Icefall (49 page)

I never wanted to use the term
Sidhe
because it's so closely identified with the Irish faeries. I'd always planned to use the Scottish word
Sith,
but by the time I came to write the books, it had been used by some guy called George Lucas, and I thought I had better differentiate my characters from a dark galactic brotherhood. The word
sith
(pronounced shee) is found in many Scottish place names, such as Glenshee; sithe also means ‘peace,' but then the faeries were also known as the ‘people of peace,' a fact to which Seth refers rather ironically on several occasions.

Faery traditions survive amazingly strongly, even in modern-day Scotland. There are still those who won't cut down a rowan tree for fear of offending the little people; when my mother-in-law did so, and her house burned to the ground shortly afterwards, her good friend pretty much said ‘I told you so.'

There's a seeming contradiction in the relationship of rowans to faeries, in that while the trees are said to be sacred to the faery people, they are also supposed to ward off evil spirits. Given that faeries and evil spirits were considered interchangeable after the Middle Ages, with the rise of devil-phobia and the witch persecutions, that might seem to make no sense; but I chose to make rowanwood a material that naturally blocks my characters' telepathy. So, while it would be of value as a defence, it could also be used against them—as Kate does so effectively in
Icefall.

There are many local variations of the myth about the faeries being the rebel angels who were thrown out of Heaven, as described in Revelation Chapter 12. The angels who fell on land became the faeries; the ones who remained in the sky, caught on their way to Earth, became the Merry Dancers (the
fir chlis
or Northern Lights); and those that fell in the water became the Blue Men, or seals, or selkies.

There are too many fairy traditions to count, but they include child abduction, the seduction of mortals into the otherworld, and the nasty tendency of time to pass differently in the faery world. A tale is told of Finn MacCool's son Oisin, who lived for many years in Tir nan Og, remaining beautiful and young, until he visited the mortal world; whereupon he slipped from his horse, touched the ground, and became an old and wizened man. (There are surprisingly modern variations on this myth: people who appear, bemused, in the middle of cities, having accepted an invitation from a beautiful stranger only the previous night. These tales usually end with the poor humans dissolving to dust on being told of the actual date and year.) I've used and abused many of these traditions. There's no better collection of them than John Gregorson Campbell's
The Gaelic Otherworld
(Birlinn Ltd)
,
which is comprehensive, detailed, and, once you open it, almost magically impossible to put down.

In Dunvegan Castle on the Isle of Skye there is a fragile remnant of a flag known as the Fairy Flag (
Am Bratach Sith).
It belongs to the Chieftain of Clan MacLeod, and while many legends are attached to its origins, most involve the mystical banner being given to an early chief as reward for services rendered. It's supposed to have many magical properties that can aid in battle, but it can only be unfurled three times; allegedly it's been unfurled twice in history. There are too many variations on this story to list here—and they're worth looking up—but needless to say, I gave a MacLeod a very special favour to do for the faeries in
Firebrand.
Entirely my own invention, but no less probable than the ones in the legends.

Cold iron has always been said to be harmful to faeries, hence traditions like the nailing of horseshoes to doors for the protection of livestock. It wasn't a practical aversion to give my own Sithe, given the amount of time they spend with swords, daggers, and arrowheads; I've turned this particular tradition around to make ‘cold iron' a metaphor they use for the loss of a soul.

T
HE
W
OLF OF
K
ILREVIN

It's not just myths that I've maltreated; I've had my wicked way with some historical figures too. The Wolf is
very
loosely inspired by the fourteenth century Earl of Buchan, Alexander Stewart, known as the Wolf of Badenoch for his (alleged) savagery and ruthlessness. His grudge against the Bishop of Moray led him to ride down from his fortress on Lochindorb, sack the town of Elgin and burn its cathedral (the impressive ruins still stand). He was excommunicated for this act, and had to beg forgiveness from the Bishop of St Andrews in the presence of his brother the King of Scotland, but this struck me as exactly the kind of pragmatic and cynical move that my own Alasdair would make. After all, neither his political machinations nor his brutality ended with the Wolf of Badenoch's apology.

Local legend tells that the Wolf of Badenoch met his death after a game of chess with the Devil; his lifeless body was discovered unmarked and unscarred, but the corpses of his men were sprawled outside his fortress, blackened as if by lightning.

K
ATE
N
IC
N
IVEN

In some sixteenth century manuscripts, the name Kate McNiven (or NicNiven, or NicNevin, or McNieven, or Nike Neiving) is given to the queen of the Scottish dark witches. (NicNiven may also have been a leader's title in witch cults.)

A witch by that name was said to have been burned at the Knock of Crieff in the sixteenth century. Captured by townsfolk, she was tied to a stake; a local landowner attempted to save her but was rebuffed by the villagers who by that time were no doubt thoroughly wound up to enjoy a good witch fire. Kate McNiven reportedly cursed the town, but bit a moonstone from her necklace and spat it at the more sympathetic laird, saying his house and family would flourish so long as they preserved the stone. According to the tales they did indeed prosper, while the town went into decline. North of the Knock of Crieff there is a standing stone, remnant of a circle, known as Kate McNiven's Stane.

Stuart McHardy tells her story, and many more, in his addictive
On the Trail of Scotland's Myths and Legends
(Luath Press). Brian Froud has a fabulously sinister portrait of “Nicnivin, Elph Queine of the Unseelie Court” in his
Good Faeries/Bad Faeries
(Pavilion).

