The Isle of Glass

Approaching through the dense September morning’s mist, St. Michael’s tower looms dark and brooding in the half darkness on the sunless island. By perception warped and cloaked in misty shroud, the tower seems to scale the sky, a dominant power heralding either doom or just plain power to the traveler coming its way. Its indistinct outlines blurred by the wet droplets in the air and in the eyes make it seem slim and incredibly high, part of the stairs to heaven, a reminder of the Tower of Babel. 

Getting nearer to it, the mist seems to become denser, a physical presence trying to prevent approach, an undulating, moving wall of no substance yet quite real and resistant making walking in that direction a strain. For September, an unnaturally cold feeling is descending on the traveler, a clammy feeling creeping into his clothes, under his skin, and entering the marrow of his bones. His steps seem to slow, his walking less sure and direct, as wispy fingers hide the tor from his sight now and again. In this treacherous mist, he constantly runs the risk of taking a unintentional turn on the uneven ground, of going in circles enticed by misty illusions.

Then he feels the warmth of the sun beckoning him, but he can’t see it yet. The mist seems to become lighter further on, a source of light making the mist almost incandescent and adding to the traveler’s confusion. Only guessing at the right direction now, he takes a few tentative steps forward, when suddenly he finds himself on the green slopes of the island. Sun drenched grass stretches wetly up the hill. Behind him and around the island, a wall of dense mist shuts out the world, ghostly demonic faces show and fade in the turmoil of the Fringe, trees and beast long gone from the face of the world make their ghostly appearance just to fade from sight again.

His eyes travel up the steep rise to the tower, clothed in splendorous, shiny black. A polished onyx gem in tower form is dominating this sunny island thrusting into the azure sky. Up to its doorway, a dark circling path winds it serpentine way, its trampled black center fringed by a silver lining made of droplets of finest moisture on wet grass and leaves. He ascends, following the path around and up to the tower, wondering at its turning in on itself which makes him go around the slopes, but never quite all the way around the hill.

As he gains the summit at the foot of the black tower, memories start to crowd him, the memories of millions of people who have lived on these islands since man first set foot upon them. Immersed into these memories, he realizes that they owe more to Mabino’s mighty crafting than to Bede’s scrupulous recounting. Spun like lightest spiders’ webs they cling to his hair, his skin, and his clothes. Made up of many layers of finest spun lace, none quite identical to another, they give a sense of thousands of retellings over the ages. The multi-hued splendor of their fabric is overpowering, spinning around him like a vortex. In all the movement, the Fringe is hidden from his sight, and only this Otherworld has any reality.

Involuntarily, he brushes his hand through his hair, removing a clinging cobweb and spilling shiny droplets to the floor in the process. Under his hand, the grey stones of the tower ooze cold held over from the night and feel moist to his touch. The air is empty of memories and echoes, and the blinding sun has waned to a cool September morning showing a pale blue sky. The mist around the hill has vanished and with it the island he had attained through the mists. Looking down the hill he sees people approaching, following a straight path up the hill to the tower’s doorway. 

Further reading
Stirling Castle With Music in The Ceiling
Bruce Castle or Lordship House
St George's Day: April 23