Agate
Agate is the stone of Intuition, of Confidence, of Longevity, and of Achievement. It lives under the sign of Saturn. All agate energizes in synchronicity with Magenta, but pink-toned varieties do so most strongly. Aqua/teal toned varieties do so least strongly. This is known to alter the energy matrix signifiers of the Stone itself, though often in undocumented ways. No known replacements produce this variation. It is the only variable Stone of Scrying.
It is a Turnstone – warming from Winter to Spring
Known replacements – cherry blossoms, cherry stones, snowdrop lilies, sheep's wool, wool fat, almond oil, raspberries, raspberry blossoms, hawthorn leaves, hawthorn flowers, wild rose petals, wild nettle (leaf buds only), straw, wintergreen blossoms, red clover, charcoal, tanned leather, ice, rose quartz, pink salt, rose gold, conch pearls.
"Living forever is useless, if you don't have anything to live for." - Old Scottish proverb
"Ye'er a fool, Lyz, a right fool!"
"Thank you, Gillian," I say, rolling my eyes, "That's just the sort of thing someone wants to hear from their best friend at ten in the morning."
"But ye are," she insists, stomping deeper into my kitchen, "When I'm trying ta give ye a fancy, all-expense paid, 200 guest wedding-"
"No," I say, shifting a pot full of boiled potatoes off the stove to cool, "You are trying to give me your fancy, all-expense paid, 200 guest wedding – and I don't want it!"
She sighs, and sits down petulantly behind the counter, "Only ye, Lyz Fielding, could live an' work in Scotland – at a high-end wedding retreat, no less – an' have Malcolm Darius as yer boyfriend – an' still no' believe in marriage!"
"Whether I believe in marriage or not is hardly the issue here, Gi!" I scoff, "Ken's been waiting to marry you for ten years, and now that he's finally Chieftain he's gone all out – a full Clan do, with all the trimmings, here at a country retreat his cousin owns, specifically so we're obliged to treat you all like royalty – not a single expense spared. You even have antique lace trimmings on that gown of yours, and up until yesterday you were hip-deep in enjoying the whole kit and boodle of it all – you know you were!" I wag my finger at her, then turn to stir the great cauldron of Scotch broth I have simmering for supper, "So why do you suddenly want to cancel everything and just elope? That's the question here!"
"I don't want tae cancel everything, hen. I want you an' Mal ta take our place – errything's ready – we'll go through the rehearsal tonight, slip off about one AM, get ta Gretna Green about dawn, an' be changing our tickets at the airport about the time everyone discovers we're gone. Then you an' Mal can swoop in an' save the day – the clan's been waiting for ye an' Mal ta tie the knot almost as long as they've been waiting for Ken an' me, after all – an' then everyone's. . . well, no' happy, maybe, but at least satisfied."
"Except for Mal and me," I insist, stirring a pan of lamb mince with more vigor than strictly necessary, "Look, I'll tell you something only my uncle and Mal's godfather know, all right?"
Her eyes go wide, "Oh? Yes please, hen."
"You have to promise it'll go no further. . ."
"A'course no'!" she waves a hand for me to proceed.
I pause a little, remembering, my hands automatically going through the motions of making a roux for brown gravy.
"Mal and I handfasted years ago – made our vows to each other, exchanged rings, went on a honeymoon – the whole thing. We're just as married as if a preacher waved his hands at us, or if a lawyer made us sign things – more so, really, for two atheist anti-establishment pacifists in the year of our lord nineteen sixty-eight!"
Gi is uncharacteristically quiet after this revelation. I start grating up carrots to go into tonight's lamb pot-pies.
"Is that why Mal's always wearing that auld Clan ring of his, then?" she asks eventually, her voice low and dreamy, "I've often wondered. . ."
I nod, "Yes, and it's why my ring is called Saint Brigid." I jerk my head in the direction of where the ring itself is sitting, tucked into a corner of the countertop where it won't get splashed with debris as I do the day's cooking, "Well, we named the stone Saint Brigid, seeing as it was the first of February when we handfasted."
"Oh? Just a few days past, then."
"Mm. Yes. And then you see, when we first decided we were going to handfast, I told Mal I didn't want a stone that had been dug out of the ground by slaves, or smuggled at any point in its life, or very probably had murder done for it, or anything of the sort. I also wanted the money to go to the craftsman, not some cartel or corporation. He smirked and said I'd never have a diamond that way. I just laughed, and said I'd very gladly go without diamonds my whole life just so long as he. . ." I blush, remembering where our conversation had gone very soon after that, "Just so long as he was always there with me. . ."
I start rolling out some of the pastry I made last night, and draping it into pie dishes.
"A month later, he presented me with "Wee Bri" there – he said he'd been able to buy such a large stone that it deserved to have its own name – like the Pink Panther or something. . ."
