The Great North Wind

“Seventeen times the Wind blew but never once did it cut Somerled down. He just kept on leaping and twisting, dodging the great gusts of air that the cold North Wind was throwing at him.”
The children listened intently to the golden story, a patchwork history of the ancestry of the teller, the storymaster, Ranald MacLeod.
He’d told this tale to so many generations of children, it was part of their heritage too. The story he was currently telling (greatly amplified and injected with sublime levels of fantasy) was the story of his grandfather, Somerled MacLeod, and that man’s journey from the Scottish mainland to the Isle of Skye, where he settled and raised a family. This family became a settlement of which the assembled throng were the latest brood.
“Leaping, so he was, from crevice to cliff-top, every footstep was precarious. Old Somerled, finding himself on a stable outcrop, he balanced on one foot and waited.”
“The wind had one more breath left in him, and then he would be drained. Somerled stared at the squall as it took aim. Below him, far below him lay the valley floor. Its rocks and boulders leered up at him like vicious knives, waiting to stab his body if it fell.”
Ranald MacLeod was himself an old man now, and it wasn’t hard for the children to believe that Ranald was, in fact, describing his own life of adventure.
He had long white hair and a well kempt beard. He wore a brown tunic and firm leather boots. He looked every inch the once-great hero and he paused his tale for a moment, building the tension, feeding off the wonder that he saw in the faces of every child gathered there.
“‘Oh great North Wind,’ called Somerled to the spiteful spirit of the storm, ‘My name is Somerled MacLeod, and I have bested you. I have dodged your gusts and gales seventeen times, and I can see you have but one breath left in you,’ so said the proud and fearless Somerled to the great North Wind.”
The children gripped onto their knees now, or they clenched their two hands together so the skin turned quite white.
“Now Somerled, he was clever and he was weary. He doubted he had the strength to leap back up the cliff face to safety, should the wind make one final attack. So he used guile, to try and outwit his enemy.”
“‘Oh, North Wind, lord of the clouds and the rains, I beseech you, call off this assault,’ called Somerled with booming voice from lungs filled with air. ‘You know I will best you again, and I have no desire to see your fine breath extinguished.’”
“But with this the wind seemed to pick up once more. It whistled around him, picking up leaves and twigs, dashing small stones onto the ground, many feet below.”
“‘I, the mighty Somerled MacLeod, will soon leave Scotland, land of my birth. And, with your own ancient approval and aid, shall fly from this mystic realm, across the sea to the fertile land of An t-Eilean Sgitheanach, there to start a new and proud race.’”
“At this, the wind began to howl in Somerled’s ears. A bitter, hollow whine, like that of the wounded stag. But Somerled stood there, bravely. He stood on his one leg, on his great perch, high above that Scottish kingdom which had cast him out, and faced down the wicked wrath of the North Wind.”
“‘In return for safe passage to the Winged Island,’ Somerled continued, ‘I hereby swear that this man here before you, and all of his many descendants, thereafter, shall give worship and make the relevant sacrifices to you, the great North Wind, for your benevolence and omnipotence.’”
The children shifted now, some stood up. They didn’t understand all the words they heard, but they understood from the slow and careful pronunciation of their storyteller that these were grave and important incantations. These were words to be in awe of, words which were written into every aspect of their culture, their society, their history.
“And as the lightning flashed and the full force of the gathering storm approached the mountainside with a final grimace and roar, Somerled closed his eyes and held up his hands to the coming cloud of darkness.”
“And at this act of utter faith and true self-sacrifice, the great North Wind relented and its brooding storm-clouds parted.”
In the circle, around the fire where Ranald was sitting, the children relaxed. They were pleased, relieved. They looked at each other and whispered words to friends.
The story would continue a little way, they knew. It would continue until Somerled climbed down from the mountain, ate and then rested. But they had all heard their favourite part and were now exhausted.
Ranald looked upon them and smiled from the corner of his mouth at the small yawns and the slight rubbing of eyes from tiny hands.
“And that’s all of the tale we’re going to hear for today,” he said. “But we all know, don’t we children, that Somerled MacLeod had many, many more adventures before he reached An t-Eilean Sgitheanach, and settled here in Trotternish.” They nodded as one sleepy whole.
“Well then, perhaps we shall hear another story tomorrow. Now goodnight children, go on to your mothers now.”
There were a few groans, but all the children got up, albeit in a slight daze, and wandered off back to their parents, their families and their beds.
Ranald was left there alone, on his wooden stool, backlit by the roaring fire at the centre of the settlement. Content, he let the fire warm his back as he gazed through the twilight at the village before him.
He looked up at the sky and saw the few dark scudding clouds rolling on safely by. “This is how it is,” he said aloud, to himself. “This is how it can be.” And, in his head, he offered a prayer of thanks to the great North Wind.