by Allie Mackay
Their lives are the strongest and most golden threads in the fascinating tapestry that is Scottish history. I’m honored to share a few of their tales with you.” He looked down the coach, nodding regally to every passenger.
Margo forced a smile when his gaze lit on her.
“Pssst.” The woman across the aisle, Tanya Long, reached to tap Margo’s arm. Young, Southern, and bubbly, she bounced in her seat each time they shot past a castle ruin or a particularly scenic stretch of scenery.
Just now, Tanya lowered her voice and slid a meaningful look in Wee Hughie’s direction. “Do you think he looks like Robert the Bruce?”
“I hope not.” Margo blurted the words before she could stop herself. “Robert Bruce would’ve been mailed and helmeted, a long sword at his side, and his warrior’s body as powerful and well honed as his weapons. If Wee Hughie is directly descended from the Bruce, I think it’s a safe bet that the centuries have diluted the blood.”
Tanya blinked. Her book— Even You Can Speak Gaelic—slid off her lap. She bent to snatch it off the floor, and then flashed another admiring glance at their kilted guide. “I think he’s cute.”
“I think he loves hearing himself talk.”
“He told me people from the South have an easy time learning Gaelic.” Tanya clutched the newly purchased book to her breast. “He says”—her Southern accent purred—“it’s because so many of us have Scottish roots.”
“There was a table with copies of that book at the petrol station in Fort William. I suspect”—Margo was sure of it—“Wee Hughie gets a kickback for every copy one of us buys when he stops there for gas.”
“You’re really cynical.” Tanya slipped the Gaelic book into her backpack.
“I don’t like being hoodwinked.” I also can’t stand braggarts. Margo kept the last sentiment to herself.
Leaning back in her seat, she debated if she dared using earplugs until Wee Hughie finished his latest oral discourse. He’d just left his kingly forebears and was beginning to expound on the knights, warlords, and chieftains in his ancestral gene pool.
Margo didn’t think she could bear it.
She shouldn’t have forgotten that the old gods were known to be capricious. After all, she was being chauffeured right through the ancient stomping grounds of those pagan deities. It would amuse the likes of Loki to take her heart’s desire and turn its sweetness into something rancid just as she took the first, long-awaited bite.
Hoping Loki was busy making merry in Valhalla, she tried to stretch her legs.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t room.
The Sword of Somerled boasted airplane-style comfort seats that allowed each coach passenger to push a button and recline his seat back.
And the man in front of Margo enjoyed taking advantage of that option.
Margo glared at the top of his dandruff-dusted head.
Heat was beginning to creep up the back of her neck, so she took several deep, calming breaths.
Then she counted silently to ten.
Otherwise she might explode.
Who would’ve believed that the trip of a lifetime would turn out to be a nightmare?
Theoretically, she’d stepped into her own wonderland.
Not that her idea of tartan paradise ever included being shepherded about by a self-aggrandizing, kilt-clad teddy bear who wore a huge name badge that announced he was the Highland Storyweaver.
But that was where she was, so she adjusted her Aging Gracefully paisley shawl against the chilly blast of the coach’s canned, climate-controlled air and determined to make the most of her time in Scotland.
Despite Wee Hughie MacSporran.
Outside the Sword of Somerled’s much-vaunted touring windows, ranges of spectacularly steep and craggy hills delighted with tumbling waterfalls, skirts of autumn red bracken, and just the right amount of swirling mist to shout “This is the Highlands,” without spoiling the view of the rugged, soaring peaks. There were glimpses of the sea, jagged cliffs, and inaccessible curves of pristine, golden sand.
Hauntingly beautiful islands looked close enough to touch. And the whole land- and seascape shone in more shades of blue than Margo would’ve guessed existed. Every hue was represented from the palest turquoise and mauve along the coast to the deep inky blue water rimming the horizon. Once in a while, the glistening black edges of a crofter’s peat bank winked in a gentle roll of moorland, evidence that some lucky souls actually lived and worked here.
