The Blue Thread
Short Supernatural Fiction for Midsummer
Greetings, Talebones Readers…
Happy Midsummer Solstice to all who observe! ☀
Today, I bring you a quick seasonal ditty to bring a bit of the supernatural uncanny (but with some redemption, of course) into your day, whether you’re celebrating the sunshine or wishing you had more of it.
I hope you enjoy!
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Duncan MacNeill stood at the border of the village green, watching his neighbors build up the large pile of old wood and bones and broken furnishings for the midsummer fire in the center of the lush lawn, and his heart was sore within him. So sore, in fact, that it read on his face and in the slump of his strong shoulders.
“Duncan MacNeill,” said a firm voice from behind him.
He turned to see the old woman, Kate of the Hedge, sitting on the low stone wall of the churchyard, smoking her hawthorn-wood pipe with her skirts and shawls all gathered around her like a heap.
“Why bring such a troubled face here?” she asked. “You’ll douse the fire before it’s lit.”
Duncan startled at her casual use of the word he refused to speak aloud, but he sighed, and shrugged, and said, “It’s only that I’ve been alone now for too long, I think. My Isabella, God rest her, has been dead and gone seven years. I miss her terribly.”
The old woman gazed at him without expression. Her teeth were yellow from the tobacco, but her eyes were bright in her wrinkled face. “You’re too young to grieve so. Why should you not take a new wife?”
“The young women here all have their matches, promised or fulfilled,” he replied. “And after all, it wouldn’t be fair to saddle them with the affliction of my grief. They deserve better than that, and I am no prize.”
“Then let not the women of this village decide your fate,” said Old Kate. “Your kiln is dark, is it not?”
Duncan was surprised by the question, but nodded hesitantly. “Yes. Dark, and clean, and ready for the harvest and the midsummer ingle.”
“And it’s blessed, too, I imagine?”
Duncan nodded fervently. He took such things very seriously. “Oh yes. I always keep it blessed and speak the good over it, whether the ingle burns within or no.”
“Very well,” Kate said, pulling the pipe from her thin lips to punctuate her meaning. “Then go home, and do as I bid you: at twilight tonight, just after the sun slips behind the hills, take you a ball of blue thread to the kiln. Throw it with a strong arm, to the back, to the shadows, but hold the end of the string. Pull the ball of thread toward you, and when it snags, ask you, ‘Who holds it?’ The voice you hear will tell you who to marry. Then, come ye here to the midsummer fire and kindle the kiln as you otherwise would. Now, repeat back to me what I’ve told you.”
Duncan listened well, and he repeated back to Kate of the Hedge everything she had said. (Except, of course, that he did not speak the fire’s name; such a thing was not done by any farmer of good standing in this country. Only a daft old woman like Kate could get away with it.)
“Only one worry,” Duncan said, when he had finished his recitation. “I don’t think I have any blue thread.”
“Had your Isabella a sewing basket?”
“Aye, she did.”
“Then take my tongue if she didn’t have a ball of blue thread within,” said Old Kate, replacing the pipe back in her mouth and staring out at the growing pile of tinder for the midsummer fire. “And more’s the better for it, being hers.”
*******
So Duncan MacNeill went home, back to his little farm and his little croft at the foot of the hills. The meadows were purple and white with the blooming heather and the wild thyme, and the clear summer air was alive with the humming of the bees. The fields were tall with barley and oats, still green.
It was a good place, but too quiet for want of a wife, and haunted—not by Isabella’s absence, but by Duncan’s own sorrow. The land was fairly soaked with it.
He went to the place where he had hidden away her things, in an old chest against the wall. When he opened it, the smell of her clothing wafted out and embraced him. It was a sweet smell, but with it came sweet memories, and these he could not bear. So, quickly, he pulled out her sewing basket and closed the chest again.
True to the old woman’s word, there was indeed a small ball of blue thread within the basket, coiled carefully around a slim wooden spool.
For the rest of the afternoon he neither ate nor rested, but thought only of Old Kate’s words to him while he worked in the fields. And when twilight fell, he left his cottage, down the gloaming path to the kiln, and the blue thread rested in the pocket of his coat.
His father had built the kiln and its barn many years ago, a long, low building of field-stone with a thick thatched roof. At its far end was the tall, domed chimney. It was cold now, but later tonight—when he brought the burning ingle back from the midsummer fire in the village—it would be alive with smoke and heat.
Duncan entered the barn of the kiln and walked its length in the darkness. It was empty for now, its shelves and spaces swept and ready for the oat and barley harvest to come. For winter’s plenty.
When he reached the place where the kiln’s wide, circular hearth began—all dark, all quiet—he paused. There was no sound except the whistling of the wind along the top of the chimney.
He took the ball of blue thread from his pocket, and, as Kate had told him to do, he threw it to the back of the hearth, hard as he could, so that he heard the soft snick of the wooden spool hitting the stone on the other side. Then he began to coil it toward him, slowly, slowly.
It took a long time.
It took longer than it should take.
