Last year, Scottish author Lyndsey Croal gave us the exceptional collection Limelight and Other Stories, a Black Mirror-style set of sci-fi shorts which despite the name was deathly dark, with the odd emotional punch to the gullet. One quick genre side-step later and she’s back with Dark Crescent (Luna Press, out June 3), another enjoyably grim set of tales which reflect her pleasingly obsessive love of Scottish folklore and all its magnificently weird denizens. It’s a consistently haunting ride more chilling than a liquid nitrogen tank but also frequently and bleakly beautiful; a lyrical ode to nature, the seasons, and the sea in all their inevitable and uncompromising glory.
Across the 22 shorts and one novella in Dark Crescent, structured across the four seasons, Croal presents and often reinterprets a host of spirits and creatures from Scottish folklore and Celtic myth. Some you’ll likely have heard of—mermaids, kelpies, selkies, and will-o’-the-wisps—and others with pleasingly unpronounceable Celtic names are, under Croal’s playful interpretations of them, as chilling as they are imaginative. Want to hazard a guess at what the nuckalavee, the frittering, or the boabhan sith are? Good luck. The land of the Celts has always had a dark and delightful imagination and the hybridisation of this with Croal’s midnight-black brain is a pleasure to read. An added bonus is Croal’s explainer at the backend, where she notes each of the folklore entities the stories are based on.
Many of the stories in Dark Crescent are more sinister than a creak in a fog-filled cemetery, filled with characters set on a path of doom we can only watch as they careen towards. Croal’s interpretation of the will-o’-the-wisp, a ghostly countryside light, is particularly grim, as a girl discovers that making friends with it comes at a terrible cost. But the most disturbing for me was the story “The Fiddler and the Muse”, in which a musician rents a room to practice in and finds himself trapped creating the perfect song as the seasons change; for the villain in this story Croal combines two creepy myths to terrifying effect.
But amongst the deep chills in Dark Crescent, Croal has sown messages of, if not outright hope, then the beauty and inescapability of nature and giving in to its form of death. A recurring character is the Cailleach, the Scottish goddess of winter who inevitability gives way to the spring. We also see a human version of the Orkney sea goddess the Sea Mither in the quietly beautiful post-apocalyptic story “The Loneliness of Water” (surely a nod to the del Toro Oscar winner?) which is one of several stories to shows Croal’s eco-side, reminiscent of her spec fic stablemate author Lorraine Wilson. The sea, strong in Celtic myth, is ever present.
Not all the characters are hapless victims too; some stoically face their inevitable fate, as in the woman awaiting something menacing in the sky in the poignant eponymous opener “Dark Crescent”. Some welcome transformation and rebirth, as in the surreal and evocative tale “A Change in the Rain”, where a community hides from the rain, the touch of which makes you translucent, but a daughter dreams of being united with her rain-changed father. And some defiantly face their fate, as in the outcast grandmother in “To Gut a Fish, First Gather its Bones” who strikes out alone to defeat the sea monster who’s killed her family. Many of these are women—as Croal knows, feminism in Celtic myth has strong roots.
True to its name, Dark Crescent is a resplendently pitch-black love letter to Scottish folklore and all the bizarre creatures within it that paints a lyrical canvas of the beauty of nature and rebirth even as it chills your bones till they shatter. Another unmissable Croal collection.