by Karen Kelly
“Ian better get a move on—Finley is almost off the field,” said Wally. “He moves pretty fast for a guy in a skirt.”
The friends watched helplessly as Ian thanked Brooke as quickly as he could and followed after Finley and his raptor. Ian hailed the falconer from behind as he tried to catch up to him, but the man appeared to not hear and kept a swift pace until he disappeared into a trailer parked near the field.
After a few minutes, Ian returned across the field. “I’m sorry, Annie. Brooke has never seen the design, although she liked it very much. And Finley—well, I never got to speak to him. He went into a trailer with Athena but didn’t respond to my knocking.” Although the mayor was well-trained in controlling the emotions in his face from years of local government, his friends knew him well enough to know he was frustrated at not being able to help Annie.
Annie grasped one of Ian’s hands and looked him in the eyes. “Ian, you did everything you could. Please don’t apologize. Maybe we’ll get a chance to speak to Finley later. He probably needed to get Athena into a quiet space after performing for the crowd.”
“It wasn’t a total loss,” Alice declared. “After comparing you to Finley in his kilt, Peggy thinks you’re a shoo-in for the Bonnie Knees competition.”
Ian laughed, but didn’t move his gaze from Annie’s green eyes. “Is that so? Are you ladies going to make me a kilt for next year’s Games?”
“That can be arranged,” said Peggy. “Girls, we better not miss the kilt-making workshop later.”
Ian finally tore his gaze away from Annie, released her hand, and addressed the entire group. “On one condition: No photos of me in a kilt will be allowed to surface during any elections following the Games.” He noted the mischievous sparkle in the eyes around him. “Or between them!”
“We promise,” Annie sighed, “if we must.”
“Where to next?” asked Wally before the women could try to rope him into the competition also.
“We don’t want to miss the traditional athletic events like the Caber Toss,” Alice declared. “Nothing like watching men and women throwing tree trunks around to reawaken the commitment to physical fitness.”
Peggy pulled the Games schedule out of Wally’s hand. “And Emily wants to see some dancing.”
“Don’t forget the sheepdog trials,” added Annie.
Alice grinned at Ian. “Or the kilt workshop for us ladies.” She leaned over Peggy’s shoulder to look at the schedule.
After looking at all the times for the various activities they were interested in, Peggy told them, “If we hurry, we can watch the athletics for awhile before the junior dancing finals start. The sheepdog trials are a bit later.”
“Wally and I passed the athletic fields on the way to see the cattle,” said Ian. “Ladies, just follow us!”
As the group followed Wally and Ian, walking briskly through the streams of people, Alice slowed Annie for a moment. She whispered, “I bet I know what you’re thinking.”
With an indulgent look, Annie whispered back, “Give it a whirl.”
“Kilt or no kilt,” Alice quipped, “Ian Butler is pretty easy to follow.”
8
Before Annie could respond to Alice’s comment, Peggy turned to wave at them. “Come on, you two! Pick up the slack!”
Emily skipped back to the two friends. “Hurry up, Miss Annie and Miss Alice. You don’t want to miss the tree throwing, do you?”
Each woman took one of Emily’s hands and caught up to the group. “No, Em, we definitely don’t want to miss the tree throwing!”
As they got closer to the athletic fields, the streams of people swelled into a rushing river.
“Oh, I hope there’s still a place where we can see what’s going on,” Peggy chuffed, walking as fast as she could.
Ian scanned the perimeter of the field for any open spaces. He pointed out a corner. “There’s an opening at that corner,” he said as he lifted his binoculars to check it. “I don’t see any ‘Keep Off’ signs or ‘Reserved’ notices.”
“It’s worth a try,” said Wally.
“I wonder why it hasn’t been taken?” Alice pondered. “It looks like a pretty good position.”
“Maybe a large group just left, and others don’t have a hawkeyed scout like we do,” Annie guessed.
The friends skirted the various gatherings of spectators until they reached the targeted corner, which was still free. Glancing around, they could see no indication that the area was off limits.