The wind whistled in the chimney, and the sound of mice scurrying in the dark barn behind him—looking for dropped grains from the year before that his broom had missed—made Duncan’s skin crawl. The midsummer light outside failed and failed and still the thread kept winding and winding. An impossible length.
Duncan thought, at first, he might set the ball of thread down so that he could go, or even that he might cut it. He knew that the village green was alight with the midsummer fire by now, and that he should bring the ingle back to his own croft if he wanted any part of the ritual’s blessings. If he did not bring it home tonight, it would be too late.
But just as he reached into his other pocket for the small knife he kept there, the thread suddenly caught, tightened, and held.
Duncan pulled gently. It did not move, as if tangled in invisible fingers in the gloom of the hearth.
So Duncan whispered, in fear of the ghostly grip, “Who holds it?”
There was no answer. He cleared his throat, and found his courage, and asked again in a stronger voice, “Who holds it?”
And a voice came from the chimney: “I do.”
A feeling like the delicate touch of a woman’s finger slipped down the nape of Duncan’s neck, leaving raised gooseflesh in its wake. He swallowed hard. “Who are you, I wonder?”
“My name is the name you dare not speak,” said the voice. For all the fear Duncan had of its invisible grip, the voice had a pleasant sound. Low and soft.
Duncan considered the answer, and what he might say next. Old Kate had not told him what to do beyond this.
“I have thrown the blue thread to ask you a question,” he said. “May I ask it now?”
“You may.”
“I would like to know if I shall marry again, and who she might be.”
There was a quiet, and Duncan worried that he had offended the voice in the chimney. He fidgeted with the ball of thread in his hand while he waited patiently for the answer.
“I am only surprised,” the voice replied, finally. “This game is usually played by children. Little girls, midsummer-drunk or chasing at ghosts in the autumn, wondering at things beyond their ken, and I play along only because it pleases me to do so. I don’t think a man of your years has ever asked me this before. You are not old, but you are too grown for games.”
“Oh,” said Duncan. “Will it not work, then? Is there no answer for me?”
The voice considered a bit more, before it replied, “I am sorry, but I do not have a name to give you. All I have is my gratitude. You have taken such good care of this place, and of me, and blessed me without fail though you did not know I was here. I wish I had more to give you, but all I have is my thanks, empty as it might be to you.”
Duncan’s disappointment weighed down his shoulders, but he smiled a little, just to show there were no hard feelings. “You’re kind for trying,” he said. “And I was only glad to keep you tidy and blessed. I think, perhaps, this should stay a game for little girls. I think, maybe, Old Kate was a little addled.”
“I have heard that such confusion is common for you children of the earth,” the voice said, not unkindly.
Duncan knew that he should say goodbye and take his leave of the voice, to go quickly to the village green and gather the ingle, but he had forgotten how nice it was to talk to a friendly voice like this. “May I ask you another question?”
“You may as well.”
“Do you live there in the chimney?”
“I do.”
“For how long have you lived there?”
“I was born when the first fire was kindled in me. But I am far older still. It is difficult to explain.”
Duncan bristled at hearing the word spoken with such boldness, and in such a place. But if the voice in the chimney could not say it, then who could?
“Do you ever think of coming out of there?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“I have not been invited.”
“Oh.” Duncan shrugged. “If that’s all it takes, then I would extend the invitation gladly. You have served my family well for such a long time, it’s the least I can do.”
The voice in the chimney was silent again. And when at last it spoke, there was depth of feeling in its tone, almost emotion. “You would give me this gift?”
“I certainly would,” he said. “And gladly. You may come out whenever you wish.”
And she did. Even in the dark of the kiln, Duncan knew she was a she, because he could see the outline of her as she emerged from the chimney, glowing like an ember, stout shoulders and wide hips and a generous head of hair. Her eyes were red things—comforting, but with a spark of danger within. She was like a person, but on purpose. It was a costume for her to wear.
When she stood before him, he loved her instantly.
“Will you not tell me your name?” he asked her, hardly daring to breathe.
She handed him the ball of blue thread. He slipped it into his pocket.
“I have already told you—my name is the word you dare not say, for fear of curse and crisis,” she replied.
“I would pull every curse and crisis down upon my head for the honor of speaking your name,” he replied.
She smiled kindly, but she knew better, and she was patient. “What do you call the thing you cannot name?”
“Ingle,” Duncan breathed, taking in every inch of her strange aspect.
“Then Ingle you will call me,” she said. “For I would not have you break your well-worn habits on my account, superstitious as they may be. Go now to the midsummer fire and bring back what you seek. I will wait for you.”
“When I return, will you marry me?” Duncan asked.
Ingle laughed, a sound like lightsome sparks snapping in the air. “When you return, I will stay with you. Think on it a while, whether or not you want to marry something whose name you cannot speak. These things should not be decided lightly.”
*******
At the midsummer fire, the flames glowed gold upon the faces of the village buildings, the blacksmith and the church and the marketplace, and the village green was alive with every soul from miles around: all from the village and countryside, farmers and crofters and merchants and children. And there were strangers, too, spirits taking advantage of the thinning veil of night to move flicker-footed through the living. But these could only be seen by a few, and would be forgotten by daybreak.
