Long ago, before the tide whispered against the Cullen shore as it does now, and before the Three Kings stood like stone sentinels in the surf, there lived a girl of astonishing beauty named Latiaran. Her hair was the hue of raven’s wing in moonlight, and her eyes the grey-blue of a storm over Cullen Bay. She lived alone in a stone cell carved near the wood’s edge, where the bog meets the holy well, just inland from the rocks that would one day mark the resting place of kings.
Latiaran was known not only for her loveliness, but for her strangeness. The village women whispered that she spoke with the wind and that her voice could charm bees to stillness. Some said she was a saint. Others feared she was something far older, far wilder.
Each morning, Latiaran walked barefoot down the path that coiled from the well of Saint Mary’s, through the hazel grove, and into the heart of Cullen. There, past the chapel ruins and down the narrow wynd by the sea, she visited the blacksmith’s forge.
The smith—young, strong, and bold—was called Ruaridh. He burned as hot as his furnace and spoke with the candour of a man who did not fear God. Latiaran came to him not for his talk but for the ember he kept under his anvil. Each morning, she would bow her head, receive a glowing coal into her apron, and carry it back to her cell to light her hearth and cook her meagre meals.
But in truth, Latiaran never ate. She did not age. And no one remembered her ever being born.
The people of Cullen both adored and dreaded her. Children left her handfuls of rowan berries at the edge of the wood. Women averted their gaze when she passed. Men crossed themselves. And Ruaridh—well, Ruaridh watched her too closely.
She was fire and mist, a thing both sacred and untouchable. But Ruaridh was prideful, and pride is the iron core of many a curse.
One day, as she cupped her hands for the ember, he leaned close and said, “Lady of embers, is it true what they say—that no fire can burn you? Not even the one in my chest when you smile?”
She did not answer.
His voice was low, his breath ash-scented. “Is it also true your feet never touch the ground?”
She looked at him then. Her eyes were a storm come inland.
“You should not speak to me so,” she said softly.
But his smile sharpened. “Why not? You’re not a saint, Latiaran. Saints do not blush when flattered.”
And it was true. Her cheek flushed rose.
She turned abruptly, cradling the ember in the fold of her dark apron, and walked from the forge. But the coal was hotter that day. Hotter than any before. As she passed the ruin of the old chapel, she felt it burn through the fabric, down to her bare skin. It bit her ankle. She gasped—then stumbled.
In that instant, her foot touched the earth with a sound like a bell tolling from beneath the hills.
The wind died.
The birds fled.
The well water, far behind her in the glade, turned black as pitch.
Latiaran fell to the ground.
The ember rolled from her apron and extinguished itself on the moss, leaving no smoke.
She stared at her ankle, the skin blistered and raw. Then she turned her gaze toward the forge, where Ruaridh stood watching.
He had not followed her.
She rose, slowly, and the mist curled round her like mourning veils. Her mouth moved, though none could hear her words. But the wind heard. The well heard. And so did the forge.
That night, the smith’s fire refused to burn.
The day after, his horses shied from him. His iron cracked in the water pail.
And on the third night, something darker came.
The people of Cullen say a wind like a funeral keening swept down from the woods that week. They say Ruaridh’s forge stood cold thereafter, no matter how much kindling he brought, nor how hot he blew his bellows. He vanished soon after—some say into the bay, some into the hills, others into the rock itself.
No blacksmith ever thrived in Cullen again.
The villagers turned from the forge and back toward Latiaran. But they found her cell empty. The stone was blackened, as if scorched. The well water never cleared. Pilgrims who tasted it lost their tongues. Those who lingered at the edge of the wood began dreaming of a lady wrapped in ash and moonlight, weeping beside a fire that would never catch.
Centuries passed.
The well was renamed Saint Latiaran’s, and prayers were offered there every Lughnasadh—the high summer festival. Though her legend darkened with time, the people still remembered her with garlands of rowan, the only tree the old ones said could ward her gaze.
The site of her hermitage became hallowed. And in the town below, stories of her beauty, her ember, and her curse passed from mother to daughter like secret songs.
The blacksmith’s forge fell to ruin. Wild roses tangled its hearth.
And out in Cullen Bay, the Three Kings stood in the waves like mourners frozen in stone. Some say they were kings who sought to claim her heart and were struck down by her glance. Others believe they were ancient priests who tried to cage her fire and failed.
No one agrees. But no one denies that the tide sounds different near those rocks, like whispers in a dying tongue.
Epilogue: The Festival Fire
Each July, the people of Cullen still gather at the height of summer. Not all remember why.
Children leap over fire-pits dug into the sands beneath the viaduct, claiming luck if they do not fall. Women plait rowan into their hair. Men strike flint and steel—not because they must, but to honour the old ways.
And at Saint Latiaran’s well, the water is left untouched.
Sometimes, after dusk, a figure is seen walking from the glade to the beach. Young, barefoot, beautiful—cloaked in a black apron that moves like shadow.
She carries nothing.
But where her feet touch earth, the moss smokes.
And behind her, the ruined forge shivers in the wind.
- Original tales adapted by Nick Kimber
If you enjoyed this story and would be interested in visiting the mentioned locations in and around Cullen you can download or print our Saint Latiaran walking tour here.