Wally opened a chair and set it down close to the flagged barrier. “Here, Peg—a front row seat.” After spreading the quilt for whoever wanted to use it, his wife sat down. Emily first knelt on the blanket but stood up again as soon as the first competition was announced, the Caber Toss.
“Yeah!” Emily exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement. “It’s tree-tossing time!”
A man in a blue-and-green kilt addressed the crowd. “Lassies and lads, welcome to the finals of the Caber Toss competition. In the preliminaries, our competitors endured a grueling elimination to get to this point. Each finalist will be given three attempts, and the best of them will be used to determine the placing. Judges, please take your positions.”
Two men, one looking to be in his mid-forties and the other at least a decade older, came from under a tent adjacent to the field. The crowd applauded their arrival.
“Remember, folks,” the announcer continued, “the Caber Toss is not judged on the distance of the toss, but on how close to a perfect toss is achieved. I quote from the NASGA rules: ‘A perfect toss will pass through the vertical position and land with the small end pointing directly at twelve o’clock, away from the competitor in an imaginary straight line extending from the competitor through the initial landing point and in line with the direction of the run.’” He paused to take an exaggerated gasp of breath. “No sweat.”
The audience laughed. “Now I see why they need two judges,” Wally commented. “They better be eagle-eyed like Ian.”
The kilted competitors who had made it to the final round filed onto the field, queuing up behind a line. Two teenagers, who looked to be no strangers to weight training themselves, bore the caber, a long section of tree trunk tapered at one end to be considerably smaller than the other. Their muscles strained as they stood it on end for the first athlete, tapered side down.
Dressed in royal blue from shirt to kneesocks, the competitor bent from the waist, stabilized the caber against one shoulder and spread his feet wide. Interlacing his hands, he inched them down to the bottom of the caber, as the audience grew quiet in anticipation. In a burst of power, the man hoisted the tree trunk as he stood up straight, stepping backward a few steps as he fought for control. The audience burst into encouraging yells and whistles.
Control gained, the athlete drove his feet into the grass, staggering forward to increase momentum. The back judge trotted after him—his eye fixed on the caber. Then the competitor stopped, and with a grunt heard around the field, he hefted the wood beam into the air and released it.
Applause exploded around the field as the caber landed in a vertical position, paused for a moment, and then crashed to the ground.
“Not bad for a first toss,” said Ian. “Looks to be somewhere between one and two o’clock.”
Peggy shook her head, amazed. “They do that three times? Those Highlanders who came up with the idea of throwing trees must have been an interesting lot.”
“No telling what people will come up with when they’re bored,” Alice quipped.
The judges had finished recording the first throw and signaled for the next competitor, who failed to turn the caber vertical and had to jump aside as it crashed back down near him.
“The first guy made it look rather easy compared to that one,” commented Wally. “I wonder how much training he does through the year.”
Ian nudged his friend. “Why? Considering a new sport?” He cocked his head to the side as he exaggerated consideration of Wally�
�s build. “I’d have pegged you as more the Haggis Hurl type.”
The women laughed at Ian’s comments and Wally’s reaction, but then they refocused on the competition as the next athlete leaned down to pick up the caber. This man was able to turn the caber, and as it crashed down, they compared its position to that of the first man.
“We don’t have the vantage point of the judges, but it looks to me like it’s not as good a toss as the first guy,” said Alice.
“There’s a lot of tossing left,” Ian said. “Someone could lead until the very last toss and still come in second.”
As if to prove his point, the next athlete not only turned the caber with a deft toss, but its landing position sent the crowd to their feet.
“To beat that toss, someone’s going to have to turn it exactly at twelve o’clock!” Wally exclaimed.
Emily pirouetted in excitement and then grabbed her father’s arm. “I’m so glad we could come today, Dad!”
Putting his arm around his little dancer, Wally kissed the top of her head. “Me too, Princess. Me too.” Father and daughter stood together through the rest of the first round and the following one. The two best tosses from the first round still stood. The Highlander in blue prepared to grab the caber for his third, and last, try.
