Highland Laddie Gone (5 page)

“What does MacGowan come from?”

“Oh, well, that takes us back to occupations, lad. In Gaelic, a
gow
was a blacksmith. So you can be fairly certain that one of your ancestors could shoe a horse, but how do you know whether he was the smith of Kintyre or the smith of Dundee, or one of the other few hundred living all over Scotland?”

James Stuart thought it over. “Was it the same with Millers?”

“There was a mill in every town, lad. And there were Coopers making barrels, and Fletchers making arrows, and Weavers spinning cloth—but there’s no saying that the Weaver in a given clan was the one you got your name from, is there?”

“How could you be sure?”

Lachlan Forsyth stopped dusting the thistle-patterned china and shook his head. “Call it equal quantities of luck and hard work, Jimmy. You check shipping records to trace your ancestor back to Scotland—that’s if you know what port and what date he came in. And you check out his birth records in Scotland—that’s if you can trace him back to his place of origin. And you hope the courthouse or the parish church didn’t burn within the past few centuries. Believe me, it’s a lot easier to call out a last name and have someone look in a book and assign you a clan. It means about as much in the end.”

James Stuart thought about the large enameled plaque in the McGowan den, which bore the arms of Clan MacPherson. “Why doesn’t it make any difference?” he asked.

“Ask me again,” said Lachlan, noticing that the man in the Buchanan tartan was about to walk away. “I’m in need of a break. You ought to be able to hold down the fort for a quarter of an hour. Change is in the tin box there. One last thing. Tartan ties are eight dollars, and scarves are ten. Got it?”

James Stuart nodded. “Ties eight; scarves ten.”

“Right. Do your best, lad. Remember your five per cent.” He hurried away from the stall with a beaming
smile to an approaching customer. “My assistant will be happy to help you, mum!” he called back.

The woman fingered the rack of plaids. “I’m a Logan, and I’d like to get a tartan for my husband. How much are they?”

James Stuart gave his best imitation of his mentor’s feral smile. “Yes, ma’am. Logan. The ties are ten dollars, and the scarves are twelve. Cash.”

   C
LUNY
, sprawled on the warm grass in feline oblivion, looked considerably more comfortable than Elizabeth felt. She was holding her third cup of ice water—trying to decide whether to drink it or pour it over her head—when Betty Carson appeared with a stranger in tow.

“Elizabeth! Wonderful to see you!” She gave Elizabeth the hug that Southern women substitute for a cordial nod. “I know everyone must be frantic because I’m so late.”

“They’ve managed to bear up,” said Elizabeth, glancing at the lawn-chair contingent. They were still discussing home computers without visible signs of distress.

Betty Carson’s steel-ribbed smile took in the idyllic scene and the half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker. “Leave them to me,” she said briskly. “I’ll get this bunch working. Oh, Elizabeth! This is Cameron Dawson, a new professor in Andy’s department, and you’ll never guess where he’s from!” The young man looked so embarrassed by this that Elizabeth decided not to try. When no answer was forthcoming, Betty said triumphantly, “Edinburgh! Isn’t it grand? He’s practically right off the plane. Anyway, I have a blue million things to do, so I’m leaving him in your charge. Cameron, you’ll be in good hands. She’s Maid of the Cat for your clan. I’ll find you later!”

Cameron watched his hostess march off toward the
Chattan tent, with the sinking feeling of one who has been abandoned in the asylum. His new keeper was a frazzled young woman in what appeared to be a wool outfit, with a lynx on a chain lead. He wondered if she represented anybody famous; Morgan Le Fay came to mind, but it might be uncivil to ask. He thought she might be very pretty in a less ludicrous climate. What must the temperature be on this mountain? They’d measure it in Kelvin degrees, he was certain of that. Cameron dabbed at his forehead and endeavored to look pleasant.

“Hello,” said the young woman. “My name is Elizabeth. I guess you can tell my last name,” she added, pointing to her skirt.

What can she mean? thought Cameron. A last name from a skirt … Weaver? Taylor? Dirndl?

“I don’t understand,” he admitted.

“Didn’t you recognize the MacPherson tartan?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I don’t know much about that sort of thing.”

“I thought Betty said you were Clan MacPherson.”

“So she tells me,” sighed Cameron. “Actually, I’m a marine biologist, and I’m much more familiar with porpoises and seals than with history.”