Several times she’d spotted the odd lonesome cottage, thick-walled, whitewashed, and so inviting in its setting of romantic seclusion. Dark slate seemed to have replaced the roof thatch, but laundry often fluttered in the wind, lending an old-fashioned touch. A time or two, she’d seen a dog sleeping on the door stoop. Sheep milled in rock-studded, heather-rich fields. And there were even the occasional Highland coos, the famed long-haired cows on so many Scottish postcards. If it was late in the day, soft yellow light could be glimpsed from behind the croft houses’ small windows. And always, thin blue smoke curled from the chimneys.
Margo was sure the blue smoke was peat.
Sadly, they hadn’t come close enough to any of those homes for her to actually get a whiff of the precious, typical Highland scent.
But she was grateful to have at least seen peat smoke.
Regrettably, such reminders of the quaintness inside the crofts also gave her a jolt at the harsh reality of having to board a return plane to Newark.
The hustle and bustle waiting for her there seemed as alien now as the dark side of the moon. Or maybe even Pluto or some as-yet-undiscovered planet. The noise and chaos of the real world also struck her—by comparison—to be as unpleasant as sticking needles in her eye.
Still...
There were moments when she wished she’d never left the States in the first place. A notion so unlike her, and so unsettling, she wondered a lightning bolt didn’t zing down to strike her.
Just days ago, she would’ve laughed if anyone suggested she could go to Scotland and be miserable.
Yet she was.
Only it wasn’t Scotland that disappointed her.
It was Heritage Tours.
Her head was spinning after five days of racing Her head was spinning after five days of racing through castles, popping in and out of National Trust historic sites, each time staying long enough only to grab postcards at the visitor centers. She’d lost count of how often they’d jumped on and off the Sword of Somerled at roadside beauty spots, quickly snapping photos before being herded to the next tourist-trap cafeteria-style tea and pit stop. Horrible, phony shops with tinny bagpipe music and the obligatory whisky liqueur and Scottish toffee samples. They’d roared past the good places at light speed, not even stopping. Like the neat-looking, thatch-roofed Folk Museum in Glencoe. Margo sighed, remembering.
She’d have killed for an afternoon there.
Even a half hour would’ve been manna from heaven.
It was in such places that Scotland’s past could really come to life. Havens where the surrounding rocks and moors held their breath, hoping to be appreciated by those who preferred walking through a sea of bog and heather to the maze of concrete, steel, and glass known as modern urbanization.
Margo bit her lip, not wanting to be ungrateful.
In truth, she’d seen more of Scotland than most Highland-loving Americans could cram into a single lifetime of plaid-filled longing.
Unfortunately, she’d only caught two-minute glimpses of each place of interest.
Her seven-day tour of the Highlands consisted of nanosecond intervals.
Nothing went right.
She’d even missed most of the free “wee drams” and tablet tastings— tablet was the Scottish word for toffee—because the comfort-and-shop places were always so crowded.
She’d learned to grin and bear the window-seat hoggers on the Sword of Somerled. The chance of an unobstructed, panoramic view of the Highlands brought out the worst in people. There was no such th
ing as sharing such prized vistas.
It was every man for himself.
And Wee Hughie’s halfhearted efforts at persuading his charges to play musical seats failed abysmally.
Margo frowned, recalling his first such attempt.
He’d offered tartan-edged handouts of his lineage to anyone who voluntarily sat on the aisle during the scenic drive through the Great Glen.
No one had taken the bait.
So Margo hadn’t managed to nab a window since the huge touring bus rumbled away from Glasgow Airport bright and early on the first day.
She’d landed a good seat then only because jet lag had slowed down most of the tour-goers. She’d been had slowed down most of the tour-goers. She’d been high on I-just-landed-in-Scotland adrenaline and developed the speed of a world-class sprinter.
No one stood a chance against her that morning. By evening, her fellow travelers had recovered from the rigors of long-haul flying.
Since then, she’d been on the aisle.
The only good thing about her fellow travelers’ mad dash back to the bus—and their cherished place-by-a-window—was that their scramble allowed her to snap one or two peopleless pictures of the landscape.
In addition to hogging window seats, the Heritage Tour clients also seemed to have a penchant for barging in front of a camera lens.
