by kc dyer
“A sentry?”
“Yeah. The man I’m writing about had some experience as a soldier in the fourteenth century, and I wanted to make sure I captured what it really felt like to stand guard all night.”
We’d made it about half way across the causeway, and we paused to stop and gasp a bit. I thought about asking him who Rebecca was, but got distracted when he tucked the blanket more closely under my chin.
“I planned to stand eight hours—a full shift,” he said quietly, “but I’d only been here two and a half or so before I fell, like an eejit.”
I thought about this a minute, stalling in order to bask in the warmth under the magic blanket. Even with our slow progress, any movement swirled the cold air around our legs and upward.
“So, the idea was that if you experienced what your character went through, you’d be able to tell the story better?”
He laughed—a short, sharp, pain-filled sound. “Aye—perhaps a little too thorough in my research, aye?”
We stepped off the edge of the causeway just as the cab came roaring up to the end of the road. It screeched to a stop and I waved my flashlight at it weakly.
Alec leapt out, talking before he’d even made it out of the car. “Ach, I am right sorry, Miss. My car had a flat and I had to travel back half way to Fort William …” he began, and then stopped short at the sight of Jack.
“I am SO happy to see you,” I said, teeth chattering.
He hurried over. “Are ye injured, Miss?”
“Not me—my friend has hurt his foot,” I said. “Can you take us to the hospital?”
“Nae problem—ah can have ye back there quick as a wink. Here, let me…“ He came around and transferred Jack’s weight onto his own shoulder, and half-dragged, half carried him to the back of the cab. He got Jack tucked inside, and then opened the front passenger door for me.
“Looks like ye found yerself a wee ghostie, aye?” he said, with a nod to the back seat. “No’ so wee, but lookin’ damn pale for all that, aye?”
“No kidding,” I muttered, and slid into the delicious embrace of the warm cab.
“You thought I was a ghost?” Jack said, as the cab jounced down the road to Mallaig. “I feel we live in such a cynical age, no one believes in ghosts anymore.”
I shrugged, still shivering even in the overheated taxi.
“I was alone on the wall of a fourteenth century castle,” I said. “And if you had said something sensible, like maybe ‘Help me!’ or ‘Over here!’ instead of moaning, I would have been less likely to assume the worst.”
“I don’t remember moaning,” he said, reflectively. His foot was propped on the seat, but he winced every time the cab hit a bump. “I’m sure it was probably just in your imagination.”
He leaned his head back into the corner and closed his eyes. I watched the pale reflection of his profile against the window glass. It was a fine profile, but I looked away. We’d met twice, and this ‘Rebecca’ had come up both times.
“You didn’t say why you were there, Emma,” he muttered, interrupting my roiled thoughts. His voice was laced with pain and tiredness. “Searching for your Fraser, were you?”
I felt my face flame in the darkness. Susan was the only other person I’d discussed my quest with face-to-face, and that had gone nowhere good. And I did not feel open to sharing with a writer I’d only met once before on a continent three thousand miles away.
“I—I was just having a look around.”
“She’s trying to find a wee ghostie for a friend,” Alec the cabbie added, helpfully. He careened around a corner and the very hospital I had been visiting earlier in the day sailed into view. I looked over my shoulder and found Jack had opened his eyes again. He was smiling, but strangely enough, did not mock me.
“Seems to me we’re even,” he said quietly. “I believe I helped you out of a rough spot in Philadelphia.”
“That you did,” I said.
“And you most definitely did the same for me tonight. Much more, in fact.”
Alec swung wide and brought us up to the emergency room doors.
“Isn’t this reserved for the ambulance?” I said, nervously.
“Ach, it’s A&E—and this is both,” said Alec, recklessly. “I won’ pull in or nothin’. They’ll gi’ us a hand here, is all.”
I climbed out of the car, my legs still stiff from the cold, and just as the cabbie had said, a couple of nurses came out, wheeling a chair. In no time, Jack was whisked away, calling out that he’d be in touch.
