Powerstone by Malcolm Archibald

Author:Malcolm Archibald [Archibald, Malcolm]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fledgling Press
Published: 2011-10-29T11:24:27+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Fortingall Perthshire, June

‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ Meigle indicated the village that straggled along one side of the narrow road. Apart from the church and the hotel, there were a score of houses facing onto open farmland, with a wooded ridge growling down in the rear. Meigle reached into the boot of his BMW and withdrew a walking stick and a leather case. ‘The name stretches beyond antiquity,’ he said, ‘Fortingall, the fort of the strangers.’

Where MacPherson looked suitably impressed, Andrew shrugged. He had grown up in and around Perthshire so one more village, however picturesque, did not interest him. ‘Why are you showing us this?’

‘You’ll see,’ Meigle told him. ‘It is part of your introduction to the Society.’ He led them the few steps from the car park to the kirk yard and stopped beside a walled enclosure that held a massively battered yew tree. ‘This is the famous Fortingall yew.’ He looked to MacPherson, ‘you’re a tree man, Lachlan. What do you think of this one?’

MacPherson surveyed what remained of the tree. ‘It’s old,’ he said. ‘Very old, I would say, but not much use for timber. If it was on my patch I’d get rid of it for something more useful.’ Meigle shook his head, ‘Oh, the pragmatism of the New World. This is reputedly the oldest tree in Europe, maybe five thousand years old. That means that it was ancient when Christ was a boy. You might cut it down, Lachlan, but holy men have taken saplings from this tree and planted them at Glastonbury and Roslin Chapel and Scone.’ He glanced at MacPherson. ‘These are all religious sites,’ he explained.

Andrew looked surreptitiously at his watch.

‘Why? I mean, what’s the religious significance?’

MacPherson asked. Sliding over the wall, he touched the bark of the yew, and then grinned. ‘I thought there might be some sort of feeling, but it’s just a tree.’

‘They say that Christ’s cross was fashioned from a yew,’ Meigle said, ‘and the Druids were said to have worshipped them.’

‘What worshipped them?’ MacPherson looked confused.

‘Celtic holy men,’ Andrew explained. ‘To them, certain trees and rivers were sacred. The Druids are supposed to have harvested great quantities of knowledge. A bit like the First Nation shamans of Canada, but in long white robes.’

‘So they say,’ Meigle nodded, ‘but I think most accounts are second, or even third hand. If you look over there,’ he indicated the ridge that dominated the village, ‘you are looking towards the site of Dun Geall. When this tree was only middle aged, around 3000 years old, Dun Geall was the home of a chief, perhaps even a king, known as Metallanus. So they say. Come with me.’

It was years since Meigle had been in Fortingall but his feet found the path without difficulty, panting up the hill a few steps ahead of the two younger men. Refusing offers to relieve him of the weight of the case, he stopped twice for breath while MacPherson tactfully admired the view.

‘This is Dun Geall,’ Meigle said at last.

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