The Ballad of Tam-Lin, Rebooted

Author’s note: The Ballad of Tam Lin is a centuries-old Scottish tale. Please visit tam-lin.org to see how rich and deep its heritage is. While I have given my own story a modern spin, I have followed the original plotline and embedded traditional dialogue fragments wherever possible.

“Let aleene!”

The strange words floated on the breeze. I dropped my outstretched hand and jumped like a guilty child. Looking around me, I saw only a glorious stretch of sunlit garden, splotched with rosebushes bedecked in a few brave October blooms. Not a soul was in sight.

I shivered, then gave myself a shake. Of course no one was there. It was just the autumn wind whistling its seasonal secrets to Mother Earth.

I extended my hand again and this time snapped off a single stem bearing two exquisite but very different rosebuds, one red as a cardinal’s wing, the other pale as first frost.

As the branch yielded its treasure, I heard it again.

“Let aleene!”

I gripped my buds in a tight fist as I whirled, seeking the source of the voice. Nobody was there; I could swear to this. Not man, woman or beast. My shoulders relaxed and I reached once more toward the marvelous rosebush that bore the multi-colored blooms.

“Ach, nae . . .” It was a man’s voice. Baritone, feathered with a brogue as smooth as fine single malt. But attached, as far as I could tell, to no physical form. 

I scanned the garden, and this time I saw him. He walked forward out of a clump of rosebushes—a roguish figure of a man—maybe six feet tall, sandy-haired, and brawny. More than appealing on all accounts so far, but he wore a peculiar costume that looked like it belonged to an over-rigged cast member from Outlander. Red plaid and plenty of it swathed his upper body and fell in pleats below, revealing manly knees.

He shook his head at me. I tried to read the expression in his eyes. Ruefulness? With a hint of satisfaction?

“Oh, why you pluck the flowers, lady?” he asked, in an odd but soothing accent.

“Listen, Mac,” I began.

“Tam-Lin,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Tam-Lin. ‘Tis what the faeries call me.”

I choked back an inappropriate response. The man was obviously insane.  He was awfully good looking, though, and seemed harmless. And that over-the-top Scottish accent was divine.

“Okay, listen, Tingaling. This is my dad’s property,” I said, in a calm voice. “He’s given me permission to pick all the flowers I want.”

The man cocked his head to one side. His blue eyes gleamed and a smile played across his face, like mist ghosting across the moor. He held out his arms.

I stood my ground. He did, too. For a while it looked as if we would stay there forever, frozen in this strange tableau of medieval highlander greeting twenty-first century woman.

I was the first to cave.

“Well, Rin Tin Tin, you’ve stumped me. What’s up with your pose? Surely you don’t expect a hug?”

Those blue eyes twinkled. “You did pu’ the rose, without the leave of me,” he said.

True. The double blossom was still in my hand.

“And ‘tis my father's, and I'm his heir to be. Ye must now yield.”

“These rosebuds? They’re not yours. This is my dad’s property. Bought it last year. That makes them his buds.”

“Nae, nae.”

“Yes, yes. However, if they’re all that important to you, I’ll hand them over, but only on account of your incredible dimple.”

I proffered the stem. The man stared at me blankly. He crossed his arms. His quaintly clad foot began to tap, tap, tap on the grass.

“What’s wrong now?” I asked.

“I nae want your rosebuds that ye hae pu’ from the tree.”

“You don’t? Then what do you want?” If he hadn’t been so handsome I would have taken out my phone and dialled 911.

“I need hae your maidenhead.” He dipped his head, looked at me out of the corner of his eye, and stretched out his arms again.

I was too stunned to speak.

“Yea, to break the curse, I must hae it.” He made a beckoning motion with one of his hands.

This had to be a set-up. I would kill whatever friend had conjured up this foolish practical joke. Meanwhile, I had to deal with my trespasser, whether or not his dimple was so maddeningly attractive.

“I can’t believe we’re having this discussion, but FYI: that particular feature of my anatomy disappeared years ago.”

