Highland Games Through Time

by Nancy Lee Badger

  The dragon’s bellow turned into a muted rumble in her head. With a violent crash, it plunged into the sea. The echo of the monster’s bulk hitting the water made her swim harder. Twisting, she struggled in vain to reach her necklace. The warmth against her breasts, brought on by her spell-casting, indicated its location.

  She hit the bottom with her shoulder, and glanced off mud and sand. Pebbles and broken shells grated over exposed skin, but billowed up to help hide her from the creature.

  Not well enough.

  A dark shape sped toward her.

  Bubbles, released with her silent scream, stole what little breath she had left. Twisting to get away, pain sliced through her. A sharp talon ripped along her dress as the dragon’s huge claw raked her right side. When she threw out her bound hands to push the huge claw away, it tore through the ropes wrapped around her wrists.

  Bloody, but free, and with the dragon above her, Skye had no choice but to complete the spell before the last spark of life left her. She might not reach the surface.

  Clasping her numb fingers around the slick surface of her moonstone necklace, she uttered the words again.

  Out of time, escape the sea.

  Send me forward, make me free.

  I dare to live, so mote it be!

  As the words of the time travel spell flowed from memory, and water filled her mouth and lungs, she squeezed the tiny gem. She prayed for darkness and shadows to hide her from the thrashing dragon as she settled on the bottom of the sea one final time.

  CHAPTER 2

  Present day New England

  Jake Jamison cursed the sweat dripping from his brow as his hammer slammed the red-hot metal atop a huge anvil. As he worked, it formed the rough shape of a sword. Sparks flew. His shoulders bunched and pivoted repeatedly.

  The clang of metal on metal usually soothed him, but not today. He breathed in the smoky air, as welcoming as a clean mountain breeze, but the heat finally won out.

  Perspiration dampened the back of his shirt, so he removed his leather apron and tugged the shirt over his head. After replacing the apron’s loop around his neck, he retied the straps at his back, low on his waist.

  Black leather trews protected his legs from the sparks, all the way to the tops of his calf-high black boots. When he worked with fire, he preferred the form-fitting slacks to a wool kilt.

  I learned the hard way that sparks and wool don’t mix.

  He chuckled at that costly mistake. Gazing out over the historic village, his muscles relaxed. Long ago, he had loved this time of year. Lately, he did his best to act civil around the other volunteers dressed in period costume. He strove to mingle with visitors to the New England Highland Games, and to answer questions when asked.

  Kilted men, and women wearing gauzy dresses, blended with similarly dressed children. The younger ones happily played with crude toys, their smiling faces covered with shortbread crumbs.

  The whistle and thud of an arrow hitting a target drew his attention to an adjacent hillside where archers competed. Even farther away, bagpipers tuned their instruments inside the performance tent. Cupping his hand to his brow, to shade his eyes against the unseasonable sunshine, he glanced toward the river. Young Scottish dancers tapped their Highland dancing pumps, and swirled in circles to a gay tune. Raising their arms, the youngsters pointed their toes in unison; a ballet in clan tartans.

  Jake glimpsed the pine trees that surrounded the historic encampment where he’d set up his blacksmith shop. Mid-September spread the colors of autumn throughout other hardwood trees. Oak, maple, and white birch glowed beneath the sun in orange, red, and yellow. Pinecones littered the trail to the camp, but no one seemed to mind a twisted ankle or two. Laughter echoed around a cook fire, and the clang of mugs filled to overflowing, gave the entire village a happy slant.

  Too bad Jake wasn’t happy.

  He stretched, and an ache clamped like iron bands around his back muscles. Not wanting to blacken his face with his bulky leather gloves, he wiped away the sweat with his upper arm.

  As the sun beat down on his fire pit and anvil, thoughts of global warming surfaced. September in New England used to favor fog, sleet, and snow, not eighty degree temperatures under clear blue skies. It hadn’t been this hot at the games for years.

