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“Yes. But my grandfather had a stroke and retired. My dad took over the farm.” I shrugged. “I suppose my father was more interested in the horses. He put his heart into that side of things and this place has been empty all these years.”
She hummed, looking around, though it was difficult to see beyond our small circle of firelight.
“Did he ever tell you the story behind the name of the bourbon once made here?”
She shook her head, looking at me with interest. “I don’t even think I ever knew the name of it.”
“Caspian Skye.”
“Caspian Skye,” she repeated. “I like that. And what’s the story?”
“It started with a feud that turned to love.”
“A Romeo and Juliet scenario?”
“Sort of. Only this one took place in the highlands of Scotland where whiskey was first invented. The clans of Caspian Skye had been feuding for centuries with the clans of Glasblair. It most likely started over a disagreement about territory lines, but no one remembers specifically. Glasblair was a prosperous land, rich in natural resources including a certain type of timber used in the barrels of the fine Scotch they made and sold. Meanwhile the people of Caspian Skye lived simple lives, their livelihood relying on the herbs and medicinal flowers they grew.”
“Ah, medicinal flowers.”
“Aye.”
Isabelle laughed, a girlish sound that made her seem youthful, untouched by despair. It caused my heart to clench and spurred on my storytelling enthusiasm.
“In any case, not only did the people of Caspian Skye love their home for its herbs and flowers, it was said that their souls were tied to the land and if any of them left, they would wither and die. So you can understand why they would fight tooth and nail to protect the territory they considered their own.”
“Of course,” Isabelle said, drawing up her shoulders.
“One day when the Glasblair clan leader’s son was hunting in the forest, he accidentally went too far and stumbled across the Caspian Skye clan leader’s daughter, bathing in a stream. She was irate—and naked. He was defensive—and enchanted. They fought, then they made up, fought some more, and when the day was done, they had both fallen in love.”
“That quickly?”
“Aye. Some things are written in the stars. Already in existence long before a pair of eyes meet.” I grinned. Winked. Wanting to make her smile.
Belle’s eyes seemed to soften before she looked away. “Why do I sense tragedy on the horizon?”
I settled back in my seat, enjoying this brief foray into fantasy. It felt like we both needed the escape, and given our shared penchant for adventures, this seemed apt. Our portal to the past. “Sadly, yes. The two young lovers risked the ire of their respective clans to be together anyway, sneaking away and marrying by the light of the moon. The groom took his new bride to his castle in Glasblair, intent on giving her everything and anything her heart desired, diamonds that sparkled like her eyes, rubies the color of her lips, and obsidian the hue of her hair.”
“She was a colorful lady.”
I chuckled then grew serious. “To him, yes. Anyway not long afterward, his beautiful wife began to wither just as the legend foretold. They tried everything—potions and tinctures, medicinal herbs, and extracts, but nothing worked to make her better. At great peril to his own life, he visited Caspian Skye where his wife’s mother took pity on him. She told him that the only cure for her daughter—now that her soul had withered so—was to be found in a purple orchid that only grew on the cliffs of Caspian Skye. And if she was given the nectar of this flower in time, she could be saved. But, she must never leave Caspian Skye again or she would immediately die.”
“A purple orchid, on the cold cliffs of Scotland?”
I raised a brow, resisting the urge to smile. “You, a skeptic, Belle? I’m surprised.”
Belle’s lip quirked, and then she went serious. “I shall suspend disbelief. Go on.”
“Finally, even though she was so weak she could barely hold her own head up, her husband put her on his horse and rode her to Caspian Skye. It mattered not that doing so meant surrendering his kingdom, his home, for if she could never leave Caspian Skye, neither would he, whether dead or alive.”
“Did the purple orchid save her life?” Belle asked, and though I’d teased her about being a skeptic, I could tell she was holding her breath, hoping for a happily ever after. I wished I could give her one, I really did. But I couldn’t edit the ending. I hadn’t written the story.
“Sadly, no. They did find the flower, but it was too late for the young bride. The clans people took pity on her distraught husband, allowing him to stay on Caspian Skye, for that’s where his beloved’s soul remained.”
“How sad,” Belle whispered.
“The tragedy brought the two clans together and eventually, they began making a Scotch using the timber of Glasblair infused with the flavor of the purple orchid of Caspian Skye. The Scotch was known for its fine distinct flavor and was sought after far and wide, a vintage that was the result of a love so great it was a thing of legend. A love so strong that it’s said if you stand on the cliff of Caspian Skye, you can still hear the echo of the young bride’s voice in the wind, calling to her love for all time.”
The fire crackled and the wind raced through the old building, a shutter or piece of exterior wood flapping somewhere outside. We were both silent for a moment before Belle finally spoke. “Caspian Skye,” she murmured. “A would-be king who gave up his kingdom for love.” She smiled softly. “This old place holds romance after all, then.”
