The longhouse did not sleep easily. Birth always unsettled a roof, for it meant death had been denied and driven from the door, and such victories made the unseen restless. Some men returned to their homes, crossing the moor with lanterns that burned like foxfire against the drizzle. But most lingered. A new heir to the Gunns was no small matter.
They gathered round the fire in groups of three and four, mugs of ale in hand, the smoke curling like thin ghosts between them. Stories filled the space left by the Cailleach's prophecy. They spoke of past raids, of cattle driven over the Ord of Caithness, of Keith men cut down in the dark. They told them louder than usual, to smother unease.
Donald Gunn sat apart, the claymore laid across his knees. The weapon gleamed faintly in the firelight, edges polished like ice, its grip worn with the sweat of generations. He ran a thumb along the fuller, tracing a line as if he might find the future written in steel.
The bard set aside his harp and rose. He was tall, long-boned, with a face made older by smoke and travel. The hall quieted as he cleared his throat. Bards were not chiefs, nor priests, but they carried power of a different kind — the power of memory.
He raised a hand. "Hear me, sons of Gunn. A child is born this night — Seumas mac Dhomhnaill Ghunn. His cry came with the storm, his blood with the sea. The Cailleach has spoken her words, but a bard must speak his too, for the clan must not wake to silence."
He plucked one string, deep and humming.
"Bha e air a bhreith fon stoirm,
Le gaoth na mara mar bhuille-chridhe,
Rugadh e ann am fuil is teine,
Is thèid e tro fhuil is teine fhathast.*"
(He was born beneath the storm,
With the sea-wind for a heartbeat,
Born in blood and fire,
And through blood and fire he will go still.)
The harp's notes rippled through the hall. Men shifted uneasily; women clutched shawls tighter. Prophecy sung was heavier than prophecy spoken — for song fastened itself to the heart more fiercely than words.
Donald's gaze did not waver. "Enough of fire and blood. Sing of strength."
The bard nodded once. His fingers quickened.
"Mar chloich na mara, bidh e làidir,
Mar iarann na claidheamh, bidh e geur,
Gun tèid e fodha ach gun èirich e,
Oir is e ainm Ghunn a bhios beò."
(Like the stone of the sea, he will be strong,
Like the iron of the sword, he will be sharp,
Though he goes down, he will rise again,
For it is the name of Gunn that will live.)
This time, the hall murmured approval. Cups lifted; the tension thinned.
Yet not all were eased. In the shadows, old men exchanged glances. The feud with the Keiths was not forgotten, nor the broken bodies left behind at St. Tears. They knew that fate seldom gave gifts without demanding payment in kind.
The midwife moved quietly through the hall, setting more peat on the fire, placing bowls of broth into hands too drunk or weary to fetch for themselves. She stopped once beside Donald and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Your wife sleeps, your son sleeps. The storm breaks. Rest your heart."
Donald covered her hand with his own. "A Gunn heart does not rest."
From the pallet, the child stirred. A thin cry escaped him, fragile yet insistent. The midwife went at once, but Donald was faster. He lifted the bairn, pressing the small weight against his chest. The claymore lay abandoned at his side, forgotten for the first time in years.
The boy's warmth seeped into him. He breathed the milky, animal scent of new life. For a moment, the Cailleach's words receded, and all he saw was this — his son, tiny fists curled, eyes squeezed shut, breathing like a bird's flutter.
"Seumas," he murmured. "My son."
The bard's song softened, fading into a hum. The hall hushed again. Even the storm seemed to listen.
Then the Cailleach's voice cut through, dry as peat ash. She had not left as some thought, but lingered in the corner, her shawl drawn close.
"Mark this, Gunns. The Keiths will not forget your name. Their envy is long, their hatred longer. This child's life will bind your feud anew. Steel will follow him like a hound."
The silence was heavier than before.
Donald rose, his son still in his arms. His voice was iron. "Let the Keiths come. Let the Crown come. Let death itself come. My son will stand as I stand, as my father stood, as every Gunn before him. Bàs no Beatha."
The hall thundered the reply: "Bàs no Beatha!"
Death or life.
The words rolled out, striking the rafters, spilling into the storm, carried by wind across the moor. Somewhere far off, a wolf howled, thin and sharp as broken glass.
The midwife crossed herself. The Cailleach only smiled.
The longhouse was alive with whispers, and yet silence lay over it too — the kind of silence that presses between the ribs no matter how loudly men speak. Each soul present felt the weight of something larger than themselves, as if the bairn's cry had woken more than just the clan.
The ritual of the four elements was not always kept in these Christian times, yet tonight it would not be forgotten. Donald Gunn gave a curt nod to the midwife. She knew what it meant.
