Gaelic (A Year of Writing Prompts)

I’ve always wanted to visit Scotland, play on the golf courses, visit the highlands, and explore the old castles of the clans.  Today was an unseasonably warm day in the highlands, or that’s what the tour guide told us.  There were only six of us on the tour plus the guide.  We purposely planned it that way so we could get the most of our visit.  Three couples, one guide, two castles. 

The first castle was set near a loch and even with the breeze coming from the water it was still hot.  I could smell the fresh air surrounding us and imaged the place smelling of wood smoke from the fire pits, harsh soap from the laundry, and animal manure.  Without the hustle and bustle of a full time, live-in castle, the only smells were from the water way, the grass, and the dirt.

Walking inside, I was assaulted with a musty smell that almost knocked me off my feet.  As I looked at my traveling companions, I wondered if they felt the same thing but they were speaking softly to their partners and pointing at things of interest.  My brows knotted as the giant ballroom we were standing in began to shimmer.  My group’s voices started to fade away.  Suddenly, I was in the ballroom but this time I was surrounded by a clan of Scottish highlanders.  The men wore their clan colors in their kilts, standing tall and proud.  The women wore the latest in gowns, fashioned after the English elite with a little French influence in the droop of the neckline and the flirty lace around the bosom.

I couldn’t understand a word they said realizing they were speaking Gaelic.  At least that’s what I assumed.  I stood still hoping no one would notice me wearing my cargo shorts, hiking shoes, and Bob Marley t-shirt with my hoodie tied around my waist.  I had pushed my sunglasses on top of my head and my hair was pulled up in a messy bun.  So far no one looked my way and I relaxed a little, listening to this guttural language.  I tried to understand what they were saying by watching their gestures, but it was impossible.  I caught a few words that sounded like English words but it wasn’t enough to piece together the conversations.  There was one word, though, that was repeated over and over again.  Amadan.  I memorized the sound hoping to get someone to translate. 

Everyone in the room fell silent as a man and woman walked in through the entry doors from the hallway.  The crowd parted leaving an aisle in the middle leading from the entryway to the opposite side of the hall where a large banquet table sat.  Behind this table was a regal looking gentleman with a beautiful tartan of dark green with bold, bright blue lines.  Thinner brown lines cut the blue in half adding an earth tone to the cloth.  A gold brooch formed in the shape of an eagle was pinned to his starched white shirt.  The man stood slowly and nodded at the couple who had paused right inside the entryway.  Their steps echoed in the silent hall as they made their way slowly to the banquet table and the man who I assumed was the clan leader.  The people nearest me kept whispering that word.  Amadan.  Since this looked like a wedding, I wondered if the word meant love, or beautiful bride, or maybe it was an expression of joy for this union.

The soon-to-be bride was wearing a cream-colored gown with small roses in gold embroidered around her neckline and hemline.  Her bronze vest was also embroidered with simple leaf patterns, but it enhanced her pale skin and tiny waist.  She would look up at her partner then look quickly down at the ground, blushing.

The soon-to-be groom seemed a little plain, in my opinion.  His tartan looked faded and worn.  The colors were almost indistinguishable although you could tell there was possibly some red and orange in the mix.  His face was red looking freshly scrubbed but his hair was a tangled mess, wisps flying every which way and the start of dreadlocks in some areas on his head.

When I looked at the well-dressed gentleman at the head table, I caught his expression.  It was thunderous.  When the couple reached the table, the knelt in front and looked down at the ground, holding hands.  The gentleman, or clan leader, put his hands in the air.  It remained silent and some people looked like they were holding their breath.

“Amadan.”

One of the guests suddenly turned and looked directly at me.

“Babe.  Babe,” he insisted.

I shook my head and the ancient Scottish clan scene faded away.  I was looking into the eyes of my husband.  The rest of our group had gathered around me looking concerned.

“Are you okay, miss?” the tour guide asked.

“Yes,” I stammered.  I told them about my vision and the word I kept hearing.  “I was witnessing this beautiful wedding ceremony and I’m wondering what the word ‘amadan’ means.  It must be something romatic.”

I looked at the tour guide in shock as he burst out laughing.  This lasted for several minutes and I began to feel irritated.  Was he questioning my sanity?  Did he think I imagined the vision?  Did he think I was lying?  Before I could lost my temper, our guide got control of himself.

“Idiot.”  He chuckled.

I bristled, “Did you just call me an idiot?”

“No,” he answered quickly.  “The word you said, ‘amadan,’ it means idiot.  They must have been talking about the couple.”  He chuckled more as he pointed at the walls in the ballroom.

As we looked closely, we saw pictures on the walls that had faded over time.  The ones that looked older because the paint was barely visible were pictures of eagles soaring over the loch, battles of clans in their tartan colors, and royal women of the castle.  The newer paintings that weren’t as faded told a different story.  They were pictures of flower covered dragons, smiling fairies flying through fields of primrose, and Beira, the Queen of Winter, casting her freezing spell over the moss in the castle yard.

Amadan.  Idiot.  I don’t remember the rest of the visit because that’s all I could think about.  I was romanticizing about brutish Scottish clan men who fought hard and loved fiercely with their strong, independent women at their sides.  The idea of a clan leader painting fairytales on the walls would be the only memory I would keep.  The guttural, yet enchanting sounds of the Gaelic language would only be summed up in one word for the rest of my life.  Idiot.