iiinova — where your digital self keeps evolving

Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 04/10/2026

Another question occurred to me the following evening. "What happens to the people who know what you are?" "What happens to everyone eventually." I thought I understood. "You watch them grow old." "Yes." "And die." "Yes." I wasn't shocked, not after all she had told me so far...

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 02/10/2026

There was one question I had been avoiding asking, but I couldn't, I had to ask. "Do you regret becoming this?" She was silent for so long I thought she wouldn't answer. "I regret things I have done." A pause. "People I have hurt. People I could not save. Years I wasted." "But this?" "No."

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 01/10/2026

"Why doesn't everyone know about you?" "Some do." "Then how has nobody told anyone?" "They have." That stopped me. She reminded me of every tale I'd heard and dismissed. Every warning changed in the telling. Every impossible thing sensible people knew could not possibly be true.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 30/09/2026

"If you're hungry enough, what stops you?" "Usually? Me." "And if that isn't enough?" "Preparation." She never waited until desperation made decisions for her. People she trusted knew what she was.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 30/09/2026

"Have you ever killed someone?" The answer came without hesitation. "Yes." I think some part of me had expected otherwise. "To feed?" "Yes." "Did they choose it?" "No." She watched my face carefully.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 26/09/2026

"Does taking blood hurt?" "It can." "Does it always?" "No." She explained that fear makes almost everything worse. Trust changes the experience. So does restraint. "And the woman who visited you?" "Knew precisely why she had come."

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 25/09/2026

"Were you born this way?" "No." That answer opened an entirely new collection of questions. "You were human?" "Once." "Like me?" She smiled. "Perhaps not quite so inquisitive." "Who changed you?"

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 24/09/2026

"What should I call you?" She raised an eyebrow. "I should hope you know my name by now." "You know what I mean." Ah. Baobhan sìth. Sìth. Spirit. Demon. Monster.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 23/09/2026

"Can you die?" "Why, of course." She said it so casually. "One day I will." "When?" "Not for a very, very long time, I hope." I sat with that for a while before remembering one final, extremely important question. "What about garlic?" She stared at me.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 22/09/2026

"Are there others like you?" "Fewer than you imagine. More than you notice." That wasn't comforting nor was it a definitive answer. She told me they had customs. Traditions older than some kingdoms. Things one simply did not do if one wished to remain unnoticed.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 21/09/2026

"Can you still eat ordinary food?" "Of course, but not as often" That surprised me more than it should have She could eat. It nourished her. Her body still made use of it as much as mine did She claimed her senses had even become sharper with age. A meal contained flavours I might never notice

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 19/09/2026

"What exactly do you take from them?" "Fuil." "Blood." "Life." She saw my expression. "Without it, a person weakens. Take enough and they die. Without it, I weaken too. Go long enough..."

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 18/09/2026

"Sunlight?" "Unpleasant." "I've seen you walk beneath it." "And you'll notice I prefer not to." She explained that daylight made her eyes painfully sensitive. Things that came effortlessly beneath the moon required concentration beneath the sun.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 16/09/2026

"Are the stories about you true?" "Some." "Which ones?" "The interesting ones." I glared at her. She smiled.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 16/09/2026

"How old are you?" She laughed. Actually laughed. "I stopped counting." "That old?" "Catrìona, live long enough and the place you were born changes its name. Live longer and no one remembers the name before that."

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 14/09/2026

I should tell you that I ran. That learning what she was shattered the trust between us. It would make a better story. Instead, I sat beside her. I had known this woman for years. She had sheltered me. Taught me. Healed me. Helped people who would never know how old she truly was.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 14/09/2026

"But the stories say you kill people." "Some of us do." That frightened me more than a denial would have. "And you?" She looked towards the path the woman had taken. "I have lived too long to mistake hunger for permission." I think that was the moment I began to understand her.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 13/09/2026

There were stories, of course. There are always stories. Women in lonely places. Beautiful strangers. Blood. Death. Baobhan sìth. The stories suddenly seemed much less distant. "Is that what you are?" She considered the question. "That is one name your people have given us."

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 12/09/2026

I thought of all the years I had known her I had never seen her eat Never seen her grow older How diminished she seemed beneath the sun, and how effortlessly she moved after dusk The families who had known her for generations

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 08/09/2026

She was waiting when I returned. Of course she was. "What did you do to her?" "You already asked her." "I'm asking you." For once, she didn't answer me with another lesson. "I fed." Two words. Years of questions suddenly had somewhere to go.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 07/09/2026

I asked if my teacher had forced her. "No." Threatened her? "No." "Then why let someone hurt you?" She was quiet for a moment. "Because what she takes, I choose to give." I must have looked utterly bewildered.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 07/09/2026

I followed the woman before she had gone far. "Did she hurt you?" There was a little colour missing from her face, but she seemed otherwise well. "Yes." The answer angered me. "Then why did you kiss her?" She looked at me as though I had asked a very strange question. "Because I wanted to."

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 05/09/2026

I had spent years learning which plants healed and which poisoned. How to listen to animals. How to read weather. How to respect things I did not understand. Perhaps those lessons had been leading to this one. Something dangerous does not necessarily have to be cruel.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 05/09/2026

I remember a conversation we had like it was yesterday. "Did you hurt her?" She stopped what she was doing, "Yes." I hadn't expected honesty. "Did she know you would?" "Yes." "Then why did she come?" My teacher smiled. "Perhaps, Catherine, you should ask her."