I dug in my pack for my wallet, but Alec would have nothing of it.
“I practically abandoned ye out there in that godforsaken ruin,” he said. “Auld Alan would slay me if I took a pence off yeh. Now ge’ back in and I’ll take you to yer B&B.”
So that is what I did.
Following Figments…
Noon, March 19
Fort William, Inverness-shire, Scotland
Those of you who have followed my journey from the beginning will know I had a pretty clear route planned. I was going to walk in the footsteps of Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser, as traced upon the map to be found inside the cover of my copy of OUTLANDER.
There have been a few bumps in that plan, and for all who have posted worried comments, please know I am okay. I’ve solved the worst of my financial issues for the time being, and I am back on track.
This week, on the advice of a friend (hi Gerald!) I traveled from Fort William to a ruined old castle in the West Highlands. The friend assured me the castle was haunted. And indeed it was.
Let’s talk about ghosts, shall we? I am not hunting a ghost myself, but if you are ever on the hunt for a figment or a phantom, then this is the right country for it. And here are a few brief thoughts for those who might want to hunt a Gaelic ghost:
If out of doors, seek a sacred circle or shrouded shrine. Move only by moonlight and search solely in starshine. Ghosts melt away in the rain.
On days of prohibitive weather, seek out charismatic crypts, apparitions in apses and stained-glass specters.
And the best part? Even if you never spy the ghosts you seek, the beautiful old spaces and places in this country will haunt your heart forever.
In spite of my friend’s highest hopes, I did not meet an Outlander ghost, nor any of the colorful denizens of the ancient Castle Leoch. I did meet another writer, deep in the research of his own tale. Ankle deep, you might say.
I have one more stop in search of a stone circle, but the truth is, even if I never do find the inspiration for Craigh na Dun? I can in no way call myself disappointed. Adventure awaits behind every standing stone.
- ES
Comments: 31
HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:
If stone circle begins to hum——run!
MagischeSteinkraus, Berlin, Deutchland:
Nein! Step through…step through!
(Read 29 more comments here…)
It was just noon by the time I finished the blog post. The Internet cafe had a special on sausage rolls, so I scarfed two of them down and called it brunch.
Being so deeply cold somehow at the castle seemed to justify the need for a recovery day. I’d spent the day after my latest adventure traversing the distance between my big soft feather bed at Auntie Gwen’s and the giant, steaming iron tub down the hall.
And in the bath? I read OUTLANDER.
I also put in several hours monopolizing Auntie Gwen’s home computer, searching the history of the wee castle where I’d found Jack.
However, after a day of sloth, I was beginning to get a bit anxious about finances. My flagrant spending since cashing in the return ticket in Inverness had seen the lovely large balance dwindling far too rapidly for my liking. I decided that once I had checked out the circle, I’d turn around and head south. Back to Edinburgh, the land of the coffee shop. My greatest area of expertise, and hopefully a decent source of under-the-table cash.
But before any of that, I needed to go visit Gerald. See how
he was doing, find out if I had guessed right about his belief the ruin was Leoch. And get more information about the circle.
I arrived at the hospital thirty minutes too early for visiting hours. The nurse who sat at the information desk had the bristling blonde version of the Scottish unibrow, and her gaze when I suggested popping in a bit early was like thunder.
“I’ll no’ reckon so,” she said, arms folded across her ample bosom. “It’s two on the notice, and ye’ll not get past my desk until that wee clock on tha’ wall ower there tells me ye can.”
I crept away, knowing full well that if I had a tail, it would be tucked between my legs.
The nurse at the registration desk was not as frightening, but her news was even less welcome. “Findlay, Findlay. Yes, here he is. Are you immediate family?”
“Uh—yes. I’m his—uh—his American cousin.”
She tapped her pen on the desk and shot me a wry smile. “Well, Miss American Cousin, yer Scots relative has been discharged. Surprised he didn’t let you know before he left, him bein’ yer cousin, and all?”
“Oh… well, I—I guess he must have had someone else pick him up. But he was okay, then, when he left?”
