Sean drew his living from the cold waters of the Irish sea, breaking his back to insure his wife, Sarah, and daughter, Katy, never knew a hungry night. Each morning as he shuffled out of his shack in the half-light of dawn, he cursed the shifting sands upon which his shack tenuously floated. The creaking boat, rocking in the shallow water nearby didn't provide any better footing. The only pride Sean took was from the eight silver bells hanging from the boom. Family legend stated they had been stolen from a Spanish frigate by Raleigh himself.

Disrepair filled every corner of Sean’s life. Each night he tinkered with the broken watch given him by his childless uncle. He was fascinated by the intricate parts, and proud no one else about the Firth had a watch, working or not.

“When will it be fixed, Da?” Katy would ask.

“Not tonight, dear Katy, for we shall have a story.” He gave the same excuse each night, and the girl never questioned whether her da knew how to fix the watch. He would drop the time piece into his pocket, and lift her into his lap. Snuggling beneath his arms, his soothing words warding off the howling winds, she slid into sleep. Then Sarah would come and wrap her arms around Sean’s neck, kiss him on the cheek, and say, “The wee one needs her bed, Love.” Of course Sean knew it, but he wanted Sarah to say it. In the moment when all three were together he found strength for another day.

The cold hand of winter comes early to the north. On a gloomy day in late October, Sean worked the boat to the shore early, dreaming of Sarah's chowder. The icy fingers of the sea had stolen the day's catch by tangling his net against the boat's anchor. His season was over. He would spend the winter begging work in Annan to earn money for food and repairs.

Sarah's voice called to him as he docked his boat. He knew every pitch her voice could hold, and this was one of anxiety. "Sean!"

"What now?" Sean asked, viewing his wife through tired and irritated eyes.

"They've taken her!"

"Taken her? Katy? Who?" Sean's back straightened. In shocked disbelief he ran to the door of the shack to scan its one room. Tidy as always, but no Katy played inside. "Who took her?" Sean spun to question Sarah.

"The redcap," Sarah responded.

"The devil's own kin! Oh, Satan you've dealt me the fatal blow this time." Sean slowly sank to the threshold of the shack. His eyes locked upon the watch lying on the ground. Katy must have dropped it when they took her. He stooped to recover the broken instrument, and it lay on a bed of sand on his palm. With great effort he looked up to Sarah and asked, "Why?"

"Tomorrow is the eve of All Saint's Day," Sarah answered, her voice choking in refusal to finish.

"Oh, my Katy!" Sean began to rock and moan. Sarah collapsed next to him, leaning into his chest. Dropping the watch into his pocket, Sean embraced her. Everyone knew why the redcap left his castle this time of year. "Halloween", was all he could say. Just as his lips refused to speak any more evil, his mind refused to ignore it.

Once each year, the demon knight left his citadel in the rocky highlands of Scotland to find a victim for the Dark One. He scoured the land, proudly adorned in a red Glengarry. At midnight on Halloween he would claim the new sacrifice, and refresh the color of his cap with the doomed soul's blood.

"You must rescue her, Sean," Sarah pleaded.

"How?" Sean asked of any who could answer.

"When the witching hour comes,” Sarah repeated a tale he had known from birth, “the redcap must make the twelve strokes of the clock himself, and does not until the sacrifice is made. We have time." Sarah slipped from the stoop, dropping to her knees before her husband to lay her head in his lap.

Sean took inventory of his possessions: the shifting sands which bore his shack, eight bells on a shabby vessel, and a broken watch. Not a weapon was among them to assault the fortress of a demon knight. Still, it was all he had. He took the bells from the boat and placed them about his shoulders. Sarah would not let Sean leave before she wrapped him in a heavy cloak, but he began his march into the highlands without taking his evening meal.

The approaching winter had coaxed the sun farther south over the past days, leaving men of the north to march in darkness. Still, Sean dared not light a torch, for fear of alerting whatever bogle guarded the redcap's castle gate. He stumbled over the rocky approaches to the demon knight's abode, silhouetted by the full circle of the rising moon. Fearing detection from the high walls, he threw himself to the ground, and the sharp rocks bit into his hands and knees.

The bogle upon the castle walls began to sniff the air hungrily. With a great sigh, he turned his shining eyes upon the fisherman, and called out, "Welcome, Sean MacLaird. After meeting your Katy, I would recognize MacLaird blood were it mixed with a score of men in battle."

"If you've hurt her tiniest finger I'll finish you and all your kin," Sean screamed back.

"With what? A fishhook?" the bogle laughed. "Come join us, Sean MacLaird."

Sean dropped his head in defeat, and shuffled slowly through the raised gate of the tower. The bogle graciously waved him inside, his eyes shining from the shadows as if studying a steaming plate of lamb.

Sean barely passed the gate before he was frozen like stone by a horrid sight. A score of carlins milled about a black altar, chanting their witch's tunes. Strapped to the altar, Katy was dressed in a blood red gown, which made her skin look paler than the bleached bones of a whale. The demon knight stood nearby, dressed in fell robes, with his bloody Glengarry still squarely upon his head. The cap was streaked in all different shades, bearing witness to the vile fate of his many victims.