  The abnormal heat was a deterrent to today’s task, and he could hardly wait for the closing ceremonies. Realization swept over him like an icy river; after years of attending the games as a volunteer, the joy of acting as a blacksmith had waned. Without the beautiful smile of his friend Iona Mackenzie, and the gleeful friendliness of Haven MacKay, why bother?

  Five years had passed since both Iona and Haven had traveled through time to sixteenth-century Scotland. They each had their reasons. Iona merely followed Haven in order to make sure she was okay. The last time he saw them, they both claimed to have met Scottish warriors and had fallen in love.

  What a joke. Leave your home, your friends, and every modern convenience for the chance to make love to one person for the rest of your life?

  Jake couldn’t understand why they chose to stay behind, nor could he believe he had also traveled through time. Sometimes, he assumed it was all a dream. Then the face of Skye Gunn surfaced, and he knew the nightmare he’d survived was real.

  Soon after he had arrived in ancient Scotland, intent on saving his friends, the sadistic little witch sent him home. As time dragged on with no word, he eventually lost all hope of seeing Haven and Iona again.

  If I ever see Skye again, it will be too soon.

  Then why did his stomach cramp and his breathing hitch whenever he thought of the tantrum-throwing female? Would she ever show her face at the Highland games again? What if she appeared right now? Would he let her out of his sight? Skye was one of only two links to his friends.

  The other was Dorcas Swann.

  He had promised to look after the old woman and her potion tent, only because Iona had begged him. He had hoped Iona or Haven would return to help the old woman sell her wares, but Dorcas had disappeared, too. A young woman worked the potion tent now, and said she had no idea where Dorcas had run off to.

  When was a better description.

  Who knows where in time she'd disappeared to. The old crone most likely chose to remain in sixteenth-century Scotland.

  After gazing about the village, where dozens of volunteers had set-up tents, dug cook pits, and spent the extended weekend demonstrating various crafts that one might see in the ancient Scottish Highlands, Jake banked the coals in his furnace. They’d stay hot until after his break. He had a few consignment jobs to finish before he headed home.

  In case children stopped by while he was gone, he’d bent square nails into rings to adorn their small fingers. Later, when he’d filled his stomach and quenched his thirst, he would make decorative horseshoes for a client’s home.

  His income had dwindled in the rough economy. Forging and applying actual horseshoes was not a money-maker. Fewer horse owners could afford the upkeep, but the daily riders needed to care for their animal’s hooves; a service he provided. The sooner five o’clock signaled the end of this year’s New England Highland Games, the sooner he’d get back to making money.

  Jake tossed his apron and gloves aside. A slight breeze cooled his sweat-dampened skin. He threw on a clean, black T-shirt, and trudged down the forest trail toward the parade grounds. Iona’s father, Ross Mackenzie, hadn’t showed his face in clan village since that September five years earlier, when Jake’s whole world unhinged. What happened to him? Had he somehow joined his daughter in the past?

  “Hail, blacksmith.”

  Jake stopped kicking pinecones from the trail and lifted his head. Bull waved from the edge of the athletics field. Though his real name was Bryce Buchanan, his friend fit his nickname.

  Bull wore an orange and yellow plaid on a muted green background, the Buchanan clan colors. His muscles and t-shirt proclaimed him an athlete.

  Even without NEHG athletics emblazed across
his wide expanse of chest, no one would mistake the man in the dark green top for anything other than a man of Scottish heritage bent on competing. Clipped short, the ends of his black hair curled behind his ears. He supposed his muscular build and chiseled features were pleasing to the opposite sex, if the reaction of the women that flirted with him were any indication.

  “Now, ladies, you must excuse me. I have to speak to my friend.”

  The gaggle of lovely women sighed as they sauntered away. Some wore blue jeans and tank tops, while others were dressed in period costumes. The one in the leather bustier, whose cleavage was close to spilling over, pouted then walked away backward while she threw him a kiss. Jake smiled as he looked closer at his new friend.

  The man had four inches and eighty pounds on Jake, but if the ladies knew Bull spent his weekdays teaching European history at an elite private college, there would be more than a few surprised faces along the athletic field.

