Marble

Marble is the stone of Potential, and Stability. Green-mottled marble from the isle of Iona also bears the properties of Security, and Knowledge. Only this marble in particular will properly produce the Earth sign in the energy pattern when using the gemstone calibration or purification ritual. All other marble stones, and all known replacement materials, produce only the Green color signifier when within an active crystalline matrix. This is acceptable for scrying patterns that do not require this Stone.

When using any of the organic material's calibration protocols, only yew berries have been found to produce the Earth sign.

It is a Turnstone – cooling from Summer to Autumn.

Known replacements – flint, bronze, or iron spearheads or arrowheads, granite, green jade, emeralds, peridot, malachite, copper, animal bile, horse hair, cooked sheep or goat meat, milk, cheese, toasted grain or seeds, unworked white clay, rawhide leather, yew berries, yew wood, unbleached linen cloth, wood ash.

"Nothing is more solid and more dependable than the Earth. And nothing is more changeable." - from "Motherlore", by Eubha Kelly

I've lived in Scotland for twenty years, but this place still has the ability to surprise me.

The Thirty-Fifth Annual Inverness Scottish Highland Festival, much as my uncle and I love it, hasn't been particularly surprising this year – in fact, apart from a notable 5 to 1 bet coming in on the opening day's main race, our yearly visit to this corner of the Highlands has been conspicuously undramatic. Not that I mind a bit of routine, of course. I could never have become a successful MP's secretary without a healthy amount of routine. But I had been hoping for some excitement here at the Festival. Usually one can hardly get away from some kind of drama – what with games like shinty and caber-tossing going on, not to mention all the dancing, and the stock and vegetable shows, and, of course, the horse races.

Which is why I thought nothing of it when, while we were strolling past the racetracks, an unruly stallion and rider broke out from the nearby stables, and whinnied and stamped their way over towards where midday racers were lining up at the starting gate. In fact, I hardly gave them more than a passing concerned glance or two – just enough to confirm that his rider was still seated, and, apparently, in control or about to regain control. That is, until the starting gun sounded, and the horse spooked or something. Then, suddenly, they wheeled around sharply, and began to plummet down the causeway – directly at me.

The next few seconds after that are in all ways a blur – of hands and legs and harness and elbows and knees, calling voices, stamping feet, black mane, red hair, blue eyes, and wild speed.

And that is how I now find myself in a supply tent on the complete other side of the festival grounds, being held tightly by a very large man – not for any intimate purpose, but to keep me from struggling or crying out – both of which I very much want to do. Not out of my initial fear, nor any real danger to my person, but out of my current rage and utter frustration.

The horse nearly threw us off in this direction, then bolted away from us, zig-zagging back in the direction of his stable. With little more than a grunt, the man practically carried me into this deserted supply tent, plumped me down in the middle of the floor, and retreated to a corner, where he conveniently found a chair, a small desk, and a lamp.

By that time, I'd got my wind back after the breathless rush of being abducted by this whirlwind of horse and man, and I took one deep breath, preparatory to screaming my head off.

But somehow, he anticipated me, swooped, and dragged me up from the floor and onto his lap. One of his arms wrapped itself around me, and his hand clamped firmly over my mouth. My nose he left uncovered, and his grip, while firm, is not too tight – I can breathe. But I cannot fight. My arms are pinned to my sides, and I am pointed away from any of his vital kickable places.

I give one helpless, petulant squirm, and then settle, defeated. But inwardly, I'm still stewing.

How dare this utter cad. . .

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him fish something out of his breast pocket. He clicks on the lamp, and holds the thing up to the light. I daren't try to turn my head and see better, but the small flickers of reflected light, and tiny metallic sounds are all I really need.

It's a piece of jewelry, and, since he's so clearly on the run, I can only assume he's stolen it. . .

I firmly tell myself not to be silly. I cannot possibly know that. It is only a theory. . .

