The Girl with the Phony Name

by Charles Mathes

  “Ye’ll be one sorry lass ye askt,” a third cried, pounding the bar in helpless mirth.

  “Here, what’s this commotion?” said a white-haired man with a black patch over one eye as he came out of the men’s room, zipping up his fly.

  “Is it your intention to torture this poor lass with yer miserable histories, Angus?” scowled the bartender as the others laughed uncontrollably.

  “And wha’s it to ye if ye can sell a drink?” said the man with the patch, toddling over to Lucy and flashing a crooked smile.

  “You’re Mr. MacLean?” said Lucy, wondering how she had managed to stumble into Treasure Island.

  “Aye,” he said, bowing at the waist. “Talisker, Jamie, for the lass and me.”

  The men at the bar howled and hooted. Lucy tried to maintain her composure. The bartender put shot glasses in front of them, filled them, and left the bottle.

  “I’m Tina Snicowski,” said Lucy to MacLean when the others had quieted down and returned to their own drinking. For the first time she was glad that she had listened to Wing and kept up her disguise. He really had picked a fine time to leave her on her own!

  “Drink oop, Miss Snicowski,” said MacLean, raising his glass and emptying it.

  Lucy wasn’t much of a drinker, but there didn’t seem to be any choice. She tried to force down a swallow of the powerful golden liquid without choking. Smacking his lips, MacLean refilled his glass and topped off hers. Occasionally a patron would glance contemptuously over his shoulder at them.

  “You’re from Lis, Mr. MacLean?” Lucy said, taking another sip of the scotch whiskey and managing to smile in spite of it.

  “Aye. My father was a crofter and his father afore him.”

  “What’s a crofter?”

  “Tha’s a man who works a croft, a course.”

  Lucy must have looked blank, for MacLean squinted at her with his good eye and spoke in kindly tones.

  “A croft is a wee wedge of land. Not enough to feed a family on.”

  “There’s goin’ t’be a quiz, lass,” shouted one of the men at the bar, “so ye best take notes.”

  “Are you a historian, Mr. MacLean?” asked Lucy uncomfortably. He seemed friendly enough so far, but the Fairy’s Egg wasn’t exactly a place where a girl could relax.

  “I chust ken a bit about local matters is all,” said MacLean, oblivious to the laughter from the ugly throng at the bar. “Sairt of a hobby, ye might say.”

  “Why di’ ye want to gie me a creepie?” said a voice suddenly. Lucy looked up. Wharrie was standing menacingly next to her chair.

  “Because you’re an asshole, that’s why,” said Lucy, swallowing hard. She glanced at the door, calculating the best escape route in case things got out of hand.

  “D’ye know what a creepie is, then?” said Wharrie slowly.

  “No,” she said, looking him right in the eye. “I heard the expression from a white settler.”

  “Tha’ would explain it. Givin’ a creepie to a person is not mooch of a threat. A creepie is a wee three-legged stool.”

  They stared at one another for a moment, until Wharrie’s face broke into a grin. Lucy grinned back. MacLean watched the spectacle, frowning.

  “I’ll hae that drink wi’ ye if yer still willin’,” said Wharrie finally.

  Lucy resumed breathing and gestured to a chair. The big man took off his cap and sat. Only a few strands of red hair still graced his broad skull. His presence was somehow strangely comforting. If Wharrie had decided to join the human race, maybe things really were looking up.

  “This is Mr. Wharrie, who’s been driving me around,” said Lucy to MacLean. “Angus MacLean.”

  Wharrie’s smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He nodded warily to MacLean across the table.

  “I’m bringin’ ye business, Jamie,” MacLean called to the bartender.

  “Mr. MacLean is going to tell me about the Fingons,” said Lucy.

  “Tha’ so?” said Wharrie, obviously not impressed. Then he said something else that Lucy didn’t catch. It wasn’t until MacLean answered in strange guttural syllables that she realized they were speaking Gaelic. The bartender brought another glass. MacLean poured Wharrie’s drink.

  “To new friends,” said MacLean, smiling his crooked smile. Wharrie didn’t smile back. They drank. Lucy’s eyes teared, but she managed not to cough.

  “So, what d’ye need to know, lass?” asked MacLean.

