“One legend has it that the witches raised an army of the undead to fight against the king’s forces. But even against this aberration of nature, Doon’s royal army reigned supreme. And yet, our witches didna give up.” Alasdair paused dramatically to lean even closer to our captivated ears.
“’Tis purported that they made a pact wi’ Auld Clootie hisself. A foul bargain that would deliver Doon into their hands. In exchange, the witches would place the Great Deceiver on the throne as their king, and all the righteous subjects o’ Doon would be bound to him for eternity.
“So the kingdom was beset by catastrophe at ever’ turn. First, illness struck the palace. The king’s true love—his lovely queen—died, crippling the ruler with grief. Then the undead army returned in numbers so great not even the brave knights of Doon could keep them at bay. Finally, King MacCrae’s infant son succumbed to the very illness that killed the queen and so many others.”
The old man slumped back in his seat, silent. Several long seconds ticked by while we waited for him to continue. When he seemed disinclined to do so, I couldn’t hold my silence any longer.
“That’s it? Evil wins?” This tragic tale could not be the end of the legend!
“I was no’ finished, young lady. Give an old man a moment to rest,” he said with an impish grin and a wink.
After finishing half his ale in one long draw, Alasdair settled back into his tale. “So, bein’ the God-fearing man that he was, the good king locked himself in the chapel and spent seven days and nights on his knees in prayer. He wouldna accept food nor drink, nor the counsel of his advisors. When he finally emerged, his youngest son was healed, and what was left o’ Doon’s army returned to the palace claiming the undead monsters had vanished.
“Gatherin’ all his people, the king explained that their kingdom had been placed under an enchantment that would protect them from destruction at the witches’ hands … that they would, in fact, be an island to themselves and no one would be able to get in or out of the boundaries save for one day ever’ hundred years.”
No one at the table spoke for several seconds, and in the lull the sounds around me began to filter back into my consciousness. A haunting melody played in the background accompanied by a clear, sweet voice, “Will ye go, lassie, go …”
By all logic, an enchanted kingdom was too perfect to exist—didn’t exist. But I couldn’t silence the voice in my head asking, What if? What if the boy who shared a name with the original king of Doon, the same boy who’d wedged himself in my otherwise lifeless heart, was out there somewhere waiting for me to find him?
“So,” Kenna said with a smirk, snapping me out of my reverie. “How does one find this Scottish Shangri-la?”
“Ah-hah. You see, that is the great mystery. Many learned people have made it their life’s work to discover the kingdom of Doon.” His faded blue eyes narrowed. “But I happen to know of a reliable source that saw Doon with her own eyes.” He lifted his glass toward Kenna. “To Grace Lockhart! God rest her soul.”
Kenna sat straight up in her chair. “How did you know my aunt?”
“’Tis a small world, Mackenna Reid.” With a tip of his head, Alasdair wished us good night and shuffled back to the bar, Ally following on his heels.
“He’s such a liar. My aunt may have loved to tell tales, but I don’t believe for one minute she thought any of them were real.” Kenna turned to me and hitched a thumb over her shoulder at the departing old man. “Do you believe that guy?”
“I don’t know …”
“Oh, come on, Vee, fairy tales don’t exist. You of all people should know that.”
She was right. I was no longer that little girl who wished on falling stars. I’d learned from experience hoping for the impossible just ended in heartbreak … but did that mean I’d stopped believing altogether?
I clenched my teeth and stared into my empty mug, the buzzy feeling its contents had given me long gone. “You’re right.” I pushed down my melancholy, and gave her a bright smile. “Make-believe can be fun sometimes, though.”