Last night when I told Fergus I thought the diary was of little use, he cried, “Ah, Angus, you don’t understand. The diary is not just for calmin’ yer frets. ’Tis also a way to save your memories!”
My memory is quite good all on its own, thank you very much. For example, I still remember the day over a hundred years ago when my da explained the curse that binds us to the McGonagalls.
You would think this would allow me some claim to wisdom. But Fergus said that as he is older than me by forty years, he is that much wiser, too. So I listen to his advice…unless he is offering it after he’s had too much of that good nut ale he brews in the basement of the cottage he tends.
Those nights he spouts an awful stew of nonsense.
It occurs to me that even if this diary does not calm my frets, it may be wise to write down what happens. After all, I am about to undertake a journey into unknown territory. If I manage to survive, the tale may prove worth the telling. If it comes out well enough, I may even want to publish it someday!
With that in mind, I should probably write a bit about myself.
To start with, my name is Angus Cairns. I stand nearly a foot tall. I recently celebrated my 150th birthday, though you would not know it to look at me, as by human standards I appear to be less than a third that age. I have thick, curly brown hair (I am a brownie, after all!) and large green eyes. My nose is somewhat pointy, and my large ears are very pointy. I dress mostly in brown tunics with brown britches underneath. For a festive occasion, I sometimes add a red sash to liven things up. My shoes curl up a bit at the end, which is my one frivolity.
Also, I am extremely strong for my size. I hope this does not sound like a brag. It is simply a true thing about brownies.
We have to be strong in order to do all we must about a household!
Also, I have the gift of scurrying, which lets me move so fast when a human is near that I can appear to be but a blur to their eyes, so long as I begin before they sight me. I canna do this for great distances, of course. But in the moment it is quite useful.
As noted, I am long bound to the clan McGonagall. But—alas and woe!—my current McGonagall, Sarah, has grown old and ill. The thought of losing her pains me deeply. I have been the spirit of her house for many decades and tended it faithfully for all that time.
It is not often that a human and her brownie become friendly, but it happened in our case. This was due in part to a wicked trick Sarah played on me when she was young.
I will not speak more of that now, other than to note that I finally forgave her. In truth, I was delighted to discover she had mischief in her soul. Oh, the pranks we played when she was a lass…and even when she was what mortals call “old enough to know better.”
Alas, one of the sorrows of being a brownie is that the humans in your life will never last as long as you do. Though I knew it was coming, it was still hard two nights ago when Sarah summoned me to her bedside to tell me the end was near.
Being not quite a foot tall, I climbed onto her nightstand, where I seated myself atop a pile of books. Once I was settled, she said softly, “Dearest Angus, I am not long for this world.”
“I know, Sarah,” I said. Then, to cheer her up, I added, “But you’ll move on to a better one hereafter.”
I envied her a bit in this. According to the priest in our small village, humanfolk have a soul that lives on after them, while we of the Enchanted Realm live on and on, but once gone, we’re gone.
’Tis a sad thing to think on, so I prefer not to.
Besides, I believe the priest to be a moon-addled bampot.
“You know you’re still bound to the McGonagall family, Angus. What you may not know is that none of this branch are left here in Scotland. And since the rule is that you must take service with the youngest female of age, I must send you to Alex Carhart, who lives across the sea in America.”
I yelped at this. “Alex is a boy’s name! You know ’tis to the youngest female of age that I must go!”
“Oh, Alex is a girl, all right. Her full name is Alexandra.”
I crossed my arms and said, “Well, that’s just silly. And I don’t want to go. America is too far off. Not only that, from what we’ve seen on your television, ’tis a wild and barbaric place.”
“Now, Angus! The Americans aren’t barbaric. They’re just…different. And there’s not much help for it, old friend. Gone I’ll be, and that soon enough. So off to my great-great-great-niece you must go. As you well know, it is not a matter of choice but of the charge laid on both our families.”
Which was true enough.
True or not, I was hardly happy about it. Nor would be any sensible brownie. To uproot myself and leave Scotland for the terrors of a new world? I’d rather peel off my clothes, roll in honey, and lie out in the sun where the ants could eat me. So though I dared not pitch a fit in front of Sarah, once I returned to my home beneath the stairs I had a prodigious one, with spirited cussing and much breaking of pottery and plates. (My own, of course, not Sarah’s. That I would NEVER do.)
I always regret these fits afterwards. But when the anger comes upon me, there is not much I can do. Generally, a fit will follow.
I cleaned it all up (of course!) and felt much dismay with myself for making such a mess to begin with. When I had all the shards and broken bits in a pile, I ran widdershins about them until I was going fast enough to make them disappear.
Now my shelves are bare.
Ah, weel. I couldn’t have taken such things with me on my trip anyway. Too much to carry.
I have decided I should journey through the Enchanted Realm. It will be the fastest way for me to get to America, despite its dangers.
More concerning is the matter of the curse. It has been so long since it’s been active that I am hoping it may have died away. After all, I have never been in a house where it was active. Even if not, perhaps it canna cross the great water?
That would be a blessing. Alas, I am fair sure the idea is naught but wishful thinking.
It would be best if this Alex Carhart I am assigned to has no brother or father about. Then I would not worry, for there would be none to suffer.
I wonder what she is like. I do hope she will be a tidy young thing, one who will appreciate a brownie and what he can do for her.