Gi laughs gently, and picks up my ring to admire it. And well she might – it's a wide band of softly glowing rose gold, surmounted with an oval cabochon of agate a full inch and a half long, and one wide. The base colour of the stone is a very pretty dusky reddish-rose, fading in ombré fashion from deep, ripe-papaya red, to a sweet peachy pink, each colour separated from the next by thin, creamy white stripes of rock. It really is a statement ring, in every sense of the word.
The first time he slipped it on my finger, Mal had said the world would know I was his and he was mine – even if they didn't know they knew, we'd make it clear, one way or another. . .
"Aye, 'tis a bold ring, hen, an' ye ken I've always liked it," says Gi, carefully putting it back down where it was before, "Thank'ee for telling me the story of it."
"Of course my dear," I nod solemnly at her, "But none of that explains why you're suddenly all fired up to elope, when you've been so gung-ho for this big to-do of yours for so long. Why, you changed your order for the wedding breakfast - yet again – just yesterday. And you've been fretting for days about tonight's rehearsal - almost as much as you have over the setup for the real ceremony. So why the sudden one-eighty? And why insist on me and Mal taking your place?"
"Weel, it's only that t'would ha' been nicely poetic for my best friend an' her man ta swoop in and save the day when me an' my man hadta leave everyone in the lurch, y'see?" She sighs, and leans forward over the counter a bit, "An' as for why in the first place. . . . . . well, ye understand that Ken only went in for this whole shebang because of clan tradition, aye? He's Chieftain now, an' we must "keep up wi' the McCulloughs", as it were. An' the Grants. An' the Browns – an' the MacPhersons. . ." she rolls her eyes.
"So I assumed, yes."
"An' I went along with it mostly because it meant a big party and lots of fun – music an' dancing and food an' drink – aye?"
"Sounds like you, yes," I tease.
She throws me a bit of a look, but a glint in her eyes tell me she knows I'm joking, "Aye, weel. . . . . ." she looks down at her hands, and picks at her nails for a minute, "I. . . I nevar did think there'd be anything or anyone who could keep me from a party jus' by beein', but. . ." she smooths the front of her shirt, and runs a hand across her stomach, significantly, "Turns out there's a bloody good reason for me ta be changin' my breakfast plans, an' suddenly being averse ta dousing myself in liquor all night long. . ."
"You mean. . . ?" a huge grin threatens to split my face in two.
"Aye," she says, the glint in her eyes sparking an answering smile to spread across her own face, "We jus' found out last night, an'-"
I drop the fork I've been using to prick the pie pastry, and run around the counter, enveloping my best friend in a big, if slightly floury hug, "You mean I'm finally going to be a godmother?"
Gi laughs, hugging me just as happily, "If the atheist pair of ye dinnae mind settin' foot in a church. . ."
I pull back, and give a dismissive wave, "Oh, I don't mind about that part when it comes to babies, Gi, why should I? They don't care about anything except how much they're loved, and. . ." I give her a quick hug, and a brief kiss on the cheek, "You know Mal keeps several cases of non-alcoholic sparkling apple cider in the cellar for instances just like this, right?"
She blinks, "But. . ."
"You don't think you're the first bride to suddenly find out she's pregnant, do you? Mal and I may only have inherited it five years ago, but Lallybroch has been a wedding retreat center for decades, my dear. There have been generations of girls like you, Gi."
She shows me one of her extremely rare blushes.
"So what does Kenneth think about it all?"
"He's over the moon. Already thinkin' up names."
I chuckle a bit, and go back to my pie crusts, "That's a bit soon off the mark isn't it?"
"That's what I've told him," says Gi, settling herself back comfortably behind the counter, "He doesnae care. He's thrilled, the dear man."
"And so he should be." I put the pies and two large beef roasts into the oven, set the timer, and turn back to the counter to begin to slice up some things for luncheon - cold meatloaf, primarily, and several of Lallybroch's famous homemade pickled red onions too - "So why don't you stay and enjoy your big party – celebrate your baby properly – with a fizzy drink and all!"
Gi gives a long, quiet, contemplative sigh, and her eyes go soft, "Oh, give over then," she nods at the pile of stuff on the counter that is gradually becoming our lunch, "So, how can I help?"
I set her slicing up a loaf or two of fresh rye bread, and go out to the kitchen gardens to look for some greens for our sandwiches.
I've just filled my little basket with some newly sprouted hawthorn leaves, and a handful of tiny, soft nettle tips, when I feel a presence behind me, and a long, sturdy arm wraps itself around my waist.
"Weel, isnae this a braw an' bonnie sight!" says Mal, kissing me boldly just underneath the ear. He inhales the scent of my hair, then whispers with a sweet, playful growl,
"Ye smell of baking – an' I'm famished!" He nips me on the ear – less gently than he might have done - "Aye, I could eat ye up – right here an' all!"