First came the fire. A glowing peat was lifted from the hearth with iron tongs, set carefully in a small clay bowl, and carried toward the pallet where the newborn lay swaddled. The flame lit the infant's face in gold and shadow. The midwife held it just close enough for heat to brush his skin.
"See the light, child," she whispered. "Know warmth. Fear not the flame, for it gives as it takes."
Donald bent low, the claymore still across his lap, and murmured, "Mar theine, gum bi do chridhe làidir." — Like fire, may your heart be strong.
Next came the water. A young kinswoman, no more than fifteen, slipped out into the storm and returned with a wooden bowl filled from the burn that ran past the croft. Rain mingled with stream water until it sloshed bright in the firelight. The midwife dipped her fingers, sprinkled droplets across the boy's brow and lips.
"Drink of the burn, drink of the sea," she intoned. "May you never thirst for courage."
Donald followed: "Mar uisge, gum bi do anam soilleir." — Like water, may your soul be clear.
Then the steel. Donald rose, the great claymore in hand, its blade catching the firelight. He lowered it, flat against the earth, beside the pallet where his son slept. The child shifted in his swaddling, as if recognizing the cold presence.
"Here lies your birthright," Donald said, voice carrying like thunder. "Steel that has drunk Keith blood, steel that has guarded Gunn kin. One day you will lift it, or one like it, and your enemies will tremble."
The bard, watching, added softly, "Mar iarann, gum bi do làmh geur." — Like iron, may your hand be sharp.
Finally came the earth. An old man — Donald's uncle — brought forward a clod of moorland soil, wrapped in linen. He crumbled it gently over the hearthstone, letting the smell of heather and peat fill the hall. Some fell near the child's feet, and the midwife brushed a little against the swaddling.
"Born of Caithness soil," the elder croaked. "To Caithness soil you belong, and to Caithness soil you shall return."
Donald sealed the ritual: "Mar talamh, gum bi do bhunait daingeann." — Like the earth, may your foundation be firm.
The hall exhaled, the tension easing. Ritual bound the child to life, to land, to kin. Whatever shadows the Cailleach had spoken, they could be borne more easily when fire, water, steel, and earth had touched the newborn.
Then came the gifts of the clan.
The bard placed a carved harp peg, smoothed by years of use, beside the pallet. "So he will always find music, even in sorrow."
The blacksmith laid down a small horseshoe, iron rough and strong. "So he will never lack for luck, or for work."
A hunter left a wolf fang, strung on sinew. "So he will be fearless, though the night howl against him."
The fisher set a dried silver scale, shining faintly. "So the sea will grant him its bounty, not its grave."
A woman, kin by marriage, removed the brooch fastening her plaid and pinned it gently to the swaddling. "So he will always be bound to family, and family to him."
The tokens gathered, each a story, each a prayer.
Donald watched with pride, though his face was stone. His son lay in the middle of the hall now, surrounded by offerings, as if already a chieftain in miniature.
But the Cailleach had not yet finished.
She shuffled forward, shawl dragging, eyes clouded but unerring. From her bundle she drew a small pouch of leather, tied with gut. She opened it, and from within poured a pinch of ashes into her palm. The smell rose sharp — kelp burned down to white powder.
The hall stiffened. Kelp was fuel, medicine, sometimes curse. In ashes lived endings.
She sprinkled the ashes across the hearth. They hissed as they met the peat's glow.
"From ash comes glass," she said, voice carrying through the hall. "From ash comes soap. From ash comes powder for the musket. Ash is ruin, aye — but ash is also beginning. Let the boy's life be like kelp ash: born of fire, turned to use, never wasted."
The bard bowed his head. "Prophecy in riddles, as ever."
The Cailleach's lips twitched. "Riddles live longer than men."
Later, as the hall thinned and kin drifted to rest, Donald sat alone by the hearth. The claymore leaned against his knee, his son cradled in his arm. The child's breath tickled his beard, warm and soft.
He thought of the prophecy. Of Keith treachery. Of Culloden yet to come, though he did not know its name. He thought of Bonnie Prince Charlie — in exile still, but with whispers always rising. The Prince will return. The clans will rise.
Donald bent his head close to his son's ear.
"When the Prince calls," he murmured, "we will answer. You will answer. Mo mhac. My son. And may God and the sea forgive what it will cost."
The fire crackled. Outside, the storm relented to a steady rain. The seals barked once more in the dark, a sound both mournful and merry.
The boy stirred, then settled, as if the sea itself had soothed him.
And so the night held — prophecy, promise, and peril all cradled in the small chest of a Gunn bairn.