His broad shoulders drooped. He closed his brilliant, sky-blue eyes and furrowed his brow. Evidently, though, he concluded that, maidenhead or no maidenhead, I was worth pursuing, because he took a step closer.

 “Wait a minute, Tampon,” I said, taking a gazelle-like leap backward.

“’Tis Tam-lin, lady.”

“Right. How ‘bout I stick with just plain Tim?”

He didn’t object. Instead, he beckoned again.

“Okay, Tim,” I tried again. “This has been entertaining, but enough is enough. You’re on private property. I have to ask you to leave.”

“First I must take your milk-white hand.”

“Tim, if it’ll get you to go away, sure. Let’s shake hands and part ways.”

I held out my right hand, ready to grip his for a firm, good-bye shake. Tim didn’t hesitate; he swooped forward to take my small, admittedly pale hand in both of his huge paws.

And then, it was as if everything around me blurred. I lost track of time and place, and knew only the sensations of warmth and bliss.

     ******

When I regained my composure, Tim was gone, my twin roses with him. I felt an instant of profound sadness. Bereft.

Ah, to hell with that. Normalcy. That’s all I asked. Good old Dad and a bracing cup of tea would be the perfect antidote to the afternoon’s shenanigans.

But, as it turned out, nothing was normal that day.

“Janet,” Dad said, as I sat down at the formal dining table and reached for a cream puff.

“Yes, Dad?”

“You’re looking radiant this afternoon. The walk in the garden has done you good.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. I gave him a glowing smile and reached for another pastry.

“Mmmm, yum.”

“It’s nice to see you eating, dear,” Dad said.

I didn’t respond. My mouth was full of delicious creaminess.

“And it’s wonderful that you’re putting on some weight,” he continued.

What? Putting on weight? No, no. I’d spent most of my adult life fighting back poundage. I was usually vigilant about this, but Dad was right: the waistband of my skirt was uncomfortably tight. It was starting to pinch into stomach folds I hadn’t known I had. I tried to put down my third cream puff, but instead stuffed it whole into my mouth and found myself reaching for yet another.

“Err, Janet. Sweetheart. I hate to ask, but could you possibly be—how can I put this delicately—enceinte?”

Gulping down a hunk of delectable puff and licking my fingers, I said, “Say, what?”

“You know—enceinte. Expecting. Err, with child.”

I stared at him, not liking where he was taking this line of inquiry.

He sighed, then blurted, “Janet, you appear to be pregnant.”

As he spoke these horrifying words, I heard a grinding noise and then felt, one by one, the teeth of my skirt’s zipper begin to pull apart, followed by the whole garment giving way around my middle. Heavens above! Where my trim waistline had been only minutes earlier now bulged a tubby belly. It was shiny and taut as a tom-tom. Cream puffs alone could not be the culprit.

Somehow, Tim had done this to me. I knew it, deep down. That crafty Scotsman had performed some kind of highland voodoo and knocked me up by holding my hand. Mind you, it was the most satisfying hand-holding experience I’d ever had, but full-term pregnancy was not something I’d anticipated.

“Sorry, Dad. Gas attack,” I said, rising like a walrus out of my chair and clutching the tatters of my skirt around my waist. “Gotta go. Now!”

I waddled as quickly as I could, away from my dad’s distressed gaze and out of the house, beating a path to the garden. Along the way, I released the rags of my waistband and let the ruined skirt drop. Modesty was hardly my top concern at the moment and at least I still had my frilly lingerie on, which looked so unsexy now that I had a mammoth abdomen that jutted overtop.

Tim had some explaining to do.

As I reached the garden, I began to feel some twinges and twangs in my lower regions. Definitely, not gas. Surely that was a tiny heel that had just prodded me from inside? I stopped, gasping at the roiling sensations and trying to keep a lid on my rising hysteria.

And then I saw him: Tim, athletic and strong, clad in his outrageous plaid ensemble, but so handsome that I forgot my just barely prenatal dilemma for a fraction of a second. His blue eyes widened at the sight of me, half naked, staggering toward him, physical condition on display.