“Seals! Oh, the Selkies! Banished to the sea for being neutral in the battle of good and evil.
I am a man upon the land; I am a Selkie o-oon tha sea!”
She hummed a bit of the tune. Elizabeth had finished her folk-medicine course and enrolled in Folklore 5270.

Cameron stared. He knew that there was an odd religious sect somewhere in Virginia; his hosts had mentioned it in passing. Perhaps she was a member. At any rate, she
seemed to believe in animal transmutation. He nodded toward the bobcat. “What about him?”

“Cluny? He’s a bobcat. I’m Maid of the Cat.”

“Ah. He’s your father then?”

“Who?”

“The lynx.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Are you sure you’re a biologist?”

“Practically the only thing I’m certain of just now. Why?”

“Because, if you think people are descended from bobcats, you’ll be a novelty at the university.”

“Oh, that. I was humoring
you.
Selkies, indeed!”

Elizabeth smiled. “Folklore,” she said. “I’m doing graduate work in anthropology. Would you like me to show you around?”

“Might as well. I suppose I should see what these things are like.”

“I guess the ones in Scotland are much larger,” said Elizabeth.

“Don’t know. Never went to one.”

She glanced at his shorts and Save-the-Whales T-shirt. “And I suppose you thought it was too hot to wear your kilt today?”

“Haven’t got one.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Look,” she said, “do you speak Gaelic? Do you play a bagpipe? Do you read Walter Scott? Do you believe in the Loch Ness monster?”

“None of the above. Sorry.”

She grinned. “Well, come along. I’ll be your guide. God knows you’re going to need one.”

*  *  *

Lachlan Forsyth and his orange-kilted companion had stopped to watch the dancers practice, careful to be just out of earshot of the other spectators. Lachlan, nodding in time to the tape-recorded bagpipe music, seemed unaware of the other’s nervousness. “Lovely tune that,” he remarked. “It’s a doddle to dance to.”

Jerry Buchanan glanced nervously about. “Can we talk here?” he whispered.

“Aye, laddie, and we’d be that much safer if you would’na look sa guilty.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to jeopardize the Cause.”

“I know,” said Lachlan kindly.

“It’s going all right, isn’t it? I haven’t read anything about it in the newspapers.”

“I know.”

“Is that good?”

“Aye.”

“Have you been in touch with …” Jerry couldn’t think of any discreet way to phrase it. “With anybody?” he finished lamely.

“Aye. The secret is safe, but the progress is slow. It’s a matter of money. We’d get donations if we advertised, but we have to be particular about who we tell.”

“Is there going to be any kind of a sign here at the games? Some way that I can tell who’s with the Cause.”

“Aye, laddie. But if I tell you, you must swear not to discuss it with a soul. I would ken an enemy, but you couldna’. Do ya swear tae silence?”

Jerry nodded vigorously. “Oh, of course, Mr. Forsyth!
Absolutely.”

“Well, since you’re a Buchanan …”

“I wish I weren’t,” sighed Jerry, glancing at his rainbow kilt.

“There’s worse things, laddie. There were Buchanans at Agincourt and Flodden, mind ye remember. But you asked for a sign. Will you be going to the Hill-Sing tonight?”

Jerry tried to remember when that cocktail party was being held in the Hutchesons’ camper. Had he promised to be there, or just said that he might drop by? It didn’t matter—not compared to this. “Of course I’ll be there if you want me to,” he said.

“Right. Good lad. Now, at the singing, when they begin ‘Flower of Scotland,’ you stand up. And look around to see who else is standing up, and there’s your sign.”

“ ‘Flower of Scotland’? It’s a folk song?”

The old man gave him a solemn stare. “It’s the national anthem of the Republic of Scotland.”

Jerry Buchanan gasped. “About donations,” he whispered. “Would another thousand help?”

Lachlan Forsyth smiled. “Aye.”

“That,” said Elizabeth, “is a bagpipe.”

“Oh, good!” cried Cameron. “Let’s borrow it and vacuum the cat!”

After an ominous pause, Elizabeth began to laugh.
“Monty Python,
I presume?”

“The Goon Show,
I think.”

“I take it you don’t listen to this much at home?”

“I’m very fond of Scottish music. Sheena Easton, Rod Stewart.… The porpoises love Rod Stewart.” His face brightened as it always did when he could get the subject around to marine biology. Elizabeth looked at him in his
Save-the-Whales T-shirt, and beyond him at the kilted Americans playing bagpipes. He’s like a time traveler, she thought. But if he is
now,
then what time are we?

