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1
As I gaze up at the building made of stone, I don’t think about how fitting it is. Not then. An impenetrable fortress at the top of a hill. A vast gray castle dominating the skyline. Stone, so much stone, like the hearts of everyone inside.
No. That comes later, but not too much later.
Instead, I unfasten my seat belt in the car that’s been provided to me. I’m grateful. I’m always grateful for every day that comes my way.
We’re in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of miles from the nearest train station. We’re surrounded by enormous hills, each a shade of green that would be vibrant if only the rain would ease off a moment. It’s been raining nonstop since I arrived in this country, the car window fogged and blurry, distorting the winding roads that led me here. I’d expected it, of course — Scotland, rain, it’s the kind of thing that goes hand in hand. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to endure, especially in my requisite Lochkelvin uniform. At least now I know why they’d insisted on thick woolen tights.
My driver casts me a sympathetic glance as I brace myself for the wild outdoors.
“Ye’ll have tae get used tae this,” he says with a thick accent I’m still struggling to understand. “Rains 365 days o’ the year here, sometimes mair. It’s no’ like yer American weather.”
No. Back home we get devastating hurricanes and fearsome storms that rip communities apart. Families and houses erased in the path of a monster. A bit of rain can’t compare. So you know what, Scotland? Do your worst.
I try not to dwell on my life back home. The chaos. The destruction. At least one thing good came out of it: I got a sob story worthy enough to bring me here.
Here.
A castle made of stone in a land thousands of miles from home.
As I step out of the car, my body is instantly slammed by the chill. It’sfreezing. It’s August and I’m shivering. It’s not even the rain that’s the hard part, but the wind. The wind and the rain work in tandem to inject as much pain as possible into my body, battering and spearing me with needles of ice-cold water. There’s a low, keening gust that swirls around my feet, like it’s determined to spirit me away from the castle in front of me.
Who builds a school in the middle of nowhere?
I have to hunch over and stomp my black boots into the small gravel road leading up to the castle, otherwise I’d be literally blown away. My already sensitive ankle doesn’t like that, and I wince with pain at every step. I hear the car back up, the wheels crunching over gravel. As it drives down the hill, the sound is snatched by the crying wind and the beating rain until I’m left on the hill by myself.
Facing Lochkelvin, I’m confronted by howoldit is. It’s been standing on top of this hill for centuries. It’s weathered every storm and it’s still standing in remarkable condition considering it was built over half a millennium ago.
Because that’s how old this place is. On their official website, they’d described its earlier incarnation as a fortress used to defend the land against English troops during some bloody battle, before becoming a prison for several decades and then falling into disrepair. In the 1800s, it was renovated by a rich landowner into its current manifestation. As a boarding school, it’s known as one of the most prestigious academies in the world for upper-class boys.
Lochkelvin Academy.
As I climb my way up the wide stone steps, steps that have been walked on by thousands of former students, I realize there’s no one waiting for me at the tall wooden doors. I’d expected something. Someone. Not exactly a welcome committee, but some kind of guide. With a sigh, I hold the lion-headed brass door knocker andpull.
It’s as though the wind shoves me inside. Quickly, I slam the door shut and quietly exhale, noting with abstract fascination the small quiver in my body and the tremble of my doubtlessly blue lips. The weather here is insidious. It gets inside your soul.
There’s no one in the front hall so I take the time to straighten out my windswept self. I brush down my long blue tartan skirt and tug at the cuffs of my black blazer. Embroidered on the pocket of my blazer is the Lochkelvin crest — a lion and a unicorn fighting beneath a crown — and it’s a large gilt version of this crest that greets me in the front hall.
The statue is massive, taking up a significant section of the entrance hall. The lion is roaring, its teeth vicious in the light of the overhead lanterns. The unicorn bats the lion away with its enormous hooves, its thick mane and tail mid-swish. The crown they fight over is perched high above them, tantalizingly out of reach for either of them.
I’m so glad I decided to wear tights. It’s not like I’m the most fashion-conscious person in the world, but even I’d scoffed when I read the uniform entry in the school handbook:
As it has remained so for over two hundred years, uniform for boys consists of: white shirt, trousers in the official Lochkelvin tartan, black socks, black leather school shoes, the official Lochkelvin blazer, and Lochkelvin tartan tie.
A new addition to the handbook this year, uniform for girls consists of: white blouse, long blue skirt in the official Lochkelvin tartan, black wool tights, black leather school shoes, the official Lochkelvin blazer, and Lochkelvin tartan tie.
No branded bags may be used in place of a traditional satchel. Trainers and white socks will only be permitted during Physical Education.
The tights are the only thing keeping me warm. Not wool, as the handbook demands – cotton. And my shoes aren’t leather, either.
Seems like everything here is made from wool and stone.
As I stand beside the doors, I realize how warm and dry it is inside. The front hall is spacious and echoing, the sound of my soft footsteps bouncing off the stone walls. There might be no one here to guide me but there are definitely voices upstairs, mingling with the sound of muffled laughter and whispers.
“Hello?”
The laughter and whispering stop.
