The Fairy Flag and the Daughter of Thunder

'Are you seriously telling me,' the chief of Clan McLeod whispered furiously into the ear of the archeologist as the reporter approached, 'that the only press coverage you could manage to get was a woman from The Guardian? You know I don't hold with those lefties. If this doesn't work they'll make us out to be crackpots and blatherskytes.'

The reporter approached and extended her hand in greeting. She was clearly a Londoner. 'I'm Alice Crofton,' she introduced herself. 'I'm the chief historical correspondent from The Guardian. This is an interesting project. Could you take me through your reasoning, slowly if you don't mind? You explained it in your email, but I should prefer to hear it from you now.'

Ian, the archeologist, caught the thinly veiled sarcasm, but supposed it didn't matter. He spoke over the noise of the drill rig working a quarter of a mile away. 'The first factor is the shifting of the poles, you see,' he began. 'As you know, because your paper reported this, when there were plans to build an airport on the Isle of Skye, engineers tested the depth of the peat to see whether it was feasible to build a runway. Thirty feet deep, thirty feet of peat, that had to come from a lot of vegetation. Skye must have been tropical at some point.'

The reporter nodded, wrote 'shifting of the poles.' Her photographer was already scouting the grounds for good shots.

Ian continued, 'Then there's the Fairy Flag.'

'Am Bratach Sith, one of the treasures of the castle, a fourth-century square of silk from Rhodes,' the reporter added in an imperfect but passable Gaelic accent, to show that she knew her history.

'But I'm taking account of the legends,' Ian noted. 'The first, a clan member on a Crusade had to do combat with the Daughter of Thunder to pass on the road. He killed her and took her girdle to make the banner for the glory and magical benefit of the clan.'

Alice narrowed her eyes and asked if he believed that, thinking a credulous local archeologist would make a quick story to write.

'No, but as a metaphor it's interesting, I think.'

Alice took note. There was more to this fellow than met the eye.

'Then,' Ian continued, 'there is the myth that it was a present to the clan chief given at The Fairy Bridge.'

'But I imagine you don't believe in fairies,' Alice offered.

Ian's professional demeanor slipped for a moment, 'Actually, looking at your fine features, Ms. Alice, I think I could be persuaded to believe,' he flattered, and Alice blushed. The photographer continued to wander, holding his thumbs and forefingers in a rectangle to consider the composition of his photos.

'Our idea is that there was an event involving the flag, a dramatic event, that was the basis for both myths.' He paused to let that settle.

'A dramatic event,' she repeated, interested. Drama sells, she thought.

'And to understand it, to put it in its context, we need to think about the geographical changes, including the shifting of the poles.'

'But how could you do that?' she asked.

'I've used Stonehenge as a baseline.

'How so?' she asked, now genuinely curious.

'Well the alignment of the stones is right on the Solstice in our time.' She nodded. 'And it must have worked in the fourth century, even if the poles, and therefore the compass directions, were different.'

'Oh I see,' she exclaimed. So the shift must have moved the event the exact distance from one set of stones to another. Otherwise Stonehenge would be off line.'

The archeologist and the clan chief nodded, pleased that she understood.

'Using that factor,' he continued, 'We've calculated that there was a line parallel from one of the Stonehenge lines for the Solstice sunrise running from the turret on Dunvegan Castle from which the flag was flown, all the way to the Fairy bridge.'

The reporter thought silently for a few moments. 'And based on that you're drilling a hole? Where and why?'

'Well, actually based on a bit more than that. There's a Harrier group at Inverness. One of the pilots volunteered to do a flyover along the line with ground-penetrating radar. We've found a deposit of something, we don't know what. That's where and why we're drilling.'

'I still don't get it,' Alice said with just a hint of impatience.

'Slaying the daughter of thunder,' the archeologist explained, 'could refer to an event like an explosion, or something catching fire as it would with thunder and lightning. Maybe methane, or oil.'

'And again,' Alice remarked, 'with thirty feet of peat there was plenty of vegetation to make oil or methane. And by doing these calculations and making radar measurements along this line, in effect you are...'

'Re-enacting what the clan would have seen on the Solstice, hypothetically on the occasion of the explosive event or fire.'

'And you,' Alice turned to the Chief, 'are helping him do this. It makes sense to you?'

The Chief answered, 'I think it's possible. According to legend the Flag protects our clan. Skye needs resources. Maybe this will lead to something important.'

Alice resisted the impulse to tell them they were both crazy dreamers. No need to editorialize. That could be done in print. Actually this far-fetched scheme would speak for itself, she mused. 'How far down is this deposit?'

'Just over a hundred and fifty feet,' the Chief answered. We're almost there.' Alice made notes at a furious pace. One way or the other, she had a terrific story. What would the title be? she wondered. If it failed, 'Skye-high Hopes dashed,' she supposed. If it succeeded? But this crazy idea couldn't succeed could it? But if it did? Maybe, 'Lightning strikes twice in the same place as Daughter of Thunder comes through'? A bit long, but not bad. But it wouldn't be needed. She knew this was, not to put too fine a point on it, a fairy story.

As she was mulling over the possibilities, the pitch changed on the rig, then switched off. All three looked at the operation. The crew leader was running towards them waving his arms. 'Ian, Ian!' he shouted.

'Have you broken a drill bit?' Ian asked.

'No, we've found it!'

'What have you found? Oil?' he shouted back.

'No, ___ !' and the wind muted his reply.

'What did you say?' Ian asked.

'Hydrogen!'

'Hydrogen?' Ian repeated, incredulously.

'A huge deposit of hydrogen! Clean hydrogen!'

'Oh my Lord, the fuel cells of the future!' the chief exclaimed. 'We have energy!'

Quickly the implications settled on them. The drilling crew had a find, Ian had success, and Clan McLeod had its energy. Alice had a prize-winning story. She was already on her phone. 'Stop the press! You're going to want to print this tonight! Absolutely! The Times won't scoop us this time! I'm sending words and photos. Get the story in the evening edition, front page!' The photographer worked furiously.

And somewhere, in a very distant time, a crusading McLeod, and the daughter of the great god of Thunder smiled as they made a sudden, unexpected appearance in the annals of the twenty-first century.

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