“Ach, Janet, we did create a bonny bairn in our play,” he said. This didn’t appear to dismay him; in fact, it was evident that it delighted him. He threw back his fair head and laughed, then took my hand and kissed it.

“What kind of hocus-pocus have you done?” I gasped, snatching my hand away and holding onto my side as the entity inside my body pressed what seemed to be a sharp elbow into a particularly tender spot.

“Nae. No hocus nor yet pocus. Lang I've haunted this place a’ for your fair bodie. ‘Twas foretold.”

“Well, no one warned me.”

“Nae, and would ye have come had ye ken?” He shook his head at me in an amused way.

“Of course not!”

“Lass, ’tis not your fault, nor mine. I was, one fatal morning, on a walk here, over my own father’s land. I fell soun’ asleep beneath an apple tree. Then by it came the Faerie Queen, who seized me. And from that time I’ve been in her company.”

“Faerie Queen, eh?” Well, why the heck not. Maybe that would explain nine months of foetal development in under nine minutes. “It’s no stranger than instant baby, I guess,” I said.

His expression was tender. He put an arm around me, and placed his free hand on my baby bump. I couldn’t mistake the wonder and love in his eyes. And he was awfully good-looking and sweet. And, apparently, the father of my unborn child.

“Save me, Janet,” he pleaded. “She owes the devil a debt and would that I be payment. Let me not go to Hell; save me from the Faerie Queen tonight.”

 “Okay, Tim, I’ll bite. What do I have to do to help?” I couldn’t believe I was offering aid to a kilted man who had inseminated me just by holding my hand. But I was. And, in truth, the man wasn’t just good-looking. I liked him. A lot.

“I, Tam-Lin, on milk-white steed, will come a-riding by. Ye’ll take my horse by the head and I shall fall in your arms. Ye’ll lat me not go, no matter what horrors ye see.”

“Uh, horrors?”

“The Faerie Queen, she’ll transform me to fire first, but ye’ll not lat me go.”

I winced. I’m not good with pain. Then, there’s the physical limitation I was facing. Like a baby might pop out of me at any given moment.

But I gamely replied, “Sure. You’ll be on fire. But I’ll hold on.”

He nodded, gravely. “Then, I shall appear in your arms like an adder. Ye’ll hold me tight and not lat go.”

“Check,” I said. “You’ll be a snake.” Well, why not. I’m okay with reptiles, surprisingly enough. Much less dangerous than fire, any old day.

“Then I’ll appear in your arms like to a naked man. Hold me fast, lat not me go, and wi’ you I’ll gae hame.”

“Maybe I’ll bring along some of Dad’s clothes. We can’t have you meeting him buck naked. Although, I can’t say I’m setting a good example,” I said, glancing down at my own near nakedness and protruding belly.

“Midnight at the garden gate,” Tim said. Was it my imagination or was he actually fading as he stood there? No, there he went, blipping out of sight like a candle flame extinguished in the wind. I shrugged. This was not number one on the list of today’s weird events, not by any means.

*****

Dad avoided me that evening, which normally would have hurt my feelings, but gave me the chance to make preparations for whatever was to come. I found an old sundress that belled out from my shoulders and left room for Junior to keep growing, although at this stage of things I didn’t see how the squirt could get any bigger. On my feet, I wore sturdy hiking boots, which were the most flame-retardant and snake-stompingest footwear that I owned. They look peculiar when combined with the dress, but I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be judged for my fashion sense that evening. After a second of reflection, I put on a pair of leather work gloves, which really made the whole ensemble look especially fetching.

Toward midnight, I left the house and made my way to the garden gate, toting a bag of Dad’s old clothes. I pressed myself back into the shadows, except for my bulging stomach, which stuck out in the moonlight like a beacon of fecundity. There I forced myself to stay. My nerves were twitching and my fingertips shaking, and as the minutes passed, I didn’t feel less anxious. Or ridiculous. Or goddam pregnant.

The night insects were making a racket. When they suddenly stopped I stood up a trifle straighter, before hunkering back as much as I could into obscurity. I peered into the darkness, but could spot nothing out of the ordinary. And yet, the eerie silence continued.