I snort, and push him away, teasing,
"Oh, you wolf! In wolf's clothing!"
He gives a low, humming growl, and gathers me briskly back into his arms, "Mmm, she-wolf. . ." he swoops down to capture my lips for a second, then dips lower and sets his teeth firmly in my neck. He doesn't bite hard – only until he leaves a mark he knows I'll be able to feel for a long while after he lets me go – and then he soothes the spot with his lips and tongue until I'm positively writhing under his attentions.
"Mal, love?" I gasp, "We. . . we have to stop now."
He shakes his head, and nuzzles me yet closer.
"I know, love," I stroke him gently across the shoulders, "But I'm in the middle of making lunch, mo ghràidh. Meatloaf sandwiches – your favourite!" I hum coaxingly, half-heartedly trying to push him off me, even though, to be perfectly honest, there really is nothing I'd like to do better than to cast off the rest of the day's work, and go bury ourselves in our private suite in the staff-hall.
Sufficent food and water, a funtional bathroom, a well-regulated fire, a clean bed, and a locked door. That's all I need. . .
And Mal of course.
Every dear, sweet, beloved inch of Mal. . .
I shudder at the sudden inrush of memories. One glance, one hint, one single word of relent, and I can have it all again.
I can have him. Over and over again. . .
I smile at myself.
Years upon years with this man, and he still gets me going like a bitch in heat.
But, there are other things to do, and Kenneth Mctavish is Mal's cousin – if that sort of thing matters to you - and a Chieftain – if that sort of thing matters to you – as both do to Mal.
"I told Gi the story of Wee Bri today," I say, the sudden utter businesslike tone of my voice breaking the heated spell between us, at least for the moment.
Mal stands back, looking a little puzzled for a second, "Ye didnae tell her I bought it for ye in 1881, did ye?"
"No, of course not. Nor did I tell her we met in 2130, or that our first date was in 1649, or that the first time you asked me to marry you was in 557. BC."
Mal smiles dreamily, "Aye, I remember that. Ye told me no outright," he reaches out to me, and runs a finger caressingly down one side of my face, "But as I recall, ye still came ta my bed that night. . ."
My whole body warms as I remember too, "Well, your subjects seemed to expect their newly enthroned king to be well serviced his first night in power, and I was damned if I'd let anyone else do it. . ."
"Aye. An' seein' that ye'ed been coming ta me every night for the six months previous, not ta mention bein' the only woman I insisted be constantly by me, I think that wee band of Picts was pretty well convinced we were married already – or whatever stood them for marriage twenty-five centuries ago. I dinnae think we ever found out for sure, did we?"
"No," I smile fondly, "We were only there eight months."
He whistles lightly through his teeth, "One of our shortest sojourns, eh?"
I nod, "The very shortest, yes."
"What d'ye think the average is by now? Twenty years? Thirty?"
"It must be something like that. We've been all over history – back and forth, and back again – and we hardly ever spend less than fifteen years in any one time."
"No' bad for a twenty-eight year old lass from 2047, and a 22 year old lad from 2130, is it now?"
My heart jumps in my chest. Mal almost never mentions the ages we were when we first met – that day in early spring when I had stepped though the stones, and found my future waiting on the other side. There's really only one reason he ever mentions that day. . .
"Have the visions started again, then?"
A very serious look invades his face, and he nods, "Antonine wall."
My heart sinks. If there's one time and place I don't want to travel to, it is the Scottish borderlands during the Roman invasion of Britain. But Mal's visions have never been wrong yet, and they always start about a fortnight before one or the other – and more usually both - of us feel a strong compulsion to climb that small hill near Inverness. . .
The place has had many names, down through the ages. Over the course of our travels, I've heard them, nearly all - An T-sìthean, Cnoc an Dorchadais, Dunhill Cray, Droch Chreig, Creag Donailee, Carraig na Doimhne, and, here in the late twentieth century, Craigh na Dun.
But always, always, it has been known as a place of shadow and of doom. Not always an ominous shadow – and not always an unpleasant doom. But always sober, and silent, and relentless. . .
Mal takes my hand, looking down at our entwined fingers, "Ye dinna wantae go this time, do ye?"
I shake my head, "No! I'm only 34 – you're still 27. Life is good here – Gi is getting married, we're in love, we know there's all manner of social and technological advancements just ahead, and. . ." I look up at the fine old lines of Lallybroch just behind us, "And we've just gotten the old place into shape. It's so settled and pleasant here – so peaceful – so worthwhile!" I grip Mal's hand, tightly, "No, no no, I don't want to leave – to chuck it all over and run away into the past – and for what? To add a few more years onto our lives? No! No, no, no, no, no!" A hundred, or maybe a thousand years well up in my throat, and I burst into tears all over Mal's chest.
