“Ailsa, come quick. Daniel’s been hurt,” Brodee said as he approached.

Wolf, Ailsa’s wolf companion and sometimes only friend, tugged on her skirt. Ailsa tried to shoo the creature away as she ran to the wagon to grab her bag of healing herbs and followed Brodee. As they ran to the injured man, she recalled her time in the colonies. The people didn’t trust her because of her family and her faith. When someone she treated died through no fault of hers, the villagers blamed her. It finally led to them driving her away under the threat of death if she ever returned. Those fears still haunted her. She feared treating people for their ailments, even though she had learned everything from Grandmother Marion, a talented healer.

  The community of people that she found here in St. Andrew’s, Scotland embraced her and trusted her talents at healing. Ailsa felt more welcome and at home than she ever had in the colonies. But that fear still lay coiled in her gut like a poisonous snake waiting to strike.

 When she reached Daniel, he was sitting up, joking with his wife Brigid. “Don’t ye worry yourself, lassie. I’m hardly hurt at all. Just a little bump on me head.” He winced as he reached to take Brigid’s hand.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Ailsa said as she knelt beside Daniel. She touched his arm and he winced again when she tried to move it. “I think it’s a little more than a bump on the head. It appears as if you’ve broken your arm. I can give you some tea and wrap this up, but it will take some time to heal. Now about your head. You are going to have a nice lump here and a headache for a few days. The tea will help with that, but I will make you a compress to put on your head. Brodee, fetch the wagon to take Daniel home.” Ailsa turned to Brigid. “He shouldn’t be alone. I’ll go with him.”

“No, Ailsa. You shouldn’t miss the festival because of Daniel’s clumsiness.”

“But what about the boys and the festival?” Ailsa said as a small boy pulled on his mother’s skirts with a sad face, small tears forming in his eyes.

“They can stay, I’ll watch them and bring them home after the evening meal,” Clare said, taking the boy’s hand.

An hour later Ailsa and Brodee returned to the festival. Wolf and Clare greeted them. “Will Daniel be okay?”

Ailsa nodded. “Just needs some rest to give his bones and head time to heal. Your Da got the doctor while I made Daniel comfortable, so he is good hands between Brigid and the doctor.” She knelt beside Wolf and scratched behind her ears. “You took care of the boys, did you?”

Wolf’s tail wagged and she licked Ailsa’s face.

  “Ailsa McKinnon,” a silky voice wafted on the breeze. Ever since her return to the St. Andrew’s day festival something felt different. Sadness and curiosity flooded her as the voice continued to whisper to her on the gusty November breeze. She glanced around the field as something drew her toward the remains of Dragon Manor, a home only seen in her dreams and one in certainly far better shape than the one she was currently visiting. Hundreds of years of weather and fire left the house, though still intact, a crumbling shell of what it had once been.

The sights and sounds of the festival revellers faded as the whispers grew louder. 

“Ailsa McKinnon,” the calm peaceful voice repeated. 

Ailsa’s steps quickened as the landscape around her changed. She glanced back at the late autumn fields. They transformed into a flower filled meadow, with children swinging on the wooden swing hanging from an old oak tree, and new lambs cavorting.  Dry dead grass became lush and green, and flowers bloomed in the yard.

Ailsa placed a foot on the first stone step and the cracked stone healed.  She took another hesitant step and touched the crumbling stone wall of the house. It was transformed to newly quarried and cut stone and engraved on the cornerstone, Established in 1572. She moved her hand to the rusted doorknob. It turned to a bright brass knob and hinges on what had been a falling down, broken wooden door, now a new, freshly built door. It was as if centuries of degradation hadn’t passed.

“Ailsa McKinnon,” the voice called as she opened the towering door to Dragon Manor. The sight that greeted her was not what she expected, and she hesitated, afraid to enter as questions filled her mind. This was the home of her ancestors, finally a chance to learn and understand her family history. But why were they calling to her?

Tapestries hung on the stone walls, each singing a different story of war, love and hate and led her through the circular room to the crescendo of the song, a mirror that called her home. On one side of the mirror, a tapestry depicting a strong, courageous, sapphire dragon. On the opposite side hung a tapestry displaying a pure, grace filled, white unicorn. The two creatures that came to her before she fled the colonies.

An altar stood in the centre of the room. Draped on it was a cloth with the cross of St. Andrew so carefully sewn on. The full-length mirror was framed with winding green ivy, dotted with purple thistle flowers.  Ailsa walked toward it, watching the mirror as her reflection faded in and out.  As she lay a hand on the altar a swirling whirlpool filled the mirror, blocking her image.

“Ailsa McKinnon,” the soft voice echoed in the room and called her to the mirror. “Come to me, this is your legacy to take.”