“We aren’t generally in the habit of letting our patients leave when they are not—as you say—okay.”
I left the skeptical registration nurse behind and wandered back toward Gerald’s ward. If I couldn’t find out what had happened to Jack, I could at least bring him up to date on my adventures at the castle. It was ten past two by this time, and the scary unibrow nurse was no longer at her station, so I hopped in the elevator and sailed up to the third floor.
Unlike the previous visit, the ward was empty, except for Gerald’s bed. He was sitting up, laughing, with a young man who was himself perched on the bed. I felt quite scandalized at the sight, given the dressing-down I had received for sitting on the bed, and even more so when the young man stood up and I caught sight of the ID card clipped to his waistband.
“Emma—come in, come in! This is Nurse Goodfield—I was hoping you’d get a chance to meet.”
The nurse stood up slowly, clearly not troubled at all with the protocol. “Nice to meet you, Emma,” he said with a crisp English accent, and shot a grin at his patient. “I’ll leave you Yanks to talk in private. Back to check on you later, Mister Abernathy.”
Gerald rolled his eyes at me. “They’re so formal around here; all Mister this and Miss that. Still—I kinda like it.”
“He didn’t look so formal to me,” I said, pulling up a chair. “I caught hell for sitting on the bed yesterday. This nurse is more of a rule-breaker, maybe?”
Gerald’s eyes twinkled. “Jes’ the way I like ’em ,” he said. “Now—tell me. Did you get to the circle? What happened?”
“No, I did not get to the circle. It’s almost two hours away from here—halfway to Inverness!”
Gerald looked crestfallen. “I know that. But I thought you’d hop in a cab and be there before dusk.”
“Well, I plan to do that today, after I see you.”
This news brightened him up considerably. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear what happens,” he said, happily.
“Well, in the meantime, I did go to your haunted castle,” I said, digging around in my pack for the map. I found it and smoothed it out on the bed.
“Leoch,” he breathed, reverently. “Did you …”
“Leoch my eye,” I interrupted. “I checked it out online, Gerald. Jamie’s Leoch must have been based on Castle Leod, which is the actual seat of the clan Mackenzie. A real place—not this little wee ruin in the middle of nowhere.”
He narrowed his eyes. ”Where did you hear that?”
“I told you. On the Internet. I found pictures and everything.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Well, damn. No wonder I didn’t see a ghost. Although I did hear tell that a piper has been known to haunt the battlements …”
I cleared my throat. “So—you know we’re not really looking for ghosts here, right? Anyway, I didn’t find one either, unless you count a writer with a broken ankle.”
Gerald nodded his head appreciatively as I told him the whole story. When I mentioned Jack’s name, he let out a little shriek of joy.
“Jack Findlay? Not THE Jack Findlay? Did you just about die of excitement?”
“Um—no. He’s a pretty nice guy, though. He was doing research at the castle. I think he lives around here, somewhere. How do you know him?”
Gerald actually fanned himself. “Girl—you need to get yourself an education. Have you not read his Dragon Thane books? The man can write!”
I shrugged. “Haven’t read a word. They’re good, are they?”
“After OUTLANDER, they’re my favorite books. Let’s just say he keeps a decent amount of swash under his buckle. Action, romance, a sprinkling of magic—they’ve got it all. I can’t believe no one’s told you about them, you bein’ such a Jamie and Claire fan and all.”
“I’ll make sure to read one as soon as I can,” I promised.
“Well, you might want to wait. Rumor is a new book is comin’ this year, about Braveheart. It’s gonna be hot, honey.”
He squeezed my hand, and I stood up.
“I’d better run if I’m going to make my bus,” I said, and stuffed the map into my pack.
“Write it all down, girl. I need to hear about every detail of that circle, y’hear? I’ll be checking the blog every day.”
“I promise.” I hurried to the door, relieved that Gerald was looking so much better. I flashed a quick final wave, ran out into the hallway and right into the arms of the dark-haired nurse. Unfortunately, those arms were carrying a tray loaded with cups of juice.
