The Longest Night

Words by Kirsty Logan - December 2025

Beira was the Queen or Goddess of winter, who built the mountains of Scotland with her magic hammer, using the tallest (Ben Nevis) as her throne. The longest night of the year marked the end of her reign, when she would drink from the well of youth and get younger every day, as the light returned. She was also known as Cailleach, meaning old woman or hag in Gaelic.

Chapter 1:

I’ve heard it said that all myths begin with the rise and fall of the sun. So let’s start there, or just before. Are you ready? The story is about to begin.

Sit by me now, the circle of us making a crown on the hilltop, the shiver of night air as cold as stars on our skin. The daylight is still a promise beyond the far rise.

We’ll sit together, on this island of ghosts at the edge of the world. We’ll stay until our eyes refocus on the stars, and we see that there is more than one layer to the sky. We’ll wait, together, for the light.

I know that you’ve been told to stay away from me – at least until the days start to turn. At least until the air starts to warm. But I promise, I promise, my story ends with dawn.

And it starts there too –

Chapter 2:

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

Here’s what they say about me (I know; I hear them; I’ve heard them for countless years, and I know I’ll hear them for years still to come): It starts when the days get slow and short and cold, as summer becomes a memory.

Here she comes.

Snow queen, winter goddess. Protectress of wild woodland animals. The veiled one, bringer of storms, keeper of the harvest. Witch, vixen, fishwife, shrew, harpy, hag.

But let me ask you a question. What is a hag but a woman who is not quite what she is supposed to be? Not young, pretty, thin, soft, kind, bright, fertile, ready to open her arms unquestioningly for a man and embrace all that he is?

Here’s the thing. Here’s what you should know. I have embraced men. Over and over, more than I could count, many a man, and women too. And I’ve outlasted them all. I’ve outlived them all. I’ve outloved them all and all and all, until…

Until she –

Chapter 3:

She: spring goddess, flower queen, made all of petals.

She: my mirror, my opposite, the perfect shape to fill the gaps in me.

Hair yellow as the sun – while mine is the white moon, reflecting. Eyes blue as a man long dead of cold – while mine are the black of peat. Body round and soft like fresh bread – while I am tall and thin as a winter tree. Opposites in every way, and connected still, linked still.

She, there, just beyond the distant hills, calling out for me, making my name out of light. Calling me not for power, not for storms, not even for mercy – but for love.

That’s all she asked of me. Just love.

The first person who ever wanted to give back to me and not just take.

And I, a goddess who built mountains (literally built them, did you know that? Those mountains you see – taller than your house, taller than any building you’ve ever been in – I built them, me and my hammer, I did that, all by myself).

I, at the sight of her, at the closeness of her, am humbled, am powerless, stricken, silent, sheer shambles. So I panicked. I messed it up. Okay? I messed it up.

My heart is white and ice, and beats in fits. Her hands were warm and strong and melting. I said it wasn’t enough, even though it was everything.

The air turned cold again. She took those hands away, and never touched me again –

Chapter 4:

I made this loch for her, to win her back. You see it? Peat black, days wide, deep enough to swallow a town. Deep enough to hide a monster.

And you know what? Perhaps I put one in there, just for her. Wee beastie, secret tale, hiding down there in the depths. Hoping she’d come back just to find it.

If you like that story, here’s another: you can buy a tea-towel of me. Or a key-ring, if you don’t wash dishes. Or a postcard, if you don’t have a home you need to open. They show me ‘accidentally’ making the loch.

Accidentally, not-on-purposely, not-an-act-of-incredible-love-and-devotion-ly. And this, my friend, is why you should not let someone else tell your story.

You can make an entire loch for the love of a woman, and they’ll say you didn’t mean it.

I know she loves monsters so I made one for her. I thought she’d like water so dark no one could get to the depths of it. I hoped she’d like a place where even a huge white-haired hag with a magical hammer could live.

If she wanted. If we wanted –

Chapter 5:

So let’s start here. The circle of us a crown on the hilltop. The shiver of night air, cold as stars. Daylight still a promise behind the far rise.

We’ll sit together on this island of ghosts at the edge of the world. We’ll stay until we see that there are many layers to the sky. We’ll wait for the light.

I have lived for centuries and I have seen light after light after light after light after light.

Do you think she will like the loch?

Do you think she will like the chill peaty water and the silver flicker of fish?

Do you think she will like the way the snow falls soft on the flat black glass?

Do you think she will like, still, the monster?

You don’t have to wait with me if you don’t want to. I’ll stay a little while yet. For the world to turn. For the sky to burn. For the light, finally, to return.

The Longest Night

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