Hag

Kathleen Kaufman

Description

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NOTABLE AUTHOR: Kaufman wrote the highly-praised The Lairdbalor, and has an academic background in language and literature education.

MAGIC AND OCCULT: Readers are obsessed with magical themes and the history of witches, featured here through strong female protagonists.

CELTIC FOLKLORE: Kaufman combines elements of magical realism with her family’s own history and ancient legend in a way that appeals to fans of authors like Deborah Harkness and Alice Hoffman.

Sujets

• Magical Realism
• Cailleach Béirre
• Escocia
• Hag
• Cailleach
• Scotland
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Turner Publishing Company
• Date de parution: 02 octobre 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781684421695
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Turner Publishing Company
Nashville, Tennessee
New York, New York
www.turnerpublishing.com
Hag
Copyright 2018 Kathleen Kaufman.
This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design: Maddie Cothren
Book design: Meg Reid
Lyric Credit: Kate Rusby, Planets
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Kaufman, Kathleen, author.
Title: Hag : a novel / Kathleen Kaufman.
Description: Nashville, Tennessee : Turner Publishing Company, [2018]|
Summary: Spanning centuries of human history, the daughters of the lowland hag, the Cailleach, an ancient female force hidden in the rocky Scottish cliffs, must navigate a world filled with superstition, hatred, violence, pestilence, and death to find their purpose.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018008658| ISBN 9781684421671 (pbk.) ISBN 9781684421688 (hard cover)
Subjects: | CYAC: Mythology, Celtic--Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.K377 Hag 2018 | DDC [Fic]--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018008658
9781684421671 (PBK)
9781684421688 (HC)
9781684421695 (eBook)
Printed in the United States of America
17 18 19 20 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my mother, who told me all the stories and taught me from a very young age that magic can be found in even the most ordinary of places .
CONTENTS
Prolgue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Epilogue
Acknowledgement
She is powerful if different.
-Tina Turner
I have recognized that the All is being dissolved, both the earthly things and the heavenly.
-Gospel of Mary 8:17