“What legacy?” she asked as she walked around the altar and reached a shaking hand toward the mirror. As she touched it her hand sank into it, as if it were a still pool of water. She jerked back, but something held her and yanked her through the mirror.

A small chill ran through her body as she landed on the ground on the other side of the mirror. The fresh piney scent from the forest of Scotch pines greeted her. Dragons and unicorns played in the meadow, as Grandmother Marion’s ghost stepped out of the trees. Ailsa wanted to run to her, but an invisible force held her back.

“What is this place?” Ailsa asked as she glanced around the purple meadow of thistle.

“You are in Legend Haven, the place where all legends and prophecies await their proper time for revelation,” Grandmother Marion answered. “You have been invited here as one to learn the prophecy and the legend. And if you succeed, you may one day join us here as a protector.”

A scream tore through the peaceful tableau, “She’s not welcome. She must leave.” A dark dragon flew overhead breathing fire. A second followed with a flash of lightning and a rain of acid fell to the ground, setting the forest aflame. Another spectre appeared.

“Remember, we love you. You are strong enough,” her grandmother whispered as she faded away.

“You are not worthy. Death comes to all who love you. You doubt yourself and that makes you a danger to all. Your weak powers cannot heal, only kill,” the new ghost chanted.

Ailsa turned to run back to the mirror, but the mirror was gone and where it had stood were her parents. She ran toward them, and they transformed into burned remains.

“It’s your fault we are dead. You should have stayed away from the village, away from that boy,” the burnt husks screamed in unison.

“NO! That’s not what happened.” Ailsa dropped to her knees, tears dripping from her eyes. She brushed her hand over the thistle flowers at her feet. The thistles punctured her fingers and drew blood.

“You killed us. You betrayed us,” her father’s burnt ghost said.

“The prophecy is not for you,” her mother said.

“You’re wrong!” Ailsa cried as the spirits faded into the burning barn. She stood and raced after them. “Don’t leave me.”

They weren’t right, were they? She wasn’t a murderer. Was she?

“Murderer, murderer,” the voices of her parents floated like sparks in the hot winds.

The burning forest faded until all that remained was a hot desert stretching endlessly, a barren wasteland where her fears were exacerbated like the parched earth beneath the scorching sun. Any mirages of salvation remained elusive and ever fading this horizon taunting her. The unforgiving sands buried all hope like forgotten relics, and the relentless wind of desolation howled through her heart, leaving only the echoes of longing in its wake. Her shoes disappeared and the charred grass burned her tender feet and tore her skirt. She knelt and crawled through the hot earth searching for something that would prove her innocence but found nothing as wicked laughter echoed.

Ailsa sat back on her heels as a black horse with a single rider loped out of the skeletal forest followed by a limping gray wolf with blood streaming from an injured limb. Atop the horse, her sister, Celise flopped like a dead fish, her limbs broken and posed at odd angles, spine mangled. The horse and wolf raced to the chasm in front of the forest and tumbled in. The transparent white figure of Celise floated out of the chasm, followed by the ghostly wolf pup. Celise screamed “You didn’t listen. You chased that vicious wolf pup. It’s your fault I’m dead. You killed me!” The wolf pup caught up to Celise and bit through her leg causing them both to tumble back into the chasm.

“No, that’s not what happened! Don’t leave me here,” Ailsa cried as she crawled across the burning sand. She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t hold her. She fell back to the sand as a river of flaming lava filled the chasm and flowed toward her. Her body felt as if it were on fire.

“Here you will remain,” a ghostly voice hissed in the burning wind.

Darkness blanketed the desert and icy winds blasted, freezing the lava, and leaving Ailsa desperately cold. Ghosts of a mother and baby floated in a circle around Ailsa. “You killed us. You are worth less than worthless.”

The baby was blue and sickly. Ailsa remembered the baby she delivered, a healthy, bouncing boy, a little fussy perhaps, but thriving, nonetheless. The mother had been worn out but still embraced her infant and welcomed it into her little family. Now she screamed, “I don’t want the abomination. Take it away. You have killed us both.”

“That’s not the way it was. You have twisted everything.” Ailsa cried into the cold desert. “When I left you were healthy.”

As Ailsa’s tears fell, they froze on her cheeks, never reaching the ground. Her shivering stopped as her body froze. The landscape transformed from a freezing tundra to a lush green forest and light filled her vision. She breathed in the warm air as her body thawed.

“I have to move. I have to find my way out of here.” A flash of white fur caught her eye. She scrambled to her feet and chased the apparition. A stream appeared between her and the vision. She stumbled into the cold water. Soon the water was up to her chest. A foul smell assaulted her senses as she waded through the bracken water. A chorus of ghost voices battered her tired mind. Did I really kill them? Is it my fault they died?