  “Well, it’s not me, actually,” said Lucy. “I have this friend who may be related to the Fingons and I promised I would find out about them for her.”

  A glance passed between MacLean and Wharrie but neither man said anything.

  “Fingon doesn’t even seem like a Scottish name,” Lucy said brightly, trying to get the conversation going.

  “Oh, yes,” MacLean grinned. “Ancient clan. Claimed to go back to a prince in the house of Alpin, they did.”

  “Alpin? Is that like Kenneth mac Alpin?”

  “Aye. Ye diu ken some history then.”

  “No, not really. I just heard the name mentioned somewhere. Can you tell me about Kenneth mac Alpin?”

  “Actually there were several Kenneths,” said MacLean, taking a sip of his whiskey. “The first Kenneth mac Alpin was the king who united the Scots and the Picts in eight forty-three A.D.”

  “The Picts,” repeated Lucy eagerly. “They were an ancient Scottish tribe, yes?”

  “Nae,” answered MacLean. “The Scots were na’ even Scottish in the way ye mean. They were a tribe of pirates from Dalriada in Northern Ireland. In about five hundred A.D. Fergus Mor mac Erc, the first king of the Scots, invaded the Pict homeland—the area we call Argyll. Kenneth mac Alpin was Fergus’s descendant.”

  “Scotland is named after a bunch of Irishmen?”

  “Tha’s right,” MacLean nodded, fingering his eyepatch. Wharrie took a sip of whiskey and mumbled something in Gaelic.

  “The Picts made jewelry, didn’t they?” said Lucy, trying to contain her excitement. At last she had found someone who knew something and wasn’t afraid to talk to her!

  “Aye, the Picts were a very artistic race. They carved their weird symbols on gigantic stone pillars—ye still can find them around the countryside—as well as on jewelry and the like. The word picti is Latin for painted ones, so they might even ha’ decorated themselves with paint or tattoos. Unfortunately we dinna ken mooch about them.”

  “Why not?” asked Lucy.

  MacLean leaned forward.

  “Because as soon as Kenneth mac Alpin became king, Pictish culture winked out of existence. The Picts vanished so ootterly it’s thought that Kenneth secured his throne by massacring the entire Pictish nobility.”

  “That’s awful!”

  “I’m not sure the Picts liked it either,” chuckled MacLean.

  “Anyways, to strengthen his claim on Pictland—which came to be called Scotia, then Scotland—Kenneth moved his capital further inland, to Scone.”

  “Skoon,” repeated Lucy, wishing now that she had thought to bring a pad to take notes.

  “Spelled S-C-O-N-E. The Alpin dynasty lasted a few hundred years until Kenneth’s great-great-great-grandson Duncan was murdered by a fellow named MacBeth … .”

  “Is she dead from boredom yet, Angus?” hollered one of the men at the bar. The others broke into laughter.

  “Go on wi’ ye!” MacLean shouted back. Then he turned back to Lucy. “Anyways, the Fingons claimed descent from the House of Alpin.”

  “The Fingons were rich, weren’t they?” said Lucy.

  “In a manner of speakin’,” said MacLean easily. “The Fingons owned the castle outside Dumlagchtat and most of the crofts on Lis, as well. They were the landlords.”

  “What happened to them?”

  Wharrie suddenly stood up. Lucy had nearly forgotten his craggy, silent presence across the table.

  “I’ll tell yiu wha’ happened to them,” Wharrie said in a murderous voice. “The bastards bled the isla
nd dry, then died out of their own wickedness, tha’s wha’ happened to the Fingons.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “They preached against you on Sunday at the Glen Tobar Bridge,” said Roderick Beaton, standing uncomfortably by the breakfast table.

  The time was seven o’clock in the morning. The place was Dumlagchtat Castle. The year was 1846.

  “Again?” exclaimed Henry, Eighth Baronet and Sixth Lord Fingon, sipping his China tea. “I don’t understand why these crofters prefer to stand in the rain than sit in a comfortable church. What’s wrong with the Church of Scotland that they need to start their own?”

  “The minister you appointed, your lordship, keeps telling them that their problems are due to their own wickedness.”