THE LOST VILLAGE STILL STANDS somewhere deep in the lowland hills. The Cailleach s curse has not waned or weakened. An invisible shield, as permeable as water, surrounds the tiny village surrounded by the rough field grass, not far from the cave where if one looks closely enough, one can still make out the mark of Ingwaz carved on the stones that block the entrance. Over the years, the village has become harder and harder to see; as memory of the Cailleach faded and the raven-haired hag turned to folklore and the folklore became a relic of an ancient time, people forgot, and in their forgetting, they lost the ability to see. Unconsciously and quite by accident, they crossed the Lethe, and their memories of an earlier time when magic was part of the ordinary was erased .
Now the field is home to a development of flats, parking lots, cars, and paved roads. The rough grass that the daughter of Cailleach ran through in her terror and grief so very many years ago has been cultivated, and rows of manufactured flowers and shrubs fall in neat rows. Children play on a brightly painted climbing frame and laugh as they push each other on the roundabout. They have no memory of those who lived on the land so many years ago. Families sit in their gardens at twilight and hear only the thrush sing out the day .
There is a stretch of land that has never been developed; it sits pristine and untouched, and those who live in this oblivious and forgetful world avoid it entirely. It was deemed unsuitable for structures many years ago, and no one has bothered to examine the diagnosis. A deep and unsettling feeling comes over anyone who lingers in this no-man s-land surrounded by progress. Dogs, run away from their owners, will stop and bark at an invisible enemy on the border of the green space. The children dare each other to walk through the field at night, and every so often a story rises of a single light emanating from the center of the field: as small as a candle flame, it flickers back and forth in the night and then disappears entirely .
BRIGHT RED RAIN BOOTS, boots that were seeing their first good Glasgow rain. Alice Grace is six years old today, and she is wearing brand-new red rain boots from the United States. They arrived via parcel post the week before, and it had been the single most exciting event of the entire dreary week. There was a note enclosed that read, It rains buckets in the summer, getting you ready for a good Colorado downpour. Her mother had cursed and not apologized. Another thing to pack, why not keep them till we get settled? Alice Grace didn t care a bit about that. She had new red boots and it was raining on High Street, the water winding its way through the cobblestones, creating paths around the broken stone and rubble. She figured in Colorado, United States, the streets were all smooth pavement, the piles of brick and stone, the destruction of the war, were made into clean, straight walls, and the weather was always agreeable. The trees were green year-round, and the damp never hung in the air. She skipped in the gutter where the puddles were deepest and made the biggest splash. The hem of her pink-and-grey dress was damp with the muddy water, but she didn t care a bit about that. Her new red rain boots were magnificent and all was well.
She skipped along the path, her eyes on the autumn sky. It was growing dark and the sun had settled into a slow burn behind the rooftops. There was a sense of everything she would leave behind, and Alice Grace almost lost her broad grin at the thought. She knew, after these short weeks, that her life would change forever and wasn t entirely sure that was a good idea. Mum said there were paths we follow in life, and they decided everything. Alice Grace sometimes wondered if the path here on High Street in Glasgow was the one she would be happiest on. She would grow to run the shop that Mum had run before the war. She would sell herbal tinctures and creams made from the garden that had once bloomed in the back courtyard. She would marry the butcher s son, the boy with the chipped tooth and floppy hair who opened doors for her and gave her a chocolate on Christmas. Even at six, Alice Grace saw the path stretched out in front of her. It was a fine life; they lived over the shop in the flat that had sat empty since the Clydebank Blitz. Their children had floppy hair and Alice Grace s honey-brown eyes. They were happy.
Alice Grace saw other things too: even at six she knew better than to tell anyone what she saw. She saw the butcher s boy double over with a pain in his chest, his hair just beginning to grey. She saw her own honey-eyed children with tears in their eyes. She saw herself dressed in black, her own raven hair streaked with white. She saw the neighbors sitting in their humble den, pints and bottles of whiskey aplenty, the children well asleep or at least pretending. She saw herself running the business alone, a respected businesswoman, content, quiet, and happy. Even at six years old, Alice Grace saw a vision of herself sitting by a fire, a book in her hand and a lady s glass of whiskey on the end table. Her honey-eyed children long ago set out upon their fortunes. She saw herself happy and alone and wondered if she should stay, if this were the best she could do in this life.
The problem was the red rain boots. Living above the shop with the floppy-haired butcher s boy was a choice, but there was no room for bright red rain boots. She was to leave for Colorado, United States, in two weeks time, and there was adventure to be found. She was sure she would see the paths unfold in time, as they formed; she always had before. The water was pooling in a broad swirl at the crook in the lane. Alice Grace skipped in the shadow of the street and sidewalk, enjoying the spray that showered her in muddy rainwater.
Just as she reached the magnificent, broad lake of muddy water, Alice Grace felt the bottom drop out: her right foot, instead of hitting the hard pavement, kept falling, down and down, down forever. In that moment, as she felt her entire six-year-old self lurch forward and down, she saw another path, one that had lain hidden beneath the muddy water. This one carried her down, down, and she saw her mother, face covered in a black veil and the familiar pints here and there; the butcher s boy, his face red and swollen with tears, sat in a corner. There was no Colorado, United States, in this path, not for her or anyone. This was the end of so many things, and Alice Grace understood in that frozen moment that the devil was many things, and all the things that Mum had ever told her flooded her heart. Be strong and proud, Mum had said as she brushed Alice Grace s raven hair that was touched with fire. She felt Mum s lips on the top of her head and smelled nutmeg and vanilla.
She closed her eyes and, resigned to the fall through the mud that seemed never to end, she was already up to her waist, and the cold rush of the rainwater felt like knives in her skin. She felt a scream tear from her mouth, her voice moving of its own accord. Suddenly, a force she couldn t explain gripped her red rain boot and shoved upward. She felt a pair of strong hands, but that was impossible; her foot was deep in the water and no one was there to catch her, yet still the hands tightened and shoved upward. She swore she heard a grunt of effort in her right ear, and a final heave shoved her back up through the swi