It is a matter of mystery to us both why whenever we Travel through the stones, our bodily ages revert to what they were on the first day we met. We once spent nearly eighty years in the early eleventh century, and barely made it back to the stone circle in time, but once through the stones, we were both of us young, fresh, and energetic again. Each of us has lived a total of. . . three hundred years now? Four? Perhaps five. One loses track, after a while.
When each time brings renewal as well as something new, leaving the world you're living in loses a great deal of its fear.
But this time. . .
This time, it has lost a lot of its appeal, as well.
I have gotten old many times before now. It doesn't frighten me – especially not here in 1968 – with electricity, and running water, and drugs for arthritis, and glasses, and wheelchairs, and foam-rubber lined non-slip house shoes. And what with duvets just coming into fashion, there's really nothing more Mal and I could ask for than to retire here, quiet and peaceful, after many, many crowded years of glorious life.
Mal soothes me through my tears, gently stroking my hair, "Easy, lass," he croons, "There, there. I cannae say I'm all that fired up tae go on Traveling much more either. We have a good place here – it's a good time."
"But?" I sniff.
"But, I dinnae know how tae tell the stones no. We've only evar told them yes."
I nod, and wipe my eyes, "True enough."
"I dinnae ken what happens when we get that urge tae go to the circle and try tae fight it instead of lettin' it lead us. I dinnae ken if fightin' it is even possible."
"It must be," I say, firmly.
"Oh? How d'ye reckon?" he digs a tissue out of a pocket and hands it to me
"Well," I blow my nose, "We agreed long ago that the stones weren't a force for evil, right?"
"Weeel. . ." he draws out his vowel a bit in contemplation. "I dinnae think they can be. More a neutral sort of energy source, really."
"Right. Well. A neutral power can't force anyone to do anything, can it?"
"No. I suppose not. . ."
"And that means there's always a choice. Somewhere – there will be a choice."
"Agch," he grunts, not entirely convinced, "D'ye think we'll ken it when we see it?"
"Of course we will. It's hardly a choice if you don't recogni-" suddenly, something hits me, "Oh."
"Oh what?"
I don't answer for a long few seconds. Then I ask, "Mal, do you know why I've always refused to marry you? In the traditional way, I mean."
He shrugs noncommittally, "Was there a reason beyond ye not ever liking the look of yer parents' relationship, an' no' developing a trust in marriage when ye were little?"
"Yes, there were two more reasons. The first one you know."
"Och, aye. It's mighty awkward to be carrying around paper documents with dates all over them when ye'er a Traveler, a'course – but what's the other reason?"
I look down at the basket of greens I'm still holding, "Well. . . the truth is. . . I was always afraid of losing the right to choose." I grip his wrist to silence his protests, "I never wanted anyone else, Mal. I always chose you and I always will – but I wanted that choice, do you see? I wanted the choosing of you. Every time – every day."
He smiles softly at me, but says nothing yet.
"It's a kind of. . . kind of. . . fate, I suppose. I enjoy the. . . renewal of it. Every day we begin again, but always with the force of all our history still behind us."
His lip twists a tiny bit, "An' this applies tae our current situation. . ."
"Because choosing to go through the stones is a kind of fate too – a cycle, with renewal, but with the force of the whole behind it every time."
"Aye, I c'n see that." He scratches his cheek, thoughtfully.
"And the only way to stop a cycle is to change it."
"Aye. So?"
I back up from him a little, and compose myself as best I can. "So. . . Malcolm Darius, will you marry me?"
He blinks once, then jumps towards me, "Yes. Today, tonight, this hour, this minute, yes," he kisses me, sloppily, hastily, "Yes, yes, yes, yes! A hundred, a thousand times, yes."
He kisses me again, this time long, and deeply.
By the time we surface for air, I have a plan.
"Gi has changed her order for the wedding breakfast," I say.
Mal chuckles, a little bit hysterically, "What a non-sequitur! Aye, what about it?"
"I have to go in to the butcher's and get a side of bacon. I'll need a member of staff to go with me to help me lift it."
He half-smiles, starting to understand where I'm going with this.
"As I recall. . . ta get ta the butcher's ye need ta pass right by the registrar's office. . ."
The registrar's is across the town square from the butcher's and Mal knows it as well as anyone. . .
"That's right," I say, coyly, "Just let me nip inside and get Wee Bri – we'll need her."
"Aye, that we will."
"And we can be back in a couple of hours."
"Aye, that we can. . ." he says, dreamily. "Back, an' together." Slowly, he takes my hand in his, and looks me deeply in the eyes, "Together - til death do us part."
I run the fingers of my free hand over the line of his jaw, across his lips, and down over his chin, "Do you want to know what I think, Mal?"
"Aye, I do."
I smile, "I don't think it will."
The kiss he gives me then only increases my belief.