  “And so they are,” said Lord Fingon, his huge blue eyes flashing with anger. “My actions are merely evidence of God’s wrath. I should evict the lot of them, famine or no.”

  “I don’t know that such a step would look good now, m’lord,” said Beaton mildly, “in view of your pledge to the relief people to postpone further clearances.”

  Lord Fingon snorted and brushed his thin lips with a napkin. What were they to do with all these starving crofters? They hadn’t always been a problem, of course. Fifty years ago Henry’s grandfather, lain, had created the crofts for his clansmen after evicting them from Fingon lands because sheep farmers could pay higher rents. Iain’s true genius, however, lay in locating the crofts on the coasts, near the kelp beds.

  The crofters couldn’t feed their families off their miserable slivers of land, and so to make ends meet they had no choice but to take on the brutal work of harvesting kelp, a leathery seaweed rich in the alkali so vital for the burgeoning industrial revolution.

  Kelp profits had paid for the fabulous castle in which Henry enjoyed his breakfast today, thanks to the crofters’ cheap labor. A single window in the castle cost more than a hundred of Iain’s kelping tenants could earn in a year.

  In a pathetic gesture, the crofters had petitioned old lain to stand by them in their hour of need—as if this were still the days when Fingon was laird of the clan and cared about these peasants! When the old man ignored them, the crofters began to purchase passage to the New World.

  It had been a dangerous oversight. The price of passage was cheap enough that even the impoverished crofters could afford it. A startling number began to leave.

  Iain issued conciliatory statements urging his crofters to think twice about leaving their ancestral lands. He halted evictions and promised that crofts would be enlarged.

  This action temporarily stemmed the flight, giving lain time to organize with the other landlords and press for legislation in Parliament that would raise the cost of transatlantic passage far beyond the crofters’ means. Those foolish enough to remain had to accept even smaller crofts.

  After the kelp market collapsed, however, the crofters became a liability. Henry himself had halved their crofts, halved them again, raised the rents, but still some crofters had stayed. Now they starved.

  “More tea, dear?” asked Lady Fingon icily, breaking Lord Fingon’s train of thought.

  “No,” he snapped angrily. “What else, Beaton?”

  Lord Fingon knew his wife hated these meetings with Beaton, but there was nothing to be done about it. Henry wanted to get to an early start on this morning’s hunting, and seeing his factor now was the most efficient scheduling.

  “Another emigrant ship was lost last week, m’lord.”

  “How many does that make this year?” groaned Henry, going to work on his egg.

  “Four m’lord.”

  Lord Fingon was disgusted. At least the ships weren’t expensive. In fact, they were the least costly and least seaworthy vessels money could buy. Their useful cargo life over, these ancient craft shipped from Canada full of lumber that didn’t need to be kept particularly dry. They returned with departing crofters, who paid in advance, of course. Even slave vessels were a safer way to travel. After all, the slaver suffered if his cargo arrived in poor condition. With emigrants it didn’t matter.

  “Is there no good news in the world?” said Lord Fingon when he finished chewing.

  “There has been an interesting development, m’lord,” said Beaton, fingering his little moustache.

  Henry Fingon didn’t much like his factor, but he had to admit the man was clever. And effective. There had been hardly any resistance to this year’s evictions. Of course Beaton was also the sheriff clerk’s deputy and owned four of the largest sheep farms that would replace the evicted crofters, so he was well motivated.

  “And what would that interesting development be, pray tell,” said Lord Fingon, putting down his fork. Beaton had his attention, which was obviously why he had produced so much bad news first.

  “You may recall the cargo of meal we bought in Liverpool to feed the crofters.”

  “I do not care to be reminded, Beaton.”

  “I agree, your lordship, that we were pressured into taking this step by the government’s relief program.”

  “Well, they certainly can’t blame me for the potato famine. If the crofters are starving, then it is through their own stupidity. They should have had the good sense to get out before this.”

  “Exactly, m’lord, but about the cargo of meal …”

  “Yes, what about it?”

  “It seems that due to the famine, meal prices have risen sharply. If we were to sell now on the open market, we could reap a handsome profit, I think.”

  “Can we do that without causing a stir with the relief people?”

  “We’ve promised to halt the clearances, m’lord, but isn’t this simply a matter of business?”