“You’ve hardly bought any souvenirs, dear.” The woman sitting next to Margo peered at Margo’s carryall. Wedged beneath the seat in front of Margo, the satchel barely had breathing space amid her seat partner’s ever-growing mound of shopping bags, cardboard boxes, and super-duper expandable cabin baggage.
The woman, heavyset and of indeterminable age—Margo believed her name was Pearl Wallace—leaned close, fingering a heather-gems pendant she’d bought at Spean Bridge Mill.
Margo had enjoyed their stop at the surprisingly cozy tourist mecca on the A-82, Scotland’s best-loved scenic route through the heart of the Highlands. But she’d spent the time walking about absorbing atmosphere. She’d followed a path along the edge of a wood and then she’d stood on the little bridge, enjoying the cold air and watching mist hang over the river.
She hadn’t bought anything.
Pearl eyed her critically. “Such a heather pendant would look good on you. Or”—she angled her head—“one of those lovely purple sweatshirts with the sequined thistles. They were even on sale.
“Tanya Long”—she glanced at the younger woman—“bought two of them.”
Tanya was wearing hers now.
Looking proud, she smoothed a hand over her curly, honey brown hair. “I don’t think you’ll see a top like this again.” She sat up straighter, displaying the sweatshirt. “You should’ve grabbed one when you had the chance.”
“I rarely buy souvenirs.” Margo took a sip of the bottled water she had picked up at Spean Bridge.
Called Highland Spring and graced with a really pretty label, the bottle would make a nice planter for a tiny bit of ivy once she returned to the Fieldstone House.
And each time she’d see the bottle, she’d be transported back to Spean Bridge. Once again, she’d hear the rush of the river and feel the chill Highland mist damping her face, delighting her.
Such memories were her souvenirs.
But she doubted many people would understand.
Margo rested her foot against her carryall before a dark mood could descend upon her. She nudged the satchel with her toe, pleased when her best efforts wouldn’t budge the bag. Heavy, iron-hard resistance met each push as her greatest treasures—rocks she’d picked up along the tour—proved their substance.
She didn’t need factory-made heather jewelry or purple-glitter thistle sweatshirts.
And her stones hadn’t cost her a dime.
Yet they were worth more to her than all the gold in the world. And they’d comfort her when she ached for the Highlands after the trip.
She’d always heard that the worst thing about visiting Scotland was the pain of having to leave.
Now she was dreading that moment.
But if she could get her Scottish rocks back home without giving some poor airline employee a hernia, she’d have a tiny bit of the Highlands with her always.
Constance Bean, a seventyish woman sitting across the aisle, lowered her glasses and gave Margo a look as if she’d read her thoughts.
“Can you believe we only have a few more days?” She shook her head wistfully. “But isn’t it exciting that Wee Hughie arranged a Highland Night for us at the hotel in Gairloch this evening?”
She reached over to grip Margo’s arm. “I’ve been waiting all my life to attend a genuine ceilidh.” Her eyes shone with telltale brightness. “I’ve even practiced how to say it right: KAY-lee.” Sitting back, she dabbed at her cheek with a lavender hankie. “Who would’ve thought I’d actually get to experience one?”
Margo forced a smile. “It’ll be grand.” She was lying out her ears.
And Constance’s innocent enthusiasm only supported her sentiments about the cosmos. She also burned to prick MacSporran with a pin.
She wouldn’t mind releasing some of his hot air.
His version of a ceilidh wouldn’t be anything like a real one.
It should be a gathering of Highland friends and neighbors on a long and dark winter night to enjoy the warmth of a peat fire and entertain one another with stories, jokes, and song. An evening spent eating home-baked cakes, scones, and oatcakes. Drinking rivers of tea or ale, and then dancing to lively fiddle tunes until the small hours.
Such get-togethers used to take place in cozy croft-house kitchens.
Nowadays—Margo knew—some good ceilidhs were still held in the community centers of small Highland towns or in the pubs of outlying villages.
The Highland Nights sponsored by coach tourist-package hotels couldn’t even be called a distant cousin of a real ceilidh.