  People shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.

  “What’s wrong, Jake? I’ve only seen sadder faces on the men I’ve bested on the field and the students who flunk my quizzes.”

  Jake laughed, unable to resist his friend’s friendly comparison. Who was he to spoil such a glorious day? Bull was here; Jake was here talking to his good friend.

  That’s what counts.

  “Hey, Bull. Competing this afternoon?”

  “You know it. I won the hammer throw this morning. I’ll turn the caber in the heavy-weight demo in a few minutes. I have to show the boys that flew in from Scotland how we do it here in the States.”

  “I hear you. I’ll try to catch the final heat.”

  “Meet you for a beer afterward?”

  “Deal.” Jake shook Bull’s meaty hand, his fingers tightly gripped. His friend was a definite shoo-in to win, so he’d meet him at the pub to celebrate. Jake could finish his packing later. The coals needed to die out, and his meager belongings wouldn’t take long to gather.

  The tent he used for his leather shop and the cot he slept on, in the back, belonged to the games committee. He’d nearly sold out of his stock of leather goods, and he’d already boxed up the remaining boots, hair ties, vests, and the like. A delivery service would drop them at home.

  Home? What a joke.

  An apartment in an old farmhouse beside a river and a mountain was nice, but lonely. Where else could he live? The place came with a small barn to house his business and his horses. Looking for an hobby that accompanied his talents, and the outdoors, he had volunteered at the Highland games years ago when he answered an ad for a blacksmith who could portray an ancient Scottish smithy.

  Jenny Morgan, his neighbor, offered to feed and keep an eye on his apartment and animals, so he answered the advertisement. The cheerful smile of Iona Mackenzie had won him over the moment they met. The startlingly gorgeous redhead interviewed him for the position—an unpaid position at that—and he had accepted. Five years ago, at the same Highland games, he had met Iona’s friend, the beautiful Haven MacKay. He harbored a bit of a crush on both of them, but the women regarded him as more of a younger brother.

  My loss, but they were a joy to look at.

  Roaring cheers rose from the direction of the athletic fields, and the sound of bagpipes echoed from clan village. Banners proclaimed each clan’s name, and maps of Scotland as well as swords and pikes decorated each space. Colorful flags flew from the top of each family’s small tent, and several people meandered about. Jake had spent some time at the Gunn Clan’s tent. He’d looked through history books and found a few sentences that mentioned Kirk and Haven, but nothing about Iona. He should have thought to look her up at the Mackenzie tent, but he couldn’t bring himself to tread that way.

  Jake headed toward the grandstand. Visitors filled every seat, so he leaned against the wall of the neighboring ski lodge. Someone nudged his arm, but when he looked down, no one was there. A piece of paper peeked from his belt.

  “What the…?”

  An announcer barked descriptions of each event, and dozens of participants strutted their stuff, but his attention strayed to the note. As he started reading, his pulse sped up even as his breath caught in his throat.

  The words, scribbled on the brittle paper, did not answer his immediate questions. However, they did promise him answers if he met the writer after the closing ceremony.

  Finally! Answers! The scribbled note was signed by someone he’d been thinking about for five, long years.

  Ross Mackenzie!

  The hardest thing he’d ever done was to wait for Ross Mackenzie to meet him in person. To bide his time, he glanced out over the athletic field. He whistled in amazement at what he saw in a corner. A pile of trimmed tree trunks waited for the competitors, and to watch Bull toss one was worth the wait.

  Bull had shared a basic description of the Scottish cabers. They were between sixteen and twenty-two feet long and weighed anywhere from one-hundred to one-hundred-and-eighty pounds.

  Bull was up next, and Jake was enthralled. With the help of two others, he rested the thinnest end of the caber on his right shoulder, and cupped the narrow end in his hands. He moved forward, gaining momentum with each step. With muscles bulging, and his kilt flapping, Bull tossed the tree trunk-sized caber. It landed on its wider end, then fell away from him.

