Capítulo 2: Chapter 2: Foreword

I am a tenured professor of British Literature at Oregon State University, and I was on a six-month sabbatical in Scotland studying Scottish legends and myths. It was the last week of August, and I was traveling by train from Glasgow to Inverness where I intended to visit the library of Inverness College at the University of the Highlands and Islands. The train was just pulling out of the station at the little village of Blàr Athall on the southwest edge of Cairngorms National Park. The rest of the train was crowded with rather rambunctious groups of British upper school students enjoying their last week of freedom before the new school year. Being the only one in my compartment, I was quite happy to sit back and enjoy the beautiful Scottish scenery in relative peace and quiet.

The noise level suddenly rose, and I turned away from the window to see an old man and young girl standing at the open compartment door. With a rather thick Scottish accent, he asked me if the seats opposite mine were taken. I answered no and invited them to join me. The two entered and closed the door, leaving the noise and commotion behind them.

They were a picturesque pair. The old man looked to be in his seventies or eighties. Though somewhat stooped with age, he was still tall and quite striking with his long white hair and beard. He was the very picture of a traditional Scotsman from his woolen socks and pleated kilt to the matching tartan Tam O'Shanter perched on his head.

On the other hand, the girl was only eleven or twelve. She was much shorter than the old man and wore a matching dress of the same tartan pattern with a velvet waistcoat over short puffy white sleeves. While the old man wore a friendly smile and seemed more than ready to talk with the occasional tourist, the girl sitting next to him took out a rather old and shabby-looking book and began to read, ignoring us both completely.

I introduced myself and mentioned that I was on my way to Inverness, the next stop on my tour of Scotland. He introduced himself as Koin' Nyuch MacPherson, which I later learned was the Scottish form of Kenneth and actually spelled Coinneach. Then, he introduced the young girl saying "This bonnie wee lassie is my granddaughter, Claire." She glanced up, gave me a shy smile, and then returned to her reading without saying anything.

Being the only people dressed in traditional Scottish regalia I'd seen since arriving in Scotland, I asked him if they were on their way to a Highland Games. "No laddie," he replied. "These are just our traveling clothes. We're on our way to Dail Chuinnidh. We'll be catching the bus to Portree on the Isle of Skye where Claire's starting her first year at the Gramarye Boarding School for Exceptional Children." He beamed proudly. I complemented him on their matching clothes, mentioning that it was nice to see them maintaining their traditions when people everywhere were beginning to all look alike. "Aye, laddie, when you get to be my age, you realize that the old ways are often the best ways."

As the train sped north along the southwestern boundary of the Cairngorms National Park, the old man and I passed the time with small talk about the weather and the park. I asked him what it was like to live in such a small village, but he answered that they didn't live in Blàr Athall proper. He told me they lived in a small cottage at Loch Valigan, a small lake some eight miles farther up the mountain. I said that I wasn't sure if I could live in a place as small as Blàr Athall, let alone by myself with no one nearby. "But, Professor Smith, I'm not alone. I've had Claire since her parents died, and now that she will be away at school, I still have a few friends and family scattered here and there. The highlands are not quite as empty as you might think," he said with a chuckle. "Besides, solitude is not without its own blessings. A man can be his true self when there's no laird to tell him what to do or nosy neighbor to watch over his every move. No, you can keep your towns and cities. It's a highland life for me and my kin."

His granddaughter glanced up at him, and for a brief instant I got the distinct impression that she might not completely share her grandfather's view and might well be looking forward to going to her new school. She turned back to her book and continued reading. Curious as to what she found so interesting, I asked her what it was. "Just a book for school" was all she replied.

Some twenty minutes later, we pulled into the village of Dail Chuinnidh, or Dalwhinnie as the sign over the train station platform stated for English speakers unable to read Scottish Gaelic. They stood, the old man bidding me goodbye, and the two of them left, closing the compartment door behind them.

I looked out the window to where their charter bus was waiting. It was filled with parents and children, all of whom were wearing traditional tartans of the various clans. The old man and his granddaughter climbed aboard.

I turned from the window, intending to look at my map to look for the Isle of Skye. It was only then when I noticed that Claire had accidentally left her book behind. I looked back at their bus, but it was already pulling out of the station's parking lot. Then the train started moving and soon left the small village of Dalwhinnie for the open highland countryside.

Curious as to what could hold her attention so long, I picked up the old book, fully intending to give it to the conductor thinking that he could turn it in to the Blàr Athall station master who could see that it was returned to the old man. The book was old. Its worn leather cover was no longer legible, and the edges of many of its pages were dog-eared from years of heavy use. Flipping through them, I saw that most of the pages were annotated with notes written in the varied handwriting of the book's previous owners. I flipped back at the title page. It read Magical Wands: A Cornucopia of Wand Lore by Wolfrick Ignatius Feuerschmied M.W.M. Curious, I turned the page and read that the book had been published in 1967 by Mage Press, a publisher I had never heard of. Flipping through the book, I saw many illustrations of fantastic creatures as well as different kinds of wood, crystals, and metals. There were also strange tables and lists of magic spells. All in all, it was by far the most unbelievable textbook I had ever seen. Nevertheless, I began to read.