And as soon as they reached Gairloch and had checked into the Old Harbour Inn, a rustic-looking, comfortable-sounding inn, Margo intended to pull a disappearing act. Any other time, she would’ve loved to spend an evening in the hotel’s supposedly fabulous pub. It was said to be cozy, dark, and atmospheric. She’d even heard rumors of ghosts.
But the Old Harbour Inn was also just across the road from Gairloch’s picturesque harbor.
Exploring the little seaside town on her own, and at dusk, seemed so much more appealing than enduring Wee Hughie’s artificial version of a Highland Night.
Especially as she knew he planned to do a few readings from his books.
It was Gairloch and its harbor for her.
There was also—her heart thumped—a renowned crofting and fishing museum in the town. According to the map, she could walk there from the inn. She might not get inside the museum—it would surely be after closing hours before she arrived there—but something told her she needed to walk around the museum grounds.
It was a feeling strong enough to prod her to extreme measures.
“Excuse me.” She lifted a hand to draw Wee Hughie’s attention. “I have a question.” The Highland Storyweaver stopped in the middle of his spiel about the beautiful wooded loch they were just passing. He looked at Margo, lifting a brow inquiringly. “About Loch Maree?” He gestured at the sparkling blue water. “I was about to share some of the more romantic legends about the loch. The tales are many. Even Queen Victoria was impressed by the loch’s splendor. She’s known to have called it ‘grand, wild, savage, but most beautiful.’ So”—he nodded as if to silence her—“if you’ll be patient—”
“I wasn’t going to ask about the loch.” Margo lifted her chin, not backing down.
“Then Slioch?” Wee Hughie gestured grandly at the huge sandstone mountain on the far side of the loch.
“It’s quite a bastion and has many good yarns of its own. I know them all and will gladly—”
“I have a question about a Highland hero.” Margo rushed the words, feeling her face redden.
Wee Hughie beamed.
“Ahhh ...” He hooked his thumbs in his kilt belt, swelling his chest. “Which one of my ancestors are you curious about? Robert Bruce, Alexander Stewart, the infamous Wolf of Badenoch, scorned for burning Elgin Cathedral? Or maybe Somerled or Angus Og? The last two heroes”—he spoke indulgently, as if she’d never heard of the great MacDonald Lords of the Isles—“might not be as commonly known in America, but I can—”
“I know who they were.” Margo felt heat spreading in her chest.
Wee Hughie looked bemused. “The wicked earls of Orkney?”
“I’d like to know about the Viking Slayer.” Margo held his gaze. “Magnus MacBride.”
“He’s not one of my ancestors.”
“But you’ve heard of him.”
“Everyone has.” Wee Hughie lifted a bottle of Highland Spring water from its holder by his seat and took a long sip. “Magnus MacBride is a legend. The man was a myth, fictionalized hundreds of years ago by Highland bards who were no doubt paid good silver to make their masters sound as if they were the notorious Viking Slayer.
“In truth”—he set down the water bottle—“Magnus MacBride never existed.”
“There are many who say there’s a kernel of fact in every tale.” Margo was stubborn.
“No’ in the stories about the Viking Slayer.” Wee Hughie narrowed his eyes. “I’m surprised you’ve heard of him. Most people outside the Highlands never have. He’s pretty obscure.”
“I saw a drawing of him in a book. The background”—Margo hesitated, summoning courage—“looked like some of the places we’ve passed today. I saw similarities when we drove along Loch Torridon.
“That’s what I wanted to know.” Margo spoke quickly. “If this area belonged to the territory he protected with his sword?”
Wee Hughie just looked at her.
“I have a feeling”—Margo didn’t care if he guessed it was a paranormal, woo-woo kind of sensation—“that he held influence in these parts.”
“Held sway, you mean?” Wee Hughie frowned. “It’s said he chased the Norsemen from this entire coast, aye.” He made the words sound sour, as if he didn’t like being forced to speak of any heroes except his own noble forebears. “Legend has him having rampaged against Vikings from Cape Wrath at mainland Scotland’s north-western tip clear down to Applecross, which lies south of Loch Torridon.”