  Lord Fingon put down his fork and beamed.

  “Beaton, my dear fellow. Have some tea. You don’t mind, do you, dear?”

  He motioned to a servant for another chair, ignoring Lady Fingon’s glare.

  “Thank you, m’lord,” said Beaton humbly, and sat.

  “Tell me, Beaton,” said Lady Fingon, pouring the factor a cup of tea, “how long is it going to take you and Henry to destroy this godforsaken island?”

  “Beg pardon, m’lady?”

  “Certainly that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Wasn’t Lis once covered with trees? There are only a few forests left.”

  “That be the sheep, m’lady. They graze closer than the cattle the crofters kept. And the red deer in the woods we set aside for stalking—they eat the young shoots, too.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what, your ladyship?”

  “Well,” answered Lady Fingon, “the older sheep farms are failing. The kelp business is dead. Most of the people are gone. Where is Henry’s income going to come from when the remaining pastures are ruined and there are no more crofters to pay rent?”

  Beaton just stared stupidly into his tea.

  Henry threw down his napkin. “Really, Gwendolyn. I don’t understand why you concern yourself with these matters. You know nothing about business.”

  “You haven’t thought beyond next week, have you, Henry?”

  “There will always be something, Gwendolyn. There’s plenty of land. There’s fish, game. Things are fine.”

  “Things are fine with me, I assure you. I can’t wait to get back to England and civilization.”

  “The future is a long way off, my dear. I’m afraid there will be more than enough for our lifetimes.”

  “Is that what you say, Beaton?” inquired Lady Fingon pointedly.

  “I shouldn’t think your ladyship would have to worry, what with the Fingon treasure,” said the factor with a wink.

  “What’s this, Henry?” said Gwendolyn Fingon perking up. “You’ve never mentioned a family treasure.”

  “A pointless legend,” said Lord Fingon poisonously and squinted at his factor until Beaton buried his face in his teacup.

  “Tell me about this Fingon treasure, Mr. Beaton,” said Lady Fingon sweetly.

  “Go ahead, Beaton, tell us,�
� said the lord evenly.

  “It’s just that they say that the Fingons have held a treasure since ancient times, m’lord,” said the factor nervously. “Some say it was given them by the mac Alpin himself.”

  “Is there any truth to this, Henry?” said Gwendolyn, obviously intrigued. “You never mentioned a treasure to me before.”

  “There is, actually,” said Lord Fingon. “The Fingon treasure was said to be wealth beyond a person’s dreams.”

  Lady Fingon’s eyes widened—obviously she was stunned. Lord Fingon smiled and leaned across the table, addressing her in a conspiratorial voice.

  “My great-grandfather, Alan Fingon, divided the treasure between his two sons, Rorie and my grandfather lain, after Culloden so it would be safe.”

  “Please go on, Henry,” said Lady Fingon eagerly.

  “Each half was said to be useless without the other,” said Fingon, his blue eyes wide. “Alan and Rorie took one half of the treasure to Nova Scotia in the seventeen-eighties. lain stayed here with the other half. I still have it.”

  “You do?” asked Lady Fingon. Beaton tried not to look interested, but he unconsciously licked his lips.

  “Yes. You’ve seen me wear it at funerals. It’s the Fingon brooch.”

  “That horrid thing?” gasped Gwendolyn. “Really, Henry!”

  “I suppose I should go to Canada one day and see if the cousins have another one like it,” said Lord Fingon, bursting into laughter. “Two of them together might be hideous enough to defoliate a continent!”

  Lady Fingon threw her napkin on the table and stormed from the room in disgust. Her husband smiled and poured himself a fresh cup of tea.

  “Sell the meal, Beaton,” he said. “We might try Ireland to get the best price.”

  “Aye, m’lord.” Beaton nodded and left hurriedly before he put another foot in his mouth. Lord Fingon sat back in his chair and quietly sipped his tea.

  Fingon treasure, what rubbish!

  When he was younger, Henry had even been fool enough to write the Canadian Fingons and inquire whether they knew of the family legend. They hadn’t known what he was talking about. No, thought Lord Fingon, the Fingon treasure—if there had ever been such a thing—was long gone.