Aloud she said, “I’ll bet you’d like to see the refreshment tent. They have any amount of weird food there that you’re not going to find in the Shop-Rite near the university.”

“What, haggis with neeps and tatties followed by a clootie dumpling?”

Elizabeth frowned. “Clootie means the devil, doesn’t it?”

“Not on a menu. It’s a cloth-wrapped dumpling. What’s
that?”
She turned to look at a blue-kilted man wearing a khaki shirt and an Australian bush hat. “A Douglas, I think.”

“Kangaroo branch. He ought to have a wallaby in his sporran. Are we headed for the refreshment stand?”

“Keep going. It’s at the end of this row of tents, but if you keep turning around like that, it’ll take us two hours to get there.”

Cameron, who was staring at passersby, didn’t seem to have heard. “A
cowboy
hat? What’s that—the Highland cowboy?” Suddenly he noticed the tent of a regional Scottish society. “Piedmont Highlanders.
Piedmont
Highlanders? Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”

Their progress was slowed further. Having noticed the signs on each tent, Cameron began to use them as an exercise in free association. “Grant—that’s a furniture store in Glasgow … Menzies—John Menzies; I buy my books there … Barclay—the banking folks … and Gordon’s gin, of course.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “You’re going to be crushed
when the MacDonald tent doesn’t have golden arches, aren’t you?”

Cameron wasn’t listening. “What is that great horde of people doing there?”

“That’s the refreshment tent.” Elizabeth sighed. “Pick a line.”

They edged their way past a collection of pipe-band members, and peered over the crowd to see what the menu offered.

“Bridies!” cried Cameron. “Mutton pies!”

What does one talk about to marine biologists, wondered Elizabeth, especially if one doesn’t know much about seals or porpoises. And a Scottish marine biologist, at that. Something clicked. “Loch Ness!” she cried.

“That’s up near Inverness. I went camping there with the Scouts once, though.”

“I don’t get it. I mention Loch Ness, and you think of Boy Scouts. As a marine biologist, shouldn’t you be interested in Nessie?”

“An unverified creature in a freshwater lake? Why should I?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll bet you’re going to be asked about Nessie an awful lot while you’re over here.”

“Well, it’ll make a change from folks wanting to know if I’m Irish or asking what it’s like in Edinburg.” He shuddered. “And that was only in the bloody airport.”

“Well, you should feel better here,” said Elizabeth. “These folks know all about Scotland. There’ll probably be people here who vacationed in Inverness—”

“Inverness,” Cameron corrected her.

“Or Aberdeen—”

“Aberdeen.”

“And one of the Menzies is really a war buff. He’ll probably want to talk to you about…” Elizabeth took a deep breath and marshaled her linguistic forces. “Ban-noch-burrn!” She finished triumphantly. “You don’t have to go through all that,” said Cameron mildly. “It’s
Ban-
nockburn. A bannock is an oatmeal cake. Speaking of food, here we are at the counter. I’ll have a mutton pie and a sausage roll, please. Do y’have any Irn Bru?”

“Strictly non-alcoholic here,” whispered Elizabeth.

He laughed. “It’s a carbonated drink. Comes in a can.”

“Oh.”

“Would you like to get anything for your moggie?” Seeing her look of bewilderment, he pointed to Cluny. “For your dad there.”

“No, he’s already eaten.” Elizabeth smiled. “We could take this stuff up on the hill, if you like. From under the trees, we’ll be able to see the games.”

“Will they be throwing the hammer this way?”

“We won’t sit behind the Campbell tent. Come on.”

When they had settled under an oak tree, with sausage rolls balanced on their laps, Elizabeth said, “Are you over here to work on anything specific?”

It was an inspired question. Cameron launched into an animated explanation of seal migratory patterns, which might have been quite educational if Elizabeth had listened. She sat nibbling her pastry, and nodding occasionally with an expression of rapt interest. Cameron began to talk about manatees in the South Atlantic. Elizabeth hung on every syllable, listening to the vowel sounds, the trilled r’s and uvular l’s, and making no sense at all of the words.

Brown eyes, she was thinking. I thought Scots had blue
eyes. And his hair is so pretty. What would you call that color? Russet? Sorrel?

“ … which has interesting evolutionary implications, don’t you agree?”

Elizabeth sighed. “I love your r’s.”

Cameron blinked. “Er—ah—yours is quite nice, too.”

“No, I can’t make them sound at all the way you do.
Ag-rree.”
“Oh! r’s. I thought—never mind. Anyway, about the sound patterns—”