The building is made from the kind of stone that glows in sunshine, a rich, dusky orange; but here there is precious little sunshine, and even today, a glum autumn day where the sun lingers at the edges, there is a washed-out quality to the stone: a feeling that what was promised, what should have been so pleasant, has been hollowed out, not followed up on.
Tam Lin walks up a set of steps towards the words Rᴏʏᴀʟ Cᴏɴsᴇʀᴠᴀᴛᴏɪʀᴇ ᴏꜰ Sᴄᴏᴛʟᴀɴᴅ at the top of the building’s walls, then backtracks to find the actual entrance beside the overhead bridge. He is aware that the effort that he has made with his appearance is probably not up to scratch: he has pulled his long hair into a ponytail but strands are escaping, curling at the side of his head; his clothes are meant to be smart, but he knows that they have a looser fit and older styles than those he sees on all the people coming and going around him. Even with those concessions they do not sit comfortably.
Tam enters the double doors and stands in the foyer for a moment. His gaze sweeps the signs—Lɪᴋᴇ ɴᴏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴇʟsᴇ, one exclaims, while another marks the way to the students’ union, and others blare with messages about health and safety guidelines and emergency exits. He makes his way over to the reception desk, where the young man behind it eyes him. “Can I help?”
“I’m here for the interview? Archives Assistant?” His voice is soft, recognisable in its Borders accent but somehow out of place. After a beat, the receptionist points down the corridor to the left.
“That way, and follow the signs.”
“Thank you.”
Tam makes his way down the corridor. His pace is too slow for the bustle around him: people almost walk into him, or force him to weave to the side, talking loudly amongst themselves. He follows the signs for Iɴᴛᴇʀᴠɪᴇᴡ, printed in capitals and with an arrow drawn on in pen. The signs lead him away from the main artery and down a few side-corridors, empty and white. He makes a wrong turn and has to retrace his steps again. Finally, he reaches the wood-veneered door with its little round window, inside which is a desk, three people seated behind it, and a single empty chair on the other side. There’s a glass of water on the desk in front of the empty chair. At a beckon from one of the seated interviewers Tam opens the door.
He remembers Janet’s words from that morning. It’s a performance, nothing more. Tam imagines framing it for her as a script, a play, a stranger to himself in this place where all the strangeness seems to shout at him. He can picture her smile and it is the thing that keeps him there, in the nondescript room as the questions begin.
THE SCENE OPENS. STRANGERS SIT AROUND A TABLE.
“Hello. Good to meet you. I’m Peter and I’m the head of archives here at the conservatoire. This is Emily, who is the line manager for the role that you are interviewing for today, and this is Sheila, from HR. Sit down. Have some water.”
A PAUSE. TAM TAKES A SIP OF WATER. THE GLASS WOBBLES AS HE PLACES IT BACK DOWN.
“So, a quick ice-breaker question for you now, Tam. Can you tell us what draws you to apply for this role with us?”
I am haunted by a song.
“I have always had a passion for music. This is the largest collection of musical manuscripts in the country…”
TAM’S VOICE CRACKS. HE PAUSES TO TAKE ANOTHER SIP OF WATER.
“Ahem. So. I like that. The collection. Of music, I mean.”
TAM’S FINGERS TWIST IN HIS LAP AND HE FALLS SILENT. THE PANEL WAIT A MOMENT, IN CASE THERE IS MORE. THERE ISN’T.
“Okay, thank you Tam.”
THEY ARE MAKING NOTES ON THEIR SHEETS OF PAPER.
“So. Can you tell us a bit about yourself, Tam?”
My name is Tam Lin. I was born in Carterhaugh, in Selkirkshire, between the plains and the woods. Those woods are gone now, and I am here; I am back from Faeryland, where time flows differently, where my years by the side of the Faery Queen translate to centuries, and all is changed. All is changed.
I should be dead. I should have been paid as a tithe to the realm of the demons.