T
HE
K
ELPIES

Kelpies and water horses (
each-uisge)
can be entirely different beasts in many legends, being sometimes-humanoid, sometime-equine demon spirits, but I've made mine the war horses of my Sithe. Since the best war horse was always one that was as savage in battle as its rider, this made sense to me. In old legends, a water horse would lurk around rivers and lochs looking available and tame and rather beautiful—until some weary traveller decided to make use of it, whereupon he would find himself unable to dismount. The horse would then undergo a serious personality change, plunge into the water, drown the traveller there and eat him. (Except for the liver, apparently. Anyone who has a cat knows that this rings true.)

T
HE
S
ELKYR

Selkies in traditional myths tend to be gentle creatures, taking the form of seals. In many stories a human will fall in love with a beautiful man or woman who is discovered basking on a Highland beach (our summers aren't as bad as many people think). The selkie might stay with its human lover for a while, and even give them children, but if the seal-coat isn't found and hidden (for it slipped out of it only for a moment), the selkie will inevitably put it back on, and abandon its family to return to the sea. The stories are often tragic or melancholy. My Selkyr aren't quite like that, which is why I changed their name; but selkies were undoubtedly their inspiration.

T
HE
L
AMMYR

I made them up. That's allowed. Though I'm not sure what it says about me.

 

THANKS

 

 

My poor Sithe. I painted them into a nasty old corner at the end of
Wolfsbane,
and if it hadn't been for Elizabeth Garrett and her generosity, I'm not sure they'd ever have found their way out of it. Her beautiful Cliff Cottage is amazingly spacious, and can accommodate an entire clann, their warhorses, their familiars, and their author. I just hope we didn't make too much of a mess. Thank you, Elizabeth, for giving me so much time and space—and, of course, the cliffs.

Many thanks to the Estate of Edwin Muir and to Faber & Faber Limited for their kind permission to reprint lines from ‘Love in Time's Despite' (
The Labyrinth,
1949).

Thank you, Whitney Ross, Amy Stapp, and everyone at Tor—you are such great guys to work with. Seth loves New York!

Lucy Coats is always riding to my rescue, and she did it again with
Icefall
by taking her perfectly honed blade to my overpopulated manuscript, and by asking very incisive questions. There was blood all over the carpet. I'm beyond grateful, and so are Seth and Finn.

Alison Stroak, thank you, thank you for saving me from myself and my giant foot-in-Seth's-mouth blunders. I hope Damien has forgiven me for the tissues. And massive thanks too to Lawrence Mann and Steve Stone, who created beautiful covers and yet more gorgeous images of my imaginary friends.

Graham Watson, Michael Malone, Derek Allsopp, and Keith Charters were burdened with the first draft of this book, but they liked it enough to convince me it could work. I am not sure how I'd have faced a second draft without their faith, so huge thanks go to them.

Chris Curran supported and encouraged me through all four Rebel Angels books, and was a fount of good advice. Catriona Smith was incredibly kind and patient with my floundering attempts at Gaelic, and gave me crucial help, especially with a particular place name. Ross Walker advised me about the world of drugs, and Iris Rooney gave me the Devil's Hour. My Twitterpals were there as always with answers and advice and virtual tequila. And Ian Philip, who doesn't even like fantasy, put up with A LOT of it. I am so very grateful to you all.

Huge thanks to Robert Roth, who donated very generously to the Authors for the Philippines campaign and can now be said to be a Good Guy turned (fictionally!) Bad Guy.

I'm pretty sure the magical island of Colonsay is indifferent to the fleeting gratitude of mortal authors, but I want to thank it anyway, for being a landscape where so much could happen in my head.

Finally, there are certain otherworlds where I am completely lost. So thank you, Jamie Philip and William Lofthus, for letting me sit in on some long Xbox sessions, for correcting gaffes, and for being very tolerant of my complete bewilderment. Equal thanks go to Lucy Philip for selecting and downloading a fabulously motivating soundtrack that did not date from the 1980s. Kids, I'm very, very grateful and I love you. Now go and tidy your rooms.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

G
ILLIAN
P
HILIP
was born in Glasgow but has spent much of her life in Aberdeen, Barbados, and a beautiful valley near Dallas (not that one). Before turning to full-time writing, she worked as a barmaid, theatre usherette, record store assistant, radio presenter, typesetter, hotel wrangler, secretary, political assistant, and Celtic-Caribbean singer.

She has been nominated for a Carnegie Medal and a David Gemmell Legend Award and short-listed for many awards, including the Royal Mail Scottish Book Award. Her favourite genres are fantasy and crime (her novels include
Bad Faith, Crossing the Line,
and
The Opposite of Amber
), and she has written as one of the Erin Hunters (Survivors) and as Gabriella Poole (Darke Academy).

She lives in the northeast Highlands of Scotland with husband Ian, twins Jamie and Lucy, Cluny the Labrador, Milo the Papillon, Otto the half-Papillon (guess how that happened), Buffy the Slayer Hamster, psycho cats The Ghost and The Darkness, Mapp and Lucia the chickens, and several nervous fish. She is not getting any more pets. No way. You can sign up for email updates on the author
here
.