Sandra and Jimmy McDonald lived at number 7, Nether Oak Close.
They were newly married, six months into their first house, their first Christmas, their first New Year together. December had been a happy blur of relatives, roast dinners, wrapping paper, and washing up. By Hogmanay they were pleasantly exhausted and had agreed on a quiet night: just themselves, the cats, and a bit of neighbourly first‑footing once the bells rang.
Sandra cooked a proper dinner. Afterwards, she and Jimmy settled onto the sofa with drinks and crisps while Cookie and Bella, ginger tom and glossy black queen, arranged themselves with feline authority. A film murmured on the telly. Outside, the close lay still, waiting for an ending and new beginning.
At half past ten the doorbell rang.
Sandra opened the door to an older woman with long white hair spilling from beneath a heavy cloak. She leaned on a staff, snow‑damp at the ferrule, and smiled as if she’d always belonged there.
“Evening,” she said. “Blessings to this house.”
And with that she walked past Sandra, crossed the living room, and sat down firmly in the best chair.
She peered at Jimmy. “Wee fella, nip to the kitchen, would you? A cup of tea, strong, and a turkey‑and‑mayo sandwich would go down well. My stomach thinks my throat is cut!”
Jimmy looked at Sandra. Sandra shrugged, one of those shrugs that said do it, and let’s see where this goes. Jimmy went.
From the kitchen he heard the woman speaking, her voice low and amused.
“I’m Beria. Some call me the Cailleach, though I’ve never been fond of that. Sounds like a hag, doesn’t it? I assure you, I’m not really that old nor that unpleasant.”
Sandra introduced herself and Jimmy, then asked the obvious question. “Do you live in the close?”
“Live? Not quite. But I’m… associated.” Beria tapped her staff on the floor. “You’ve noticed the big stone by your back fence?”
Sandra knew it well: the half‑buried boulder, one face carved with rough circles, the other with spirals. The estate agent had called it a menhir, protected by the government, immovable. Sandra had knocked a thousand pounds off the asking price on that basis alone.
“That stone,” Beria said, “is An Chloch Casadh, The Turning Stone.”
Jimmy returned with a large mug decorated with three carol‑singing cats in scarves, and a generous sandwich. Beria accepted both with delight.
“Ahhh,” she sighed. “Just the thing for a cold evening.”
She ate with enthusiasm, rescuing crumbs with a practiced finger. When she finished, Cookie leapt onto her lap and curled up as if summoned. Beria stroked him absently.
“Right then,” she said. “I mind the winter. Storms, snow, the shortening of days. I remind the leaves when it’s time to fall. I’ve been at it for… well. I stopped counting after ten thousand years.”
Sandra and Jimmy exchanged a look, the sort that silently asks whether one should ring someone official.
Beria chuckled. “Oh, I’m not mad. Just different. You’re wondering why you. It isn’t you at all, it’s the stone. For millennia I’ve met my counterpart here. I pass the season to him, and he brings the light back. Simple as that.”
She nodded at the television. “Now then, Channel 4, if you please. Jimmy Carr always makes me laugh.”
Jimmy obliged. The donkey‑bray laughter filled the room. Two humans, one goddess, and two cats waited.
At a quarter to twelve the doorbell rang again.
“That’ll be Lugh,” Beria said. “Let him in.”
Jimmy opened the door to a tall, fair‑haired man with a grin like midsummer.
“’Bout ye,” he said cheerfully. “She here, then?”
“She’s on our sofa,” Jimmy replied, “and she’s eaten most of the chocolate bells from the tree.”
“Aye,” Lugh laughed, stepping inside. “That’ll be her. Acquired taste, my sister, but full of stories. Keep her off the gin.”
He entered the living room and kissed Beria on the forehead.
“Don’t start,” she muttered. “Late as usual.”
“Always just in time,” Lugh said, laughing, the sound of sunlight through leaves. “Ready?”
Beria rose, straightening her cloak. “Have I ever not been?”
They went through the kitchen and out into the garden, Sandra and Jimmy following at a respectful distance.
A snowy owl drifted down and settled on Beria’s shoulder. The air beside Lugh shimmered and became a great Irish wolfhound.
“That time again, Failinis,” Lugh said, stroking the dog’s head.
“Stand back,” Beria advised. “No danger. Just… change which can be a bit indiscrimate”
She took the spiral side of the stone. Lugh stood by the circles.
“It is time,” Beria said, placing her staff on the flat crown.
“My time for ending has come.”
“My time for starting is begun,” Lugh replied, taking the other end.
Mist rose. The air folded. Sandra felt Jimmy’s arm tighten around her.
Then it cleared.
Beria looked lighter somehow, years eased from her shoulders. Lugh smiled.
“Somewhere in Scotland,” he said, “a man called Bill has just remarked, ‘You can quare see the lengthening of the days.’ “
He winked at Sandra. “Ten million crocuses don’t organise themselves.” And with that he was gone, the hound padding after him.
Jimmy cleared his throat. “Beria, would you like to go first‑footing with us? There’ll be mince pies and whisky.”
She smiled. “I’d like that very much. But I’ll need a staff.”
Jimmy fetched an old rowan walking pole he had cut, dried and used for hiking when he was a scout, from the shed. Beria tested it, nodded. “Perfect.”
Jimmy donned his kilt, gathered coal, shortbread, and a flask.
“Right,” he said. “Number six first.”
They stepped out into the night.
None of the neighbours they visited knew just how fortunate their year would be, their homes and families blessed by the goddess of winter herself, newly off duty, enjoying her holidays at last.