A theory that is only further supported when he shifts, and digs out from some deeper pocket a handful of things that rattle and click when he dumps them on the desktop – things that scatter a rainbow of flashing darts of light all across the tent, even in the relatively dim glow of the desk lamp.

I am highly inexperienced in these things, but I am still more than woman enough to know when I am in the presence honest-to-goodness gems.

He sorts through them a bit, then makes an exasperated noise.

"Mph," he snorts, then whispers at me, "If I let ye free, will ye promise not ta scream?"

By this point, I am far more intrigued than I am either scared or furious. Why not let the beast talk to me? He can only further incriminate himself. . .

I manage a small nod under his heavy, gripping hand.

Slowly, he untangles himself from me, but does not let me up from his lap. Still seated on his thigh, I turn to look at the desktop more directly, and. . . I was right. Well, about the gemstones, at least. A small pile of them – some cut and faceted, some tumbled, some raw and unpolished, all either mounted, boxed or labeled – lie in a rainbow-coloured heap in the middle of the desk.

He goes back to sorting through them. Well, not so much sorting as removing sticky price tags and branded paper packaging, prying open cheap metal settings, and breaking apart plastic display boxes.

My fury slams back into me as I recognize the logo and brand name from one of the more popular booths at the festival. Scottish Heritage, in cooperation with at least a dozen local geology and gemologist clubs, had made a huge display of all the precious and semi-precious gems and minerals that could be found all across Scotland. The booth had large colour-coded maps, displays of prime examples of every stone, and fully recorded presentations about each one. And, of course, small samples and sets of rocks that you could buy.

It is one of the more expensive and elaborate sampler sets that my abductor is currently disemboweling before my eyes.

He is prizing a rather handsome piece of Cairngorm out from its admittedly shabby-looking silvertone setting, when my fury finally overflows from me with a vicious hiss.

"All this, and you're nothing but a miserable pickpocket?" I sneer.

He barely looks up from his task, "Nay, I'm a sneakthief – that's a totally different beast, ye ken."

"So you admit you're a beast?"

"I admit nothing!" He slams a fist on the desk, making the gems and rubbish jump. Then, slowly and deliberately, he turns and looks me squarely in the eye. "I didnae mean tae get ye involved, lass, an' I'm sorry. But I haven't time ta explain. . ." his mouth twists sarcastically, "Time!"

He snorts, and half-shrugs, and turns back to his small pile of purloined stones.

I cross my arms across my chest, and consider. Despite everything, there is less of the violent barbarian about him than I first assumed. The set of his mouth, the look in his eyes, even the quality of his speech – all suggest an educated man, pushed to extremes by circumstance rather than inclination. He's been rough towards me, yes, but not rapacious. He's even going after those stones with far more deliberation than greed.

I decide there is more – much more – going on here than meets the eye.

"So," I say, my voice about as calm and collected as I can make it, "Am I allowed to ask why you kidnapped me?"

He looks up sharply at the word kidnapped, "I didn't."

"It felt uncommonly like it, then," I retort, stung.

He harrumphs, "That old devil of a circus horse made straight for ye. If I hadna scooped ye up when I did, he'd have run ye straight over. If ye'd survived that, t'would have been a miracle."

I make my own exasperated sound, "All right. So what do you want? Me to thank you for abducting me?"

He sighs, and pauses over the last stone – a lovely little piece of polished Iona marble set in a cheap brass brooch - "How good are ye at believing impossible things?"

I manage a wry smile, "You mean like six imposs-"

He shakes his head and interrupts, "An' ye can forget six impossible things before breakfast – I'd need ye to believe two score impossible things before teatime, at least.

"Brillig, you mean?"

He knits up his forehead, confused.

Surprised, I prompt him, "What with the Alice reference I thought. . . brillig? "T'was brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimbal in the wabe"? You know - Jabberwocky? The poem? From Alice Through The Looking Glass?"