“I don’t see how he can best the leading toss,” Alice declared. “Their muscles have to be exhausted by now!”
Peggy reached into her bag to retrieve a tube of sunblock. “Do you suppose these are the same guys who will be doing the Sheaf Toss and Heavy Hammer competitions?” She motioned for Emily to extend her arms for the lotion.
“Some of them,” answered Ian. “It’s kind of like the Olympics. You have your specialists who sprint or jump or throw the discus, and then you have your decathlon athletes.”
Annie nodded, reaching into her bag for a bottle of water. “Nobody can accuse the Scots of being soft.”
“That’s why there’s so many of ’em in Maine,” Wally asserted before directing everyone’s attention back to the field. “Whoa! Look at that toss!”
The athlete’s blue kilt flared as he hefted the end of the caber into the air, his warrior cry echoing across the field. Once again, the spectators jumped to their feet as the caber turned and landed so close to the twelve o’clock position that it seemed impossible. The athlete thrust both arms into the air. The two judges rushed to mark the release and landing spots, and they declared the toss to be the high score thus far.
No matter how the remaining athletes heaved, grunted, or hollered, their tosses could not improve upon the score of the Highlander in blue. After the top three athletes received their laurels, the announcer informed the crowd of the next event: the Haggis Hurl.
The two teenagers toted the caber off the field as volunteers carried a large barrel out and set it upright. Four kilted men trotted a table covered with dozens of what looked to be extremely large sausages from the sidelines and positioned it next to the barrel.
“I’ve never seen sausages that big before,” Peggy said, laughing.
“Nothing can compare to a properly prepared haggis,” Alice testified. “It wouldn’t be fit for the Highland Games if they made the haggis puny.”
Emily looked up at Alice. “Miss Alice, what’s the barrel for?”
“The competitors stand on top of it as they throw the haggis,” Alice answered. Emily’s eyes grew wide at her answer. She added, “Sometimes they use lower platforms for the women or youth challenges.” Turning to Ian, she asked him, “It’s been several years since I’ve seen the Games. Do they still do that, Ian?”
“Yes. They did the last time I attended,” answered Ian. “Although, when I was here last time, quite a few of the women insisted on using the barrels. Their balance was generally more impressive than the men’s, actually.”
The announcer took his place at the center of the field again. “Lassies and lads, the rules for the Haggis Hurl are simple compared to that of the Caber Toss. Each competitor will mount the top of the barrel and make his or her best throw. Unless you hit a judge, it will be measured for pure distance. Will the first hurler please take his position?” He started to walk off the field but stopped. “Ah, one more thing. After the official competitors have taken their throws, anyone in the audience wanting to give haggis hurling a try is invited to line up at the north end of the field. Keep an eye on the technique of the successful hurlers.” This time, he retreated to the edge of the field near the barrel and table.
Peggy nudged her husband’s arm. “Follow the announcer’s direction, and maybe you’ll be able to test the waters of haggis hurling like Mr. Mayor suggested.”
Wally brushed away an overly friendly fly. “I thought he was just teasing,” he said. “I dunno. Let me see how they do it first, Peg.”
“I think you could do it,” his wife insisted. “All those years of casting fishing lines have to work in your favor.”
Ian clapped Wally on the shoulder. “She’s got a point there, Wally. They have prizes for the best hurls from the audience, you know. Can’t hurt to try.”
Wally laughed. “A prize. Right. Probably a giant haggis for the family. Let’s just watch the competition, all right?” He turned his attention back to the barrel where the first hurler was preparing to scramble on top with a haggis gripped in one hand.
“I think the hardest part would be getting up on that barrel without tipping over,” marveled Annie. “It doesn’t look like it’s the sturdiest of platforms.”
The hurler placed his hands on opposite sides of the barrel rim, bent his knees, and sprang up on the barrel, landing like a frog. Annie couldn’t resist clapping her hands, a “woo-hoo!” spilling from her lips. Deep concentration was written on the man’s face. He straightened until he was standing upright. He drew back his throwing arm and hefted the haggis as hard as he could without tipping himself over.