The fire had burned low, its light a dim red heart beating in the ashes. The hall lay heavy with the smell of smoke and sweat, broth and whisky, blood and peat — the scents of birth and battle alike. One by one, the clan folk had drifted into sleep where they sat, heads bowed, mouths open, like warriors on a march who take what rest they can while the line halts.
Donald Gunn did not sleep.
The weight of the claymore was a comfort at his knee, the weight of the child heavier still in his arms. He held his son close, feeling the frail heartbeat flutter against his chest. The bairn had calmed into the easy breath of newborn sleep, lips twitching now and then as if already chasing dreams.
Donald lifted his gaze. Across the embers, the Cailleach sat unmoving, her shawl drawn close, her eyes clouded yet unyielding. She had not closed them once since the boy was born. Her lips moved faintly, and Donald realized she was whispering old words, older than kirk or crown.
He shifted, careful not to wake the child. "What is it you say, old mother?"
The Cailleach's head tilted, owl-like. "I speak to those who watch."
Donald's hand tightened on the claymore. "There are none here but kith."
She gave a thin smile. "You believe that? On the night of a birth? Foolish man. The walls listen. The wind listens. The dead themselves draw near to see what blood has entered the world."
Donald's skin prickled, but he would not show fear. "And what do they hear?"
The Cailleach leaned forward, her voice a rasp. "They hear that one born this night will carry two names. One given, one taken. They hear that iron will mark him, and ash will follow him. They hear that the sea will be his home and his grave, and that love will both wound and heal him."
Donald's jaw set. "Enough riddles."
The Cailleach's eyes sharpened, sudden as lightning over moorland. "Then hear plain words, Donald Gunn. This son of yours will not die where you think. He will walk as a ghost among the living, and he will not know he is alive until he gives his heart away. Guard him, aye — but know this: no guard can keep him from his fate. Nor you, nor sword, nor stone."
Donald's hand clenched so hard on the claymore that his knuckles ached. Yet he said nothing. For he knew well enough that to answer prophecy with anger was to feed it.
The old woman leaned back, her shawl falling into shadow. "Sleep now, Gunn chief. Dawn will bring no comfort if you meet it weary."
But Donald did not sleep.
The hours dragged. The storm eased, its fury burned out. A steady rain washed the world, soft against turf and stone, steady as a heartbeat. The hall breathed with the sound of sleepers.
At last a pale line spread across the eastern sky.
Donald rose. He carried his son in the crook of one arm, the claymore in the other. He walked to the door, shouldered it open, and stepped out into the grey light of morning.
The land stretched away in silence. The moor gleamed wet, heather bent under drops of rain. Beyond, the cliffs fell sheer to the sea, where waves gnawed at black rock and gulls wheeled and cried. The air was sharp with salt and peat smoke, clean after the night's storm.
Donald walked to the cliff's edge. He lifted his son high, letting the newborn feel the cold kiss of the dawn wind on his skin. The bairn whimpered once, then stilled. His tiny eyes opened, dark and unfocused, yet catching the light of the rising sun.
Donald's voice rolled like thunder over the cliffs.
"Seumas mac Dhomhnaill Ghunn!" he cried. "Born of fire, water, steel, and earth! Son of Caithness! Blood of Gunn! Hear the sea, boy! Hear the land! They are yours, and you are theirs!"
The waves struck the rocks in answer, sending spray high into the morning. Gulls shrieked, their wings flashing white. The wind carried Donald's words out over the water, where they would echo in caves and hollows long after men were gone.
For a moment, the prophecy seemed to loosen its grip. For a moment, there was only a father, a son, and the dawn.
By midmorning, the hall stirred. Men stretched stiff limbs, women cleared bowls, children were hushed. One by one, kin took their leave, heading back across the moor to their crofts, leaving blessings behind.
The bard was last. He placed his harp on his back, bowed his head to Donald, and spoke softly: "I will carry this night in song, chief. But mark me — songs live longer than men. Be sure of what you wish remembered."
Donald said nothing. His eyes were on his son.
The bard left. Silence settled at last.
Donald stood alone in the hall, the claymore at his side, his son in his arms. The Cailleach had gone sometime in the grey hours, slipping away like mist. Only her words remained, sharp as thorns.
He bent over the boy once more. "They speak of fate, of sorrow, of death. But hear me, my son: you are Gunn. That is enough. Whatever name you take, whatever shadow follows you, remember this — Gunns do not bow."
The child yawned, tiny mouth opening wide, then settled once more.
Outside, the dawn spread gold across the wet heather. The sea roared its endless hymn. And so began the life of Seumas mac Dhomhnaill Ghunn — born with prophecy in his cradle, bound to blood and steel, marked by the storm.