and care into her work, her fingers moving with the grace of a Highland dancer. She spun and spun, each turn a rhythmic turn in the ancient dance, and the thread she created shone with a warm, golden glow, like the first light of dawn kissing the ridgeline above her home, reminiscent of a Highland sunrise.
The hours slipped away, and as the first light of dawn painted the hillsides, Moira finally halted. She studied Fiona’s thread, her emerald eyes like deep pools of mystery, and then her own, the silver thread shimmering in the growing daylight, like silver dew on the heather. With a nod of respect, she conceded, “Ye’ve won, Fiona. Yer thread tis not just beautifully spun; it’s imbued with love and care, like the gentle caress of the morning sun on the mountainside.”
Fiona finally halted herself and looked blankly at the Fairy Spinner. “I have but one question for you, My Lady, if I may?”
The Fairy nodded.
“How did ye come to be here given ye are from a land so far away?”
Moira laughed with a sound of rustling leaves, mist, and silent bird until the entire room was filled with light. “I live in the heart of every Highland Lass who holds the spindle and distaff, no matter how far from home she roams!”
With that Moira vanished in a shimmering burst of light, leaving Fiona with a room filled with fine silver, more thread then they could weave in 20 winters, and a heart filled with love.
I hope you enjoyed my silly fairytale.
Until next time,
Moriah
Kind Fibers 