When I lived in Faeryland, I had but to open my mouth, and the most beautiful, bewitching songs would pour forth. I could charm every lad or lass who made their way to the top of that hill outside the village. I could, and I did.
“I don’t know… I sing pretty well. I’m from a part of the world… where that matters. Mattered.”
THE PANEL WAIT AGAIN. ONE OF THEM LOOKS LIKE THEY WANT TO PROMPT HIM. ANOTHER IS FROWNING, PERHAPS AT THE USE OF PAST TENSE. AFTER A PAUSE, TAM CONTINUES.
“I have not been able to work for some time. But I am now looking for a job. And I think that—I think that my organisational skills, my knowledge of music and my ability to work… calmly and accurately, will enable me to… meet the high expectations of a diverse customer base in this busy service environment.”
HE HAS LEANED FORWARDS SLIGHTLY TO SAY THAT LAST, WHICH IS WORDING LIFTED STRAIGHT FROM THE JOB ADVERTISEMENT, AND NOW HE SLUMPS AGAIN AS IF TIRED. THE PANEL ARE WRITING MORE NOTES ON THEIR SHEETS OF PAPER.
THERE IS ANOTHER, LONGER PAUSE.
“Thank you, Tam. If anything is unclear in our questions, please just ask. So. We noticed that there was quite a gap in your CV, here.”
A SHEET OF PAPER IS WAVED IN THE AIR BY THE WOMAN WHO HAS ASKED THE QUESTION, THEN RETURNED TO THE DESK.
“Can you explain that gap to us, Tam? You mentioned that you have been out of work for some time?”
It was a balmy summer’s night, and I was on the top of the hill outside the village, and my lover was there. Alexander.
We had shared our food and our bodies, and now the stars were out and the sun was gone. The night air was cooler, and we huddled together. We laughed, we kissed, we talked. It was as close to perfect as this mortal life can offer.
Then Alexander began to tell me of his plans for the laird’s daughter, Janet, and how he would carry her away and into the marriage bed.
My breath left me, for how long I do not know.
When I could breathe again, I demanded to know what he thought we were doing together. He told me not to be daft. Men do not marry other men. Not in that time, not in that place, they didn’t.
I should have known. But all I could think when he left, saying I was too surly to talk to any more, was—
—why could it not be me that he was going to carry away?
And so when the Faery Queen came to sweep me into her entourage, I knew that this was my chance.
Finally, someone was here for me.
She took me away with her, to Faeryland, as was her pleasure. I never saw Alexander or his new wife Janet again.
“I had a difficult time with a relationship breakdown. I had to take some time away. Travelling. I was… proactive, while I was away. I took jobs on the staff of a large—uh—royal residence, and I played music, too. But my skills are not in demand now that I’ve come home and so I’ve been reassessing. Retraining. I took a course in information management at a local college.”
THE PANEL ARE SCRIBBLING ENTHUSIASTICALLY AT THIS ANSWER. THE QUESTIONER FLASHES TAM A SMILE.
“Great, thank you, Tam. Now… Can you tell us about a time when you overcame a challenge? You can take a moment to think.”
THE MAN LIFTS THE GLASS OF WATER AND TAKES A SIP.
“I…”
THE PAUSE LASTS LONGER THAN IT SHOULD. THE MALE INTERVIEWER’S EYES FLICKER TOWARDS HIS WATCH THEN QUICKLY BACK.
“I…”
“Is the question clear?”
“Yes. Sorry. One moment.”
TAM TAKES ANOTHER SIP OF WATER.
I lived with the Queen for many years, a human amusement in a court of elves. I grew fat on their fruit and I grew blissful as I spent my days surrounded by faery songs and faery dances. There is nothing like a faery dance, under the mounds, at spring’s first new moon, when the music whirls around you and your feet take you where they will…
But everything ends. And in Faeryland, they work by rules that us mortals do not understand. When I had been there seven years, the time had come again: the time that was mandated, ruled on, that none would deny.