It was then that I heard it. Faintly at first, building rapidly. Chittering noises, like a mash-up of squeaking chalk on a blackboard and raccoons making whoopee at night. Otherworldly and piercing.

Punctuating that ominous shrilling was the steady clopping sound of horses walking. And here they came. Ranks of stately animals moving past me at a purposeful pace. Brown and black, but not one white.

On their backs rode the strangest assortment of equestrians I’d ever seen. Creatures they were, of a nature that can’t adequately be described, but I can attest they were monkey-like, with huge alien eyes and elongated skulls. They wore translucent, gleaming robes that flashed all colors in the moonlight.

And the noise they made! Squalling, tinny and harsh. Terrifying, and not just to me. Tim Junior was rocketing about, obviously as scared as I, and not reticent to show it. I stroked my tummy in what I hoped was a reassuring manner, but my hand shook and I am sure the baby was not fooled.

At last, I saw the white steed, bearing my new boyfriend, who was slumped in the saddle. Beside him, on a bay mare, rode one of the ugly monkey-aliens, but this one had a crown on its head and was wearing even more spectacular robes. The Faerie Queen! Her black pits of eyes were focused on Tim, and I thought perhaps she was controlling him, using some foul magic.

It was time to make my move. I rushed from my place of concealment and grabbed Tim by his muscular thigh, dragging him off his horse with a whoosh! followed by a clomp! as he hit the ground.

And that’s when things went berserk.

I wasn’t holding Tim any longer; I clutched hellfire. Flames shot up my arms and down my legs, sending arcs of agony throughout my body, but causing no visible physical damage, either to me or to Tim.  I held on, fighting the pain, clinging to the hope that Tim had been right when he said the magic would pass.

I was now surrounded by faerie folk, who screamed gibberish in my face and tried to pull Tim away from me. The queen began beating me with her jeweled crown, and if that weren’t enough, poked me with her sceptre, all the while emitting such high-pitched squeals that I thought my eardrums would burst. In fact, her infernal noisemaking was even more painful than the flames and I almost let go.

But then the fire stopped. Tim’s body cooled, with very pregnant me wrapped securely around him, protecting him from the shrieking horde. Good. No more flames in my immediate future. Just a snake—non-poisonous, I hoped. Nothing to it.

Which is when Tim’s body turned into a repulsive, scaly, reeking reptile. His forked tongue flicked at me, drenching me in vile spit, but he refrained from sinking his deadly-looking incisors into any part of my anatomy. I wrapped my arms and legs around his middle section, burying my face into his undulating body in an attempt to avoid his slobber, and held on for dear life.

The faerie queen and her cohorts redoubled their efforts to dislodge me. They pulled my hair. They prodded me with sticks and that very pointy sceptre. They screamed devilish faerie-speak into my ears. They even tried to kick at Junior in my belly, but the little unborn guy had spunk: he kicked back, and I saw at least one goblin creature go flying. And Tim, in his snake guise, helped out by giving a dozen or so monkey-aliens a nice chomp with his venom-dripping teeth. He seemed to grin a hideous, snaky smile each time he succeeded.

I held on, through the faeries’ battering and Tim’s serpentine coiling motions. I clung for all I was worth, believing that if I could just last a few more minutes I would have Tim back with me in human form. Bonus: naked, human form.

With a cacophonous crash, it ended. No horses. No faeries. No snake. Tim, human and bare-assed and well-endowed, was in my arms. I held him, to be sure that the test was over. He seemed to be muttering something under his breath.

It sounded like, “Ye held me fast, lat not me go, and wi’ you, I’ve gane hame.”

And, after a dalliance, as Tim called it, that’s just what we did—Tim, soon-to-be-born Tim Junior, and I went home. The evil spell was broken. With that, we began our lives together, our love growing with each passing day.

And Dad? Well, he was ecstatic to be a grandpa and relieved that I had found a good guy, even if Tim did tend to swan around the property instead of finding a job, singing old ballads and wearing über-plaid creations.

I had dated much worse, in Dad’s opinion. And, in my opinion, there could never be anyone better.