Ian clapped, his face showing his appreciation of the skill. “Decent first throw. Gives the others a good challenge.”
As the rest of the competitors took their turns, it became apparent that the technique of haggis hurling was as varied as its participants. Some techniques appeared to be more successful than others.
“It amazes me that of all those hurlers, only a couple tipped over the barrel,” Alice marveled.
“I’d guess a good number of those competitors are fishermen and lobstermen,” said Wally. “They learn to balance on anything. They could probably balance on a barrel in an earthquake.” He paused for a moment, thinking, and then said, “Maybe I will give it a try.”
Emily did her best cheerleader imitation. “Go, Dad, go! Go, Dad, go!”
“Save your cheering until it’s my turn, Princess,” Wally told her. “The women’s competition is just starting.”
The female hurlers lined up and waited as the two teenagers carried out a wooden platform to set next to the barrel. It was only a few inches shorter than the barrel but wider. At least half of the competitors selected to hurl their haggis from the barrel and made a good show of rising to the challenge.
Annie turned to Ian. “I see what you mean about the women and the barrel. Those lasses were springing up like rodeo queens onto their horses.”
“Impressive, for sure,” Alice agreed. “Gives new meaning to the phrase ‘light on her feet.’”
Ian waved a hand in Wally’s direction. “The hurlers from the audience are going to have a hard act to follow.” He stepped behind his friend and started massaging Wally’s shoulders like he was a prizefighter preparing to head into the ring. “Better start loosening up.”
“All right, all right,” Wally muttered, shrugging off Ian’s help. “Give a guy some space, Mr. Mayor.” But once he had stepped clear of the others, he began to swing his arms in giant circles and squat a few times to warm up his muscles. With a wry grin he asked, “Satisfied? Unless, of course, you’d like to do the hurling yourself?”
“I got myself roped into wearing a kilt next year,” Ian reminded his frie
nd. “Don’t you think that’s enough for one old guy?”
Amidst the laughter that followed, the announcer’s voice broke in: “Now it’s time for the brave members of the audience to take their chances at the Haggis Hurl.”
“Brave or stupid?” Wally added, though he was smiling when he said it. He lightly tugged one of his daughter’s pigtails. “When it’s my turn at the barrel, cheer with everything you’ve got, Princess.” With a wink at Peggy, he ducked under the fluttering barrier and strode toward the growing line.
Peggy turned to the others, a sheepish look on her face. “Why do I feel like there should be trumpets blasting like he’s going out to slay a dragon?”
“Perhaps you read Em too many fairy tales when she was younger,” Alice answered, grinning.
“LeeAnn loved Saint George and the Dragon,” said Annie. “The book was in tatters by the time she moved on to other favorites. I bought a new version with gorgeous illustrations for John and Joanna when they were little.”
“Em’s favorite books are ballerina and princess ones,” Peggy reminded her friends. “Now, if there was a book with a dragon princess in a tutu and toe shoes, she’d be all over that story!”
Emily’s eyes lit up at her mother’s suggestion. “Yeah, yeah! Isn’t there a book like that, anywhere?”
“Maybe you could ask at the library?” Since moving to Stony Point, Annie had come to depend on the town’s efficient librarians to help her research many of the mysteries that swirled around her. “If there’s a story like that, you can be sure Valerie or Grace can find it for you.”
Emily tugged on her mother’s arm. “Look! Dad’s at the barrel. It’s time to cheer!” She jumped up and down with her arms in the air. “Go, Dad! Throw, throw, throw!”
“He has to get on the barrel first,” Peggy reminded her.
Emily nodded and jumped again. “Jump, Dad! Jump!” The women and Ian clapped along with Emily, their eyes glued to Wally as he gripped a haggis in one hand and prepared to mount the barrel.
“Oh, I hope Wally doesn’t break the haggis open when he jumps,” Peggy worried. “What a mess that would be! I’d be chewing my nails if Mitzy hadn’t worked so hard on my manicure.” Peggy’s sister, and Stony Point beautician, had decorated her nails with a colorful tartan design for the Highland Games.