The time for the dues to be taken. The time for a sacrifice.
And I was to pay that price.
“Sometimes what it takes for you to overcome a challenge is to hold firm in the face of transformations. Sometimes it takes someone to trust in you, and hold onto you, no matter what. I was lucky to have someone like that. They… helped me to overcome the challenge that I faced, when I returned from my travels.”
“Can you elaborate on what you mean by that?”
It was Janet. Not Alexander’s Janet, not her, but a descendant. Their great-great or something granddaughter. She was there that night, all hallow’s eve, as they rode me over the hill. Our procession was clangorous with the jangling of the faery bells, and she heard it—she must have had a little of the old blood, I remember thinking at the time. Then I recognised her. I called out for help.
“Janet!”
She didn’t know me, didn’t know how I knew her.
I like to think that something of her forefather called out from within her to answer my call.
But that is an unkind thought. He never loved me.
Janet, on the other hand.
She rescued me when I ran from the procession. She held me as they transformed me in her arms, into an esk and adder, into a bat, a rat, a tree, a bone. The fae folk laughed and jeered, sure they would have me back for their sacrifice, sure that this scrip of a mortal would never be able to withstand their magics. “A burning coal,” one bright spark suggested, and I transformed again.
Janet cried aloud but held on.
“Put me in the well!” I called to her. She did, and I transformed one final time, back into myself. I was no longer part of the faery world, and that whole clamorous procession could no longer be seen by my eyes.
We won. She saved me. She’s kept on saving me, every day, ever since.
“I don’t really want to explain. I’m sorry.”
THE PANEL FROWN AND MAKE MORE NOTES ON THEIR SHEETS OF PAPER. THE SCRATCHING OF THEIR PENS IS LIKE THE CRUMBLING OF ROCKS, IF YOU COULD HEAR THE SOUND OF THOUSANDS OF YEARS OF EROSION IN A FEW SECONDS.
“Okay, nearly there! Tam, can you tell us about a time when you took on board some negative feedback about yourself?”
The lads and lasses I dropped like discarded handkerchiefs through all those years saying I was heartless. Alexander calling me surly, there’s-no-point-talking-to-you-when-you’re-like-this, just be realistic for a moment, it’s not too much to ask. My mother sighing that I was always dreaming. The Queen. I could never do enough to please her. The King. He hated me. The fae folk who teased me, I never understood anything—
Janet. Janet, who’s helping me try to get my life together, who wants me to try.
“I always strive to do a good job, and I listen when people tell me ways to improve.”
THE NEXT CANDIDATE’S FACE BRIEFLY APPEARS THROUGH THE LITTLE ROUND WINDOW IN THE DOOR. THE PANEL ARE CLEARLY RUSHING NOW.
“Ok, thank you, Tam. Last question. What can you bring to this role that is unique to you?”
I am haunted by a song. It is the Queen’s song, and it is calling me. I’ve tried to make it work here; I’ve listened to Janet, I’ve tried to settle in, but it’s too strange. The song will not let me go. I, and only I, can find that song, and it will take me back, because I cannot live here.
“I am committed to the preservation and celebration of our musical heritage. I have heard songs that no-one else has ever had the chance to hear. I will bring this passion and expertise to the role. If you would consider me for the position.”
THE PANEL ARE MAKING THEIR FINAL NOTES AND CIRCLING THE ANSWER ON THEIR PAPERS: RECOMMEND CANDIDATE, DO NOT RECOMMEND CANDIDATE. THREE CIRCLES ARE DRAWN, THREE PENS ARE LAID DOWN.
“Thank you for attending this interview. We will be in touch when we have made a decision. It should be sometime next week.”
TAM STANDS UP, BASHING THE TABLE AND NEARLY UPSETTING THE WATER.
“Thank you.”
HE LEAVES THE ROOM. THE NEXT INTERVIEWEE ENTERS. THE SCENE CLOSES.