Slowly, as though his brain is conjuring up a very distant memory, recognition dawns in his eyes.

"Ah. Right," he laughs, sourly, "Yes, well. . . What if I told ye there was no white rabbit?" He pauses, looking down at the piece of jewelry in his hand, "No rabbit hole, no looking glass, no Wonderland – no dream, even – just. . . magic."

"Magic?" I ask, instantly dubious.

"Aye." He begins to bend back the feeble metal hooks holding the stone to the brooch, "Plain, simple, reliable and true magic."

Just how surreal this situation is suddenly hits me with a thoroughly disorienting wave. What on earth is going on?

"I. . . real magic?

"What d'ye mean? Ye canna fake magic, lass."

I put my hand to my forehead, not entirely certain that huge horse hadn't run me over after all. . .

"But, most magic is fake. . ."

He sighs, "Nay nay – not trickery – aye, that's all slight of hand and misdirection, right enough. I mean magic magic. The real thing is always real."

"Well. . . yes, it would be," I say, still highly dubious, and unsure where he's going with this.

"Aye. Well then. There we are."

"What do you mean "there we are"?" I ask, incredulously, "You've told me nothing!"

"Ye havenae said if ye're even capable of believing me yet."

"And you'd call that an excuse, I suppose?"

"For not telling ye yet, yes."

"Well I don't." I turn away from him in a huff, completely oblivious to the fact that I'm still perched on his lap.

"I. . ." he sighs again, then pauses for a long time.

Without a word, he sweeps the handful of gems into his palm, and dismisses with a gesture all the junk left on the desk.

Then, he opens his fist right in front of me, so I can't help but look at the bright colors shining in his hand, and gestures as though the gems fully explain what he says next.

"I. . . y'see, lass. . ." he runs his other hand messily though his hair, "I'm. . . I'm from the future."

I blink.

I pause, then blink again.

It's absurd.

Fantastic.

Impossible.

So absurd, fantastic and impossible that somehow, I instantly believe it. Only an utter idiot would try to float that as a lie, and only a very slightly lesser idiot would attempt to double-bluff with such a story. No, he's either insane, or telling the truth. And I've been in much too close a proximity with him to be in any doubt of his sanity. . .

He holds his palm out to me again, where he has rearranged the stones into something approximating rainbow order.

"Ruby Bay garnet, carnelian, yellow Cairngorm, Iona marble, aquamarine, Harris sapphire, Galloway amethyst, pink agate, and a Tay freshwater pearl." He closes his hand and puts the whole collection into a deep pocket in his coat, "I need them. Or, rather, my time machine needs them. And I didn't – don't - have time to pay – or explain any more, I'm sorry."

Suddenly, he lifts me off him, and in one motion he has stood up, whirled, and is about to leave the tent.

"So that's it?" I say, unbelievably bitterly, "You gallop into my life, ask me to believe that you had good reason, and then leave? Just like that?"

He at least has the good grace to look ashamed.

Abruptly, he turns back to me, and takes up my hand, "Come with me," he grins, almost boyishly eager, "It's only a few dozen yards from here – ye can watch me go."

I don't have to think about it. I grip his hand.

It's all the answer he needs.

We leave the fairgrounds at a run, into the light belt of trees that surround these grassy fields.

A few dozen yards away, as he said, there is another, smaller field, this one dominated by a large, flat-topped, tree-crowned hill.

He doesn't stop to look at it, even though I want to, just stamping his way forward, and dragging me behind him when I try to lag behind.

It isn't until we reach the wide, flat top of the hill that I realize there aren't only trees here, there are standing stones too. They look ancient - but then, all standing stones do. . .

I look around, trying to catch my breath.

"Where. . . is the time. . . machine, then?" I ask, still gasping from exertion.