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 04/09/2026

A woman visited the forest one evening. She knew my teacher well. They disappeared together for a while and when the woman returned she looked pale, but quite unharmed. Stranger still, she kissed my teacher's cheek before leaving. I had questions. So many questions.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 03/09/2026

Then another thought occurred to me. In all the years I had known her, I had watched her prepare food for the sick. Seen her gather herbs, tend animals and sit beside others while they ate, she always thanked them for a hearty meal. But I could not remember ever seeing her eat. Not once.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 01/09/2026

I had heard stories of the Baobhan Sìth. Of course I had. Stories change in the telling. Every frightened traveller adds something, every generation forgets something else. So I asked if the stories were true. "Some." "And the others?" "More interesting."

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 30/08/2026

I had seen her beneath the sun. That was part of what confused me. She seemed quieter during the day. Tired, perhaps. Less certain in her movements, she would squint in direct light. After sunset? The forest seemed to belong to her. I didn't yet understand why.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 29/08/2026

Eventually I asked her. "What are you?" She looked at me for a very long time. Then she smiled. "You have known me for years, Catherine. Tell me what you think I am." Infuriating woman.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 28/08/2026

I had known her for years by then. Seasons had changed me. My face had matured. My hands had hardened. I was no longer quite the girl who first wandered into her forest. She hadn't changed at all. I think that was when I finally stopped pretending I hadn't noticed.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 27/08/2026

I asked her once how long she had been helping them. She continued sorting what she had gathered as though I had asked about the weather. "Long enough to know that people change less than they imagine." I should have asked what long enough meant. At the time, I didn't.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 26/08/2026

People came looking for her. A shepherd with a swollen hand. A mother worried about her child. Someone whose cow had stopped eating. She listened to each with the same patience. I eventually realised some of their parents had come to her too. And their grandparents.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 24/08/2026

I called the àirigh mine, but it had belonged to others long before me. Stone, turf, a place to sleep and little more. She repaired what winter damaged. I kept it warm. It wasn't much. After a lifetime of being told where I belonged, having one small place that was mine felt enormous.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 24/08/2026

There was a smell in the air tonight after the rain. Wet earth. Heather. Wood. For just a moment I wasn't here anymore. I was young again, standing outside my little àirigh on Skye with her voice somewhere behind me: "Don't just smell the rain. Watch what wakes after it."

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 23/08/2026

I bought blackberries tonight. I still find that strange. Long ago I knew exactly where to find them, which ones were ready, which belonged to the birds and which would stain my fingers purple. Now they come in little plastic boxes. Five centuries and somehow this bothers me.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 22/08/2026

I don't remember exactly when I stopped thinking of the forest as somewhere I visited. One day... I realised I was simply going home.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 18/08/2026

She could recognise an illness before anyone spoke of it. Not because of magic. Because she'd seen it before. Over And over. And over again.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 16/08/2026

One evening I asked if she'd always lived in these woods. She looked up through the branches for so long that I thought she hadn't heard me. "Long enough." was all she said.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 15/08/2026

A shepherd thanked her for helping his grandmother. Later that evening another thanked her for helping his great-grandmother. I assumed they had simply confused the stories. Looking back... they hadn't.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 14/08/2026

She always knew where the forgotten graves rested. "The land remembers." she'd say. I thought she meant the moss, the stones and the trees. Perhaps she did.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 12/08/2026

She knew every child born within a day's walk of the forest. Their parents trusted her. Their grandparents trusted her too. At the time... I never wondered why.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 11/08/2026

I once asked how many people she had healed. She looked genuinely puzzled. "Enough that I stopped counting." I laughed. Years later... I realised she hadn't been joking.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 08/08/2026

I don't remember exactly when I stopped thinking of the forest as somewhere I visited. One day... I realised I was simply going home.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 06/08/2026

An owl landed nearby one evening. It watched us for several minutes before disappearing into the dusk. "People think they're symbols." she said quietly. "They're simply trying to live." I think she could have been talking about more than owls.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 04/08/2026

I slipped crossing stone after heavy rain. Nothing broken, Just bruises and a deep cut across my palm. She cleaned it with spring water, packed it gently with yarrow and wrapped it in linen. Only afterwards did she scold me. "Watch the ground before the horizon." I've never forgotten either lesson.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 04/08/2026

She brought me a wool blanket one autumn. Nothing more. She simply placed it inside the àirigh before the first frost. She never once called it kindness. Neither did I.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 02/08/2026

One evening she began naming the hills around us. Not the names other people used. Older names. Some had no translation. Some had no meaning left. She said every place deserves to be remembered by someone.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 02/08/2026

We spent entire afternoons without speaking. At first I found it uncomfortable. Then I realised... Silence between two people is only awkward when one of them expects something. She never did.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 01/08/2026

When I think of Angus now, I remember laughter before I remember sorrow. The smell of fresh earth. The sound of sheep drifting across the hills. William smiling without expectation. My father's rough hands. My mother's voice calling me home. Memory is kinder than time.

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Catrìona na Coille @bhampair.bsky.social · 30/07/2026

Winter evenings belonged to stories. Someone was always mending a tool, spinning wool or carving wood while another spoke of old kings, spirits in lonely glens or strange lights upon the hills. I suspect my love of stories began there.

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