Tam walks into the grey Glaswegian streets. The sounds of people and traffic are nerve-jangling and constant, but the noise is a relief from the oppressiveness of the interview room. He wanders counter to the flow of people, peering down alleyways and examining plants growing in the gaps between concrete. He’s walking without intention, passing grimy city-blocks and the cathedral with its time-stained spire wrapped in scaffolding. Eventually he finds himself at the gates of the necropolis. He walks into that Victorian City of the Dead, past the memorials to Glasgow’s soldiers and stillborns, over the bridge. There, like an old friend, is the twisted hawthorn that clings to the western slope, flanked by the straight lines of gravestones and oaks. He shouldn’t be here; he should be going home, to that rented flat where Janet will be waiting for him, wanting to hear about the interview.
He is haunted by a song, and as he sits beneath the hawthorn, he thinks he can hear it. A distant siren screams and beneath it the motorway drones, but the song is there in the play of wind amidst the leaves, in the silence behind the noises of this city.
If you fall asleep under the hawthorn, the faeries will find you. It’s a cautionary tale. Tam was never very good at caution.
He settles down to wait. Gradually, the vast cemetery empties of people, and nobody notices him as those ornate gates are locked for the night. Gloaming comes on, and the animals take back their space: pipistrelle bats flit to and fro and at the edges of the gravestones mice poke their heads about, scurry forwards. Sometimes there’s deer, he has seen them before, but they’re shy tonight, it seems.
Tam sits. The sun sets. The knotted bark of the tree is digging into his back and the air is cold, but Tam is not going to move.
Eventually, he falls asleep.
He does not wake up to the Queen, the Fae Court, and the music.
He does not wake up to Carterhaugh, or Alexander, or the century that he was born in.
These things are gone and they will never come again, and for some reason he is still here, with no work and no plan, his face on the wet ground, his back all cricked from leaning against the gnarled impassive hawthorn. Tam closes his eyes, feels the tears start to prickle. When he opens them, he sees a deer startle away on near-silent hooves. Someone is coming.
Tam pushes himself upright and tries to get the hair and leaves out of his face. With steady strides, Janet is approaching. She’s wearing her usual skinny jeans and designer coat, those twenty-first century clothes that Tam still isn’t used to.
When she’s close enough for him to see the burn marks on her hands that his eyes always pull towards, she quirks her lips into a lopsided smile and asks, “So, the interview didn’t go well?”
“Not so well,” he manages to say. How to apologise to her, the one who has given him far more than he has deserved, now that she has found him again seeking his exit from this world? How to tell her that it’s no use—he’s broken—he will never be fixed. How to say that she would be better off without him.
Janet shakes out her long red hair and plonks her handbag down on the dewy grass. “Mind if I join?”
She coories in between his arm and the hawthorn’s trunk. “Did you climb the fence?” he asks.
“Of course I did,” she laughs, wriggling closer. Her laugh is nothing like the tinkling bells of a faery’s laugh. Tam finds himself beginning to smile.
They sit there in the pre-dawn darkness. The tree is still digging into his back and now Janet’s elbow is too, but Tam doesn’t care. He doesn’t need to explain himself. Janet knows that he’s broken. She isn’t trying to fix him. All she’s doing is finding him, even when he keeps on losing himself.
They watch the sun rise like another unfulfillable promise, its light touching all of the rain-washed stones of Glasgow and making them shine.
Fiona Mossman (she/her) is a writer from the Highlands of Scotland. She adores short stories and her writing is often inspired by fables and folktales. She has studied literature and book history and works as a librarian in Edinburgh. Some of her writing can be found in The Bureau Dispatch, Wyngraf Magazine of Cozy Fantasy, the Creatives series from the Scottish Mountaineering Press and the upcoming anthology We Are All Thieves of Somebody’s Future from Air and Nothingness Press.
photo by Craig McKay (via unsplash)
Crow & Cross Keys 