Not a single cup was saved.
“I am so, so sorry,” I kept repeating, as I helped chase down the paper cups, which were rolling in all directions.
The nurse smiled bitterly and waved over an orderly. “Can you arrange a wet-mop cleanup, Nelita? Thanks so much.”
He stood up, the tray in one hand and surveyed the front of what had, moments before, been a pristine uniform. He was soaked from chin to ankles.
I handed him the stack of mostly crushed Dixie cups. Apart from a splash on the toe of one of my shoes, the wave of juice had entirely, uncharacteristically, missed me. “I am so sorry,” I said again, rendered inarticulate by the magnitude of the disaster.
He glanced through the open door at Gerald, who was doubled over laughing, and then grinned at me, a little more earnestly than before. “Well, you’ve clearly amused our patient, and that’s something. And luckily, I’m washable.”
“Oh, thank you for being so understanding,” I stammered. “I—I have to run for a bus now, but if there is anything I can do—pay for the cleaning—anything.” I pushed one of my cards into his hands.
“Nonsense,” he said, tucking the card into his pocket. “All in a day’s work. I’ve another set of scrubs down in my locker. I’ll just make sure Gerald hasn’t laughed himself into an injury, and then go change.”
He made shooing motions. “Now, run along. Don’t worry a bit.”
I did what I was told.
Halfway down the hall, I spied a final Dixie cup beside a thin trail of juice. Marveling at my ability to maximize a mess, I scooped it up and ran back to add it to the pile I’d given the nurse earlier. Just as I was about to step into the ward, though, I caught sight of him standing at Gerald’s bedside, holding his hand.
Not to be confused with taking his pulse.
I couldn’t hear their voices, but their heads were together in close conversation. I dropped the stray cup into a nearby trashcan and tiptoed away from the door. Where I came from, fraternizing with patients was a firing offence, but the look on Gerald’s face made me happy to keep anything I had seen strictly to myself.
March 19, 4 pm
North along Loch Ness
Notes to self, since even though there is Wi-Fi on this bus, I can no longer use it as I haven’t a l
aptop. Thank you, Susan.
1. Remember to check email to see if Jack connected re his ankle.
2. After circle, find Internet cafe to put up blog post
3. Think about getting a JOB
4. Keep eye out for Monster!!!
I’d run out of the hospital without further incident and had made it to the bus stop just as the bus was pulling up. I felt sad about missing Jack—or at least not having a chance to say good-bye. Our shared experience at the ruined castle made me feel something of a bond with him. A fellow writer, anyway.
I sighed. He would have made a most excellent Jamie-contender, apart from the whole ‘Rebecca’ problem. I remembered the solemn—if somewhat drunken—pinky-swear with Jazmin after the Egon heartbreak—I would be no-one’s Tiffany. NEVER that.
As the bus jogged alongside the waters of Loch Ness, I pushed all thoughts of Jack the writer aside and thought instead about Gerald. He was definitely looking stronger. I wondered if that had anything to do with Nurse Goodfield. And that he was still reading my blog made me happy, too.
The irony of having—apart from my small but faithful overseas contingent—two men as followers of the blog was not lost on me. Maybe chivalry is not dead after all? Or perhaps I just needed to consider being less sexist, myself.
Besides, Gerald was likely only reading to see if my luck at the second stone circle would be better than his. I had to admit, the thought of chasing down another deserted monument was beginning to wear on me, but I had promised and besides, the bus I was riding was headed there, anyway. I vowed to make future plans more Fraser-focused.
With the note-taking and scanning the waters for Nessie, it seemed like no time at all before the driver announced my stop. I stepped off the bus at Drumnadrochit just after five in the afternoon. The bus station was not really much more than a pole on the street, near a small hotel. I’d hoped to pick up a cab at the station, since according to Gerald’s map, the stone circle was still about a twenty minute drive away, but as the bus pulled out, there was no line of cabs waiting to meet it.