He grins, and gestures around us, "Right here, lass. The stones themselves!" He fishes in his pocket and extracts the garnet, "Ye always must start at the northernmost place, and go to the left – all the way 'round. . ." He places the garnet in a little hollow the rain, or time, or something has scooped halfway up the narrow side of the northernmost standing stone, and then steps to his left, leaving the carnelian in a similar hollow in the next stone. Then the Cairngorm, and the Iona marble, and so on and so on, until I realize he is almost done, and I still know almost nothing.

"Why so urgent?" I ask, helplessly.

He stops in mid-motion. "My brother. He's. . . dying." He stands up, very straight, and clenches his jaw tight, "And I don't know. . . I don't know if I'll get back in time to say goodbye. There's nae real way ta tell how long it's been there while I've been here. . ."

"But. . ." I protest, my mind a whirl, "In that case, why did you leave him to begin with?"

He stamps his foot, "To try and find the cure, woman! The plant the medicine is extracted from is extinct in my time. I thought to come back here and see if I could find some. But it was declared extinct last year, and the laboratories won't give any up, small blame to them." He swallows quickly, and dashes away sudden tears from his eyes.

My mouth has fallen open. Quickly, I clamp it shut.

"But. . . to have done so much, come so far – to miss it by a year. Just a year!"

I clutch his arm at the injustice of it.

He gives a thin, painful smile, "This form of time travel is none so accurate when ye're trying ta be the one to control it, y'see. If it was meant to be, it would have been, nae matter what I tried to do. Never mind." He pats my shoulder, "Aye, ye have a soft heart, and a sturdy mind, lass – of all beauties, two of the most durable, an' that's a fact."

He turns away from me, and disposes of the last of his gems.

Then, all at once, a strange energy gathers in the ring of stones, coming up as though buried deep in the earth, or coming down as though scattered far away in space, but now focused, concentrated here through some inscrutable alchemy of crystal and blood and bone.

A low hum, an insistent throb, grows in my belly, until I can almost hear it.

"Wait!" I cry, for some reason desperate for more, just one fact more, "What's your name?"

He meets my gaze, a deep light flashing in the dark sky-blue his eyes.

"Roy Étienne. From Lallybroch. You'll remember?"

I nod.

"Ye may have to goo-goo it."

"You mean. . . Google it?"

He smiles, sweet and boyish and charming and oh, so handsome.

Why - why haven't I noticed until just now how utterly beautiful he is?

"Aye. That's probably what I do mean, lass. Just make certain ye remember."

As if I'd be able to forget. . .

Then, he raises his hands, touches them to the great stone, and melts away through it.

Gone.

I have no memory of the rest of the day, my entire soul still focused on the top of that hill, and the man who took me there.

Roy.

Roy Étienne.

From Lallybroch.

I do Google it. And then, I go there. After I mention the name Roy Étienne, I learn much from the residents of the place – not only names and facts and stories – but also much that all sane people very rightly think is impossible, but is, in fact, not only possible, but has been done - with some regularity - all throughout the ages.

I also learn a few things about myself.

In the end, I find myself back in the cool green hills surrounding Inverness, barely two months after the Thirty-Fifth Annual Inverness Scottish Highland Festival finished, and I no longer had any excuse to be here.

No excuse? Well, a potential excuse, anyway. But here I am, regardless, my backpack full of books, seeds and stamps – perishable things – things that might be rare and valuable at some time in the not too terribly distant future - and also with several bottles of a certain recently extinct plant extract that I spent every favour I had with my old employer to obtain.

No matter. If Roy can make me feel safe when he is nothing but a stranger on a horse busily abducting me, then he will make me feel safe wherever and whenever I see him again.

I reach into my pocket, where nine gemstones sit, warm from being kept close to my body for so long. I pull one out at random. It is the piece of Iona marble.

I stare at it for a long time, then put it back into my pocket.

The next few minutes of my life are a complete unknown, and yet, I have never felt more secure of my future, my life, and my happiness.

I throw back my head to the wind, and begin to climb the hill of Craigh na Dun.