The Hamish

I woke up with my mouth set in a grim line.

Hogmanay.

That's what we Scots call the turning of the year.

It was time once again.

I swung my legs heavily out of bed and headed downstairs to where the knives were.

The Good Lady nodded sadly as I passed her on the stairs.

It's that time again Hamish, aye.

She said in a broad Scots accent. She called me Hamish too, that is how all Scotsmen are addressed on Hogmanay. It comes from the old Scot's term to kill a serpent in a storm.

Aye well, we are killers on Hogmanay. That is our legacy.

I ruffled the feathers of my children as I walked past them, thoughts dark with the deeds to come.

In the kitchen, I strapped the big and heavy killing knives, The Contos to my hands. The Good Lady entered and gently helped me take off my top.

Once my chest was bare she rubbed sour butter all over my torso until my skin glistened. Then she kissed my brow and passed me the Whisky.

I drank half the bottle in one fell swoop then poured the rest over my sour buttered chest, much of it splashed to the floor for the cats to drink.

Aye, it was Hogmanay for them too.

I wish you didn't have to.

She murmured.

It's Hogmanay, lass. A man has no choice.

We heard it then, the bone-horn of sorrow, sounding its lonely cry in the streets.

I made my way to the door, giving the Good Lady one last kiss on the brow.

Oh, Hamish. Please come back this time.

She pleaded.

Ah can make no promises, woman. But... I will do my best to keep the blood in here... in here.

I thumped my chest with the side of my knife hand and nodded curtly. Then I stormed out into the street.

Already a throng of we Hamish was streaming past, each of us armed with the heavy Contos.

My neighbour The Jim paused as he ran past.

HAMISH!!!

He yelled, his sour butter and whisky'd chest gleaming in the low sun of the Winter morning.

I raised my knives and roared in return.

HAMISH!!!!

I fell into step with the throng, breath huffing out in great clouds in the early morning sun. A great gathering of the Hamish stinking of whisky and sour butter. We shouted our battle cry.

HAMISH!!!!

HAMISH!!!

We picked up speed as we ran. The Contos strapped to our hands glinting in the dawn sun.

My heart was pounding, a snarl on my faces and the faces of the other Hamish as we ran faster.

Faster still.

To the hills, where the Hogmanish would be gathering...