Duncan MacNeill moved through the crowd and found Kate of the Hedge sitting on the low stone churchyard wall at the edge of everything, watching the gathering and smoking her hawthorn-wood pipe, as if she had never moved from this morning.
“Old Kate,” he said, “I did as you bid me do, and something very strange happened.”
“Did it?”
“It did,” he said, leaning on the wall beside her, “and now I’m bewitched.”
She peered up at him. “You don’t seem too fussed over it.”
“Truly, I’m not.” He turned to look at the bonfire, the smoke billowing into the night sky, a shroud for the full midsummer moon. “But what shall I do now? I saw her, and I loved her, but she bade me consider well whether we could marry.”
“She is wise,” said Old Kate. “All ancient things are wise. Know this, Duncan MacNeill: many a man before you has loved and even married something he cannot understand, and many a man has dashed himself upon the rocks for his folly. To avoid ruin, you must be generous of spirit with her, every day for the rest of your life. Loose-handed and curious. It takes a strong man to do so, but the rewards are mighty.”
Duncan did not think of himself as a quick or wise man, but he did think he understood Old Kate’s meaning. In his pocket, the ball of blue thread sat heavy. Isabella’s blue thread. It still smelled of her, like the clothes in the chest, like the cottage sometimes. Like the haunted land that he held her to with his sorrow.
How he missed her. But how he wished to be happy again, too.
“I must return to the kiln,” he said, standing back up. “I must return with the fire.”
Old Kate glanced up at him, surprised at his bold use of the word.
“Go well to her, Duncan MacNeill,” she replied. “And whatever you choose, let it free you both.”
*******
When he returned to his farm—as he did every summer, just like this, on this night—he held a torch blazing, lit by the midsummer bonfire. With it, he would kindle every hearth he owned, and thereby carry summer’s blessing with him.
But this time was different. Because this time, when he reached the kiln, someone was waiting for him.
Ingle was sitting near the hearth, her deep red eyes flickering with some kind of good-humored delight to see him again. In the light of the torch in his hand she was even more strange, even more breathtaking. Fire danced on her, revealed her as something wearing burnished human skin. She did not belong, and yet she did.
“You’ve returned,” she said.
“You waited,” he replied.
“Of course. I said I would.”
He kneeled beside her, took the torch, and leaned it forward to light the fuel in the hearth. It leapt up, crunching on the tinder as on gristle and bone, flames breathing up into the chimney like a small echo of the communal bonfire miles away.
Ingle inhaled deeply, peacefully, as if the smoke was fresh air to her.
“So now,” she said, “have you thought more about marrying me?”
Duncan nodded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ball of blue thread.
“It belonged to someone I love very much,” he said. “I will love her forever, and I know I will. But I can’t imprison her here, in this place. She’s gone. She deserves to rest easy.”
He threw the ball of thread into the fire; the flames took it. He watched it burn, and as it did so, he thought he caught a shiver of something flutter up, through the chimney and away, singing with relief. But maybe it was only the pop and hiss of an ember.
When he looked down again, Ingle was holding his hand.
Duncan met her strange eyes. “I’ll not cling to you. I’ll not expect you to cling to me. But if you choose, I’ll try to please you with what little I have.”
“Even if you can never speak my true name?” she asked.
“Even so,” he said. “Though I’ll spend my whole life endeavoring to learn it.”
This answer made her smile.
He drew her to her feet, and together they left the darkness of the kiln, out into the midsummer night. The air was sweet with heather and thyme. The barley and oat fields sighed in and out with the night breeze from the hills, green and expectant.
Above them, the bright stars scattered like sparks.
END
Author’s Note:
This story contains references to a few real-world superstitions.
In Scotland, throwing a ball of blue thread or yarn into the grain-drying kiln was, in fact, a divinatory practice used by young women during Samhain and Midsummer to learn who they might marry.
All across the UK and Ireland, huge midsummer bonfires would be kindled in villages and on farms, and massive gatherings would commence to dance and eat and celebrate. Carrying some of the communal flame home to kindle your own hearth was considered a blessing upon the house for the coming harvest.
Also, a taboo existed in some places in Scotland around using the word for “fire” too openly or casually, especially in connection with the grain-drying kiln, in fear that the element of fire might “hear” and take offense and burn up the year’s harvest, which would be a complete catastrophe for any farmer. A few words were used instead, including “ingle.”
(As I am Scottish by marriage, not by birth, I’ll ask forgiveness from my native Scottish readers for any misrepresentations or liberties taken. 😂)
Thank you for reading!
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Oh, this brought tears to my eyes -- and I feel like this story will have a happier ending than a lot of similar folk tales. I was always so sad when the selkie or the swan-maid or what have you had to leave because the man was harsh or too greedy. I think Duncan will be wiser than them -- and if he's not, Old Kate will make sure he knows it!
dreamy and delicious