Ailsa reached the blood-soaked beach. Moaning and crying echoed across the sand as tortured souls sank beneath the sands, welcoming Ailsa.

“Welcome to the beach of despair, to the pain you have wrought. Welcome to your guilt and doubt.” The souls stitched together a dark quilt made of all the tears shed by Ailsa’s victims. They wrapped it around her shoulders and led her to a deep pit. An old woman floated over the pit. Ailsa could barely make out the opposite side of the pit but saw a hazy figure. A white wolf trotted around the circumference and growled at the floating ghost.  When it reached Ailsa, it sat on its haunches with its tail wagging excitedly. Ailsa sighed. “Finally, a friend.” She reached down and patted Wolf on the head.

“Ignore her. She doesn’t belong,” the floating spectre said to Ailsa.

Wolf’s eyes pleaded with Ailsa to follow as the wolf started to scamper away. Ailsa took a step.

“No! You belong here. Come to me, pay for your sins in the everlasting torture.” The ghost floated closer and stretched out a skinny almost bonelike hand. Ailsa stared into the pit, groping hands clawed at her trying to grab and pull her down.

“No, Ailsa, you are not meant to be here. My Grandmother MacLeish is the one that doesn’t belong.” Grandmother Marion’s soft voice whispered over the loud cacophony of swirling souls. “Come to me. I have much to share, and you must return to your world.”

“But Grandmother, I’ve hurt so many. I am responsible for the deaths. If I go back, more will die as you did. I am not strong enough. I can’t heal like you.”

“Aye, Ailsa, you’re not strong. You have killed, not healed. You do not belong in that world where you will and have destroyed so many. Join the souls and suffer for your weaknesses,” the ghost said.

“Lady Joanna MacLeish, it is you who does not belong,” A voice boomed as the dark clouds parted and the sun broke through while a warm, gentle rain fell and cleansed the earth.

Lady MacLeish’s ghost grabbed Ailsa and pushed her toward the ever-shrinking pit. A bloody hand grabbed Ailsa’s foot and pulled. Wolf bit the hand. It howled and retreated. Lady MacLeish’s ghost melted as the rain landed on her.

The loving faces of her parents, of Celise, and of the happy mother and her baby floated over the purple thistle flowers where the pit had been.

A vision of Ailsa’s grandmother on her deathbed with Ailsa weeping at her side manifested.

“Ailsa, mo chridhe, it is time for me to go. I’m sorry we didn’t have more time for me to tell you of the legend and prophecy. But maybe it is better that way. Take the adventure that awaits. I will always be with you.” Grandmother Marion breathed her last.

“No! Don’t go. I can heal you. I can do more!” vision Ailsa cried. The vision faded, and Grandmother’s ghost floated to her side.

“There was no more that you could do for any of us.” Grandmother Marion said as the floating heads nodded.

“But…”

St. Andrew materialized next to Ailsa’s grandmother and said, “My child there are no buts. All that happened was meant to be. You must stop doubting, stop fearing.” Wolf wagged her tail and trotted over to St. Andrew. The saint reached down and patted her head.

“You need to see past the false accusations of evil people and see the truth. And only then will the legend unfold, and the prophecy be fulfilled,” St. Andrew said. “To do that you must cast away all fear and doubt and leave this place.”

“Can you save me, help me find my way out?”

Saint Andrew shook his head. “I can’t save you. Only you can save yourself, by chasing fear and doubt away and putting your faith in God. Then you will find your way and fulfill your destiny.” Saint Andrew ascended into the heavens.

Grandmother Marion became solid and dressed in her clan tartans. She took Ailsa’s hand. “I have one last gift, that will guide you on your way.” She unpinned her plaid brooch from her earasaid. “This is the sigil and shield of the Dragon and Unicorn clans. Wear this brooch and heed these words: Courage, Healing, Strength, Purity, Grace, and Passion. For they will be your guiding light. And the lines of the prophecy will awaken:

Prophecy whispers on the wind carried through ancient lore.

Of the Dragon and the Unicorn, their destinies to explore.

Embrace the legacy bestowed and let it guide your way.

For the union of these bloodlines shall shape a brand-new day.

Ailsa grasped the brooch in her hands.

“You’re not ready. You’re not worthy,” a voice whispered in her mind. Ailsa ignored the hateful words as she watched her grandmother slowly fade.

“Don’t leave me. I’m not ready. I can’t do this without you.”

“You can. Helpers will find you. You will have all you need. I love you, mo chridhe.” Grandmother was gone.

Ailsa gazed at the now green meadow. The portal mirror appeared in the distance. Her and Wolf with slow steps walked towards its shining light.

She patted Wolf on the head. “Time to learn what this prophecy is all about.” They walked through the portal and back to the St. Andrews Day festival.