Allie had always believed in magic. Her grandparents who raised her knew which plants were poisonous and which contained healing qualities. They relied on the phases of the moon to plant the crops coaxed from rocky hill country soil. When the moon was full, strange and magical things happened. She looked out at the snow-covered ridges shrouded against the darkening sky. On cold stormy nights like this Grandpap had regaled the family with stories of ancient Celts who celebrated the Festival of Hogmanay at this time of year.
Now Allie was alone in her grandparent’s old farmhouse while a blizzard roared outside. The electric power had been off since early morning and the fire was burning low. The kitchen pantry had been stripped bare last fall at Grandpap’s wake. She’d ridden out many a storm in this old house as a kid, but never as uncertain and as fearful of the future as she was now. She’d fled the city and her cheating husband, Neil, to find sanctuary here.
Allie brought in more firewood and lit her grandma’s old oil lamp. The crystals hanging from the globe rim caught the firelight and sent out flashes of color. She remembered Grandpap talking about the power of the magical crystals dug from the mountainside. She could hear his voice, “You’ll do fine, girl. This is where you belong. There’s still magic in the Hogmanay moon.” (see page 30- Rebel Traveler)
Note: Hogmanay is the Scottish New Year
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