Rising thirty hands above, the Great Clock indifferently ticked away. The case was of oak, and a massive pendulum of gold threw away seconds as a cracked and blackened fingernail reached from each of two bony hands.

The redcap slowly turned his gaze from the altar, revealing sharp teeth in a hungry smile. "You are too late, Sean MacLaird." He pointed to the clock, "Midnight is about to strike."

As the demon spoke, the claw raised to the witching hour, then froze in silent death. Sean's heart paused to anticipate the strokes of the clock which never came. Emerging from the assembly, one of the hags prepared to claim Sean for the black altar.

As he stepped back, his hand brushed the watch in his pocket, and Sarah came to him in a vision. We have time. Seizing the timepiece from his pocket, he dangled it before the witch.

"The Great Clock is under your blastie spell, but not my watch. It shall never strike twelve."

The redcap threw back his head and howled in rage, freezing the very blood of Sean's veins. With one leap he cleared the altar, and his hobnailed boots thudded into the dust before Sean’s feet. The demon seized the watch, cast it upon the ground, and shattered it with three quick strokes.

"Now your wee attempt to spoil a demon is done," the redcap hissed.

"Not true," Sean countered. "By your own power you have struck the hour three times."

The redcap started, looking down at the shattered watch. Slowly, a smile returned. "Aye, but only three. You need twelve to break my cantrip."

"Would I be such a fool as to bring only one time piece?" Sean quizzed the redcap. "At three strokes each, your blastie spell will soon be finished."

"Then I'll finish you all at once," the redcap screamed. He leapt forward to seize Sean's cloak by the front. In one stroke he tore it from Sean’s body, and the eight silver bells rang.

"From Sir Walter Raleigh himself," Sean triumphantly explained. "A Spanish boatswain used to marked time with these eight bells."

A smirk quickly replaced the redcap’s worried count. "That brings you to eleven, Sean MacLaird. A bonny try, and the more I'll relish your blood."

"Would I come with only enough to leave me one short?" Sean asked.

The redcap studied the fisherman carefully. As if answering a riddle, he explained his next action, "In your right pocket you had the watch, and the bells were about your neck. That leaves only the left pocket. Shall I consume you now, or will you turn out its contents to me?"

"Very well," Sean nodded. He slowly emptied the sand from his left pocket into the redcap's hand.

The demon observed the grains with amused puzzlement, then snorted. The snort grew into a deep chuckle as the witches joined in his laughter.

"Do fisherman always carry the beach in their pockets?" the demon mocked as he opened his fingers to let the sand drain into his other hand.

The Great Clock began to chime. The redcap screamed in horror, and spun about to observe the motion of the golden pendulum in disbelief.

"The timepiece of the ancients, you foul creature," Sean explained "The sand of the hourglass."

The redcap screamed and the witches howled in anger, falling back to hide in the shadows of the night.

Sean leapt to the altar and freed his Katy, whisking her into the protection of the castle bastion. The redcap was left alone to face the angered approach of his master.

"I will have a sacrifice," the devil's voice came from the winds to dry his servant’s cap.

The redcap screamed again as the icy fingers of darkness reached out to take him. Sean buried Katy's head in his chest, and averted his own eyes, but he could not ward off the chilling screams of a soul being devoured.

Not until the warmth of the morning sun began to bathe the castle was Sean able to overcome the terror of the night. By his first sight the Great Clock ticked next to the altar, the golden pendulum celebrating the golden rays of dawn, the claws replaced with ivory hands.

"Will we be all right, Da?" Katy asked with a shaky voice.

Sean did not answer, his eyes fixated on the clock. He scooped up his daughter and carefully approached the clock, hoping it was real.

Katy reached out and touched it. Sean caught his breath, not knowing what magic lay within. Nothing happened, and he finally said, "We will be all right, dearest Katy. I think the squire of Annan would highly favor such a great piece. We shall eat well this winter. Very well."

Bogle – The Scottish name for a bogeyman. A creature that specializes in torturing children, usually those that have disobeyed their parents--Similar to Fox who captures Pinocchio.
Cantrip – A magic spell
Carlin – A Scottish witch
Glengarry – A hat much like a beret, but with a Scottish twist.
Redcap – An evil faerie that inhabits an abandoned castle. They live off the blood of their victims, dying if their cap ever dries out. They usually inhabited the border between Scotland and England, preying on any English army that tried to take Scottish land.
Solway Firth – A Firth is what the Scandinavians would call a Fiord. It’s close to a bay, but more narrow, sharp, and rugged.

Thanks Resha—or should I say Kevin?—for the story and the Glossary. Resha Caner—AKA Kevin Scott—is an engineer and, while I don’t hold that against him, I do expect certain things from him because of that. Accuracy, intelligence, and a certain puckish humor are a few of those things. Got ‘em all and then some with this story. Welcome aboard, Resha. You’re a bonnie wee get for fair, me lad. -GM