By the time that the train pulled into the Inverness station an hour later, I was hooked. I got up, gathered my bags, and left the train, still intending to return the book to the young girl at her boarding school, but not until I had finished reading it. I spent the entire next day in my hotel room reading. I was becoming more and more convinced as to the books authenticity, not just because of its size or the fact that it was clearly written as a serious textbook, not because she was obviously studying it and would not have intentionally left it behind, and not because the old man had given me the impression of being totally honest about taking his granddaughter to boarding school. No, I was becoming obsessed by the book because of my great uncle Malcolm.

My first memories of my eccentric old uncle must have been from when I was seven or eight. Uncle Malcolm was special in a way that my grandparents could never be because he could do the most amazing magic tricks. The one I remember most was the one in which he would take a quarter and a short wooden wand out of his pocket, hold the quarter in the palm of his hand, and point his wand at the quarter. Then, he would say the magic word Pendeo and the quarter would slowly rise up until it hung suspended several inches above his hand. No one in the family could ever figure out how he did that trick although several adults would speak knowingly of magnets and invisible threads. I remember how he would have all of us kids say Pendeo together and if we were especially well behaved, he would let one of us reach out and take the quarter as it hung suspended over his hand. I remember once being chosen to take the quarter, and I knew from then on that there was no string.

I remember mother saying that her Uncle Malcolm had moved away to England as a young man and had lived there ever since, only coming back for major holidays and family reunions. All of the adults believed he was a bit batty because he liked to wear clothes that made him look like he had just arrived from Victorian England. They also thought it weird that he was always elusive and never would say what he did for a living and even exactly where he lived. Then the year that I turned eleven, he just mysteriously stopped coming. My mother was worried that he might have died, but no one knew his address or phone number. Eventually, Mad Malcolm, as some in the family called him, became somewhat of a family legend. As I grew older and less gullible, I began to think of him as our family Santa Clause, a tale to tell young children but not to be believed once one achieved the sophistication of a teenager.

But now I wasn't so sure that Malcolm was merely an amateur magician for I had found something totally unexpected in the book. I had found the levitation spell and the magic incantation was Pendeo. The instant I found that spell in the book, I knew I had to know the truth. Was Malcolm's magic nothing more than tricks and illusions or was it truly magic? Because the book said that the levitation spell had the elemental Air, I would need something that I could use for a wand made from a tree that had the same elemental. The book listed only six such trees: ash, cedar, oak, pear, poplar, and walnut. I went to a nearby park with book in hand to find one. Forty-five minutes later, I was back in my hotel room with a slender branch from a small English walnut tree. I pulled off the leaves and several twigs.

With my wand now as ready as I could make it, I took a small one-cent coin out of my pocket and placed it on the desk. I knew it wasn't a real wand, but the book had said that everyone had some level of magic and just maybe I had enough. Thankful for my Roman Catholic schooling that had taught me the correct way to pronounce Latin, I pointed the wand at the coin and said the incantation Pendeo. Nothing happened. I pointed the wand again and repeated Pendeo, this time louder and more forcefully. Still, nothing happened. Then I remembered that the book had also talked about how one had to gather magic (or Quintessence as the book had called it) and transform it into a spell. I reread that section of the book. Then, closing my eyes, I imagined my mind reaching out into what the book called the Astral Plane of Existence. I imagined my mind collecting what the book called Quintessence and forming it into a spell. I opened my mind and willed that spell to flow down my arm, through the "wand" and into the coin. I pointed my wand at the coin and forcefully said Pendeo.

The small coin just sat there. However, I noticed something else. Tiny specs of dust had risen a few inches up from the table to dance in the sun light streaming in through the window. Fearing that pointing my wand had stirred the air and thus raised the dust, I tried again. I collected some dust from the windowsill, sprinkled it on the coin, mentally gathered more Quintessence and transformed it into the levitation spell. Slowly and carefully pointing my wand at the coin, I spoke once more the incantation. I could hardly believe my eyes, but again, although the coin remained stubbornly immobile, upon saying Pendeo more dust rose obediently into the air. It wasn't much and would almost certainly have been overlooked if not for the good fortune of the sun shining in on the dusty desk, but it was definitely a beginning.

All afternoon, I practiced casting my first spell. By dinnertime, I had finally progressed to the point where maybe one time out of five, I could cause a miniscule piece of newspaper to rise up a tiny amount for the briefest of instants. Although my best attempt at the levitation spell could only be called pathetically poor, it was nevertheless unmistakable proof. I had actually cast my first real magic spell.

The next several days passed in a blur. I mostly spent them in my hotel room reading, thinking, and practicing, Inverness and my sabbatical forgotten. When I did leave the hotel to get something to eat, I took the book along and read it in the restaurants and pubs. The more I read, the more the book's contents began to make sense and ring true.