  His aim must have given him the sought-after twelve-o’clock position, because the crowd erupted with cheers. Bull raised his arms in triumph and marched back to the starting area like a conqueror. Jake’s laugh, at his friend’s joy-filled face, startled a group of children who stood by a corral filled with a small herd of sheep.

  Hell’s fire, I missed the sheepdog demonstration, again.

  He’d missed most of the athletics, too. Pleased he had taken the time to witness Bull’s success with the caber toss he said, “Guess I owe him a beer.”

  The air filled with raucous applause as the marching bands took to the field. Jake smiled at several harried volunteers who worked to keep the audience back. They’d all head for a cool pint as soon as security herded the visitors off the grounds.

  Another year’s Highland games are history.

  The crowds slowly dispersed; visitors and band members to their waiting cars and buses, and athletes to the showers. Jake took the stairs two at a time, then sauntered up to the bar on the top floor. Would Ross Mackenzie meet him in the lodge? Would Jake finally get some answers? He snatched a pitcher of ale and three glasses, just as dozens of others crowded the bar. He snaked his way through the raucous throng and grabbed a table near a window.

  Mountains loomed in the distance, their colorful leaves the only clue that autumn approached. The heat remained, and the clean shirt he’d changed into, after removing his leather apron, clung to his back. No one else seemed damp and sweaty. Lately, his body temperature elevated with each passing day. Was he coming down with something?

  No time to be sick. Not when I’m this close to hearing about Haven and Iona.

  The cold ale went down smooth, and Jake sighed. His shoulders ached, as he was a man who had hammered heated iron all weekend long. The more he thought about his aches, pains, and rising body temperature, the more he dismissed it. “Maybe I’m getting old.”

  “What a crock! What are you, twenty?” Bull said, slapping Jake on the back, causing him to spit out a mouthful of foam. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he turned his attention to his friend. The huge athlete’s snicker was for his benefit, as well as the group of women strolling past them.

  Their half-closed eyes and sensuous smiles were as welcome as the pitcher of Scottish micro-brewed ale, made just for the Highland games. He thirsted for female companionship, but rarely made the first move, because no one compared to…

  He turned back to his friend. Bull noticed the waiting pitcher and filled his glass. The foam spilled over the rim and down his knuckles.

  “I’m twenty-five. Why aren’t I sitting with them?” Jake said.

  Bull drained his glass and fl
ipped Jake’s ponytail before answering. “Why am I sitting here with you?”

  They laughed, and Jake poured his friend another glass of ale. He tied the leather thong Bull had loosened, so it held his long black hair out of his face. Bull settled on a bar stool and gulped the second glass of ale in seconds.

  “Tossing a telephone pole makes a man thirsty.” He’d changed his shirt and now sported a bright yellow one in the Jacobite style. How could he wear long sleeves in this heat? He’d left the laces untied so that some chest hair peeked through. The deep yellow went well with the bright colors of his kilt. The Buchanan tartan was a far cry from the drab green of the Gunn clan.

  “Why aren’t you in a kilt?” Bull asked, running his fingers through his damp black hair.

  He must have dunked his head under a water spigot, or jumped in a shower. With his hair slicked back, and curling under his ears, he looked less sophisticated than a college professor. In his dusty kilt, with a brown leather sporran nestled between his thighs, he drew the attention of dozens of women in the pub.

  “I saw your winning caber toss. Spot on twelve o’clock. No one else came close.”

  Bull smiled and gulped his beer. Red dotted his cheeks.

  Was he embarrassed? Unlikely, but the man was a conundrum. He’d won because he trained every weekend. Weekdays were a different story. “How’s school?”

  “My students are studying a difficult period in European history. The late sixteenth century, to be exact. Since I’m competing this weekend, I have them studying the Fire and Sword proclamation in Scotland.”

  Jake stilled, his drink halfway to his mouth. His friend was an expert on Scotland? Information like that could come in handy.

  “Problem?”

  “No,” Jake answered.

  He swallowed.

  He waited as Bull refilled his glass then ordered another pitcher.