After I finished reading the book cover to cover, I tried to contact Claire MacPherson, the old man's granddaughter. While I felt duty bound to return her book, I desperately wanted to talk to her about it. Where she got it and, more importantly, where I might obtain my own copy and my own wand. I started by trying to call the Gramarye Boarding School for Exceptional Children in Portree on the Isle of Skye, but the Inverness operator could not find any such listing. Next, I tried calling the Portree tourist bureau, but the lady who answered the phone made it quite clear that there was no such school on or anywhere near the island. I gathered my courage and asked her if she knew the phone number of The Isle of Skye School of Magick. She must have believed I was making a crank call, for the next thing I heard was the sound of her hanging up on me.

Next, I tried contacting the old man, Coinneach MacPherson. He had no telephone listing, but I assumed that was only because he lived in a cabin several miles from the nearest town. I called the post office in Blàr Athall, and the postman who answered the phone told me he had never heard of a Coinneach MacPherson. He also informed me that there was no cabin near Loch Valigan.

By now I was convinced that something rather strange was going on and if I were to find them, I would have to find them myself. I rented a car in Inverness and drove back down to Blàr Athall. Upon arriving, I checked into a nice little bed and breakfast called The Firs Guesthouse. Immediately after breakfast the next morning, I got a map of the park from the innkeeper, filled my backpack with food and water, and hiked up the path to Loch Valigan. Roughly three hours later, I arrived at a small triangular lake. I spent the next five hours walking around the lake and the neighboring countryside, but if there was a cottage anywhere close, I couldn't find it. Frustrated from my failure to locate the old man, I returned to the B&B, and ravenous from hiking, I had a much larger dinner than usual. I went to bed early, my legs aching from the unusual abuse I had put them through.

Not wanting to feel that my whole trip to Blàr Athall had been in vain, I decided to take the day off and visit Blair Castle, the nearby ancestral home of clan Murray. After a leisurely lunch, I zigzagged northwest along picturesque Scottish roads until I came to the Skye Bridge that took me over the Kyle Akin narrows onto the Isle of Skye. From there, it was merely a short drive north along the coast to the small fishing town of Portree. After checking into the Ben Tianavaig, another B&B on the shore of Loch Portree overlooking the scenic Sound of Raasay, I bought a large map of the island. It didn't take long to confirm what the innkeeper had already told me. There are no boarding schools on the Isle of Skye. Still, I felt that after driving all the way to the Isle of Skye, I needed at least to see for myself. It actually took very little time to drive around the island and follow each side road to its end. Once again, if there was a Gramarye Boarding School or perhaps even an Isle of Skye School of Magick, then it would have to be invisible.

Then I remembered the spell. The book spoke of the Fac invisibilis spell that made the subject of the spell invisible. Perhaps that was the answer. If the old man and his granddaughter were truly a wizard and witch, then I could have walked right past their cottage without ever seeing it. I could have driven by the Isle of Skye School of Magick and never seen it. For all I knew, the school could be right in front of my parked car, and I would never know. Or perhaps the school was on one of the uninhabited islands of the Inner or Outer Hebrides, just to the west off the coast of the Isle of Skye. It merely needed to be somewhere mundanes could not or would not go, such as a small island set aside as a nature preserve for the many sea birds.

Although let down by my failure to find them, I was not going to give up. I had the book, and all I really needed was a wand. Not the toy wands I could buy over the Internet, but a real one with the small feather of a gryphon or perhaps a tiny shard from the scale of a real dragon in its core. I had proven that I had at least a tiny amount of magic. Perhaps it would be enough if only I had a real wand to strengthen my spells. My real problem was how to meet a real mage, one who could tell me where I could find a maker of real wands?

Over the next week, I tried everything I could think of. I put cryptic advertisements in several Scottish newspapers that only a real mage would recognize as referring to true magic and my desire to buy a real wand. I used every search engine on the Internet looking for actual wand makers, but all I could find were mundanes selling wands without cores to Wiccans, Neo-pagans, and fans of Harry Potter and other fantasy novels. Even as I made my enquiries more obvious, I found nothing, not even hints of the community of mages that live among us and yet apart. I was forced to assume that most mages didn't read mundane newspapers and real wand makers didn't sell over the Internet.

I was beginning to get desperate and lose hope when the answer came to me. I had thought of something that could neither be overlooked nor ignored. All I had to do was to have the girl's book published. Surely then some mage would notice and seek me out, if for no other reason than to learn how I came to possess the book. And that is how a copy of Magical Wands: A Cornucopia of Wand Lore came to be published and be in your hands. More and more people are buying it, and before very long, a mage is bound to notice. Until then, I'll keep practicing as best as I can without a real wand. If you are a real witch or wizard, I'll be waiting for you. I hope to see you soon.

George Smith PhD

Ardross Glencairn Bed and Breakfast

Inverness, Scotland

November 3, 2011

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