“Are ye weel recovered frae yesterday’s mishap?” said Ginny, smiling as he entered.
“I think so,” sighed Andrew sheepishly. “At least my appetite’s back.”
“I’m aye glad t’ hear it. I wouldna want t’ be responsible fer makin’ an Englishman think ill o’ Scotland.”
“Little chance of that,” replied Andrew. “Let’s just say that I am enjoying more experiences here than I anticipated when I came!”
“We were jist wonderin’ amongst oorselves, Mr. Trent,” said Ginny’s father, motioning for him to join them, “what an Englishman sich as yersel’ thinks aboot the notion o’ Scottish home rule. ’Tis all folks here hae been talkin’ aboot since we got oor own Parliament.”
Andrew smiled and gave a shrug.
“Ye been speirin’ a heap o’ questions,” said Mrs. Gordon, pouring him a cup of tea, “but I canna say as I recollect hearin’ what ye think o’ the maitter yersel.’” She turned to the stove to begin poaching five eggs to accompany the finnan haddies already frying.
“Ye see, Andy,” put in Ginny, “we’re interested in hoo an Englishman might see the thing, as ye seem t’ be jist as interested aboot what we’re thinkin.’”
“I don’t know that I’d be your typical Englishman,” laughed Andrew.
“Weel, ye’ll jist have t’ leave that t’ us t’ figure oot. Ye’ve com t’ be oor frien,’ an’ we’d like t’ ken yer mind on the maitter regairdless,” said her father.
“Do you think the English are against Scottish home rule for the most part, laird?” asked Andrew.
“That I dinna ken,” Gordon replied. “All I ken’s what I read in the papers, whaur it seems naebody south o’ the Tweed cares what we Scots think one way or the ither.”
“I don’t think that is true, laird,” said Andrew. “Generally speaking, I imagine you’ll find the English very fond of the Scots.”
“Tak that Trentham fellow, then,” the laird went on, “him that’s in the papers—”
Andrew had just raised his cup to his lips and now choked momentarily.
“Is the tea too strong fer ye, Mr. Trent?” asked Ginny’s mother.
“No, no,” replied Andrew, coughing again and struggling to take a breath. “A swallow went down the wrong way, that’s all.”
He continued to take a few more sips from the edge of his cup while attempting to steady himself, thankful to have something to hold in front of a face that had suddenly grown very red and very hot.
“—as I was saying,” the laird continued, “the fellows in Parliament, first Hamilton—and I wish the man nae harm now he’s dead, but there’s no denyin’ he was no frien’ o’ the Scots—an’ now this new upstart Trentham—they’ve been doin’ all they can t’ keep us frae havin’ oor ain say in the maitter.”
“How do you know that?” pressed Andrew.
“MacKinnon says so,” now put in the laird’s younger son.
“Who’s MacKinnon?” Andrew, wincing inwardly as he pretended ignorance.
“Why, he’s the leader o’ the Scottish Nationalists, laddie,” exclaimed Gordon. “He’s jist aboot the maist important voice Scotland’s had in Lonnon fer generations.”
“Dinna ye follow politics nane at all, Mr. Trent?” asked Shorty. “Ye speired so many questions when we were hunting, I figured ye kenned all aboot it.”
A slight cough of discomfort followed.
“Uh . . . not really—uh . . . not too much,” lied Andrew. How was he going to get out of this conversation and keep his skin?
“If we Scots arena entitled t’ make up oor ain minds in the maitter o’ whether we want t’ be free or no, that’s hardly a democracy t’ my way o’ thinkin’—what say ye t’ that, Mr. Trent?”
“I don’t know, laird,” replied Andrew, still hedging.
“Whaur’s the differ’ atween that an’ what they did t’ the American colonies? Whaur’s the differ’ atween that an’ what they did t’ India . . . or the African colonies or all the rest? England’s had a way o’ takin’ over ither coontries, and it’s had a heap o’ ’em through the years. But now America’s free, an’ so is Canada an’ New Zealand an’ even South Africa an’ Zimbabwe an’ the rest. All we’re sayin’ is, What aboot Scotland?—why dinna we deserve the same consideration oorsel’s? When’s oor turn fer the same kin’ o’ treatment?”
“You make a persuasive argument, laird,” said Andrew thoughtfully.
The tone of his voice did not convey how strongly he meant the words. He had never thought of the issue in such a light before, but always as if England held a proprietary right to sovereignty over Scotland. But if, from the Scots point of view, Scotland was another country altogether, with a different heritage, its own history and culture, even an essentially distinct bloodline and language—then what was to distinguish Scotland from, say, India, in its right to self-governance?
It was an astonishingly simple, yet profoundly new perspective to bring to the matter of home rule.
“Would ye care for a fresh haddock, Mr. Trent?”
“Oh . . . uh—oh, yes . . . thank you,” replied Andrew, suddenly realizing Mrs. Gordon had been standing at his side holding the plate of fish for several seconds. “I’m sorry—I was thinking about your husband’s words.”
“What I want to ask,” said Andrew after she had laid the fish on his plate, “is why do Scots feel so strongly about independence after all these years united with England?”
As if the question itself bordered on being an affront, Ginny’s father nearly rose out of his chair.
“Because Scotland’s its ain coontry—‘tis as simple as that,” he replied. “Scotland’s not England. Scotland’s Scotland. Nae mair, nae less. Scotland’s no just a state, like New York or California over in America. Scotland’s a nation o’ its own. Ye want t’ know aboot independence, laddie, I’ll tell ye—it’s aboot when they made a single nation oot o’ this land we ca’ Scotland. Ye ever hear o’ Kenneth MacAlpin?”
Andrew nodded his head. “Sounds familiar . . .”
“He it was that united Caledonia. MacAlpin’s the name—he made ane independent kingdom here afore they did in half the coontries o’ Europe. We were a nation o’ oor ain back then . . . so I figure we’ve as much right as ony coontry t’ be independent noo, since we was one o’ the first t’ become a nation at all.”
“’Tis true, what Papa says,” added Ginny now with the emphasis not merely of a proud daughter, but of a staunch advocate in her own right. “We’ve the right t’ have oor ain say aboot it, same as all the ither coontries.”
“Yes . . . yes, it is an argument I must confess I hadn’t heard before. We ought to make you a national spokesman, Mr. Gordon,” Andrew added.
“We—who do ye mean, laddie?”
“Oh . . . nobody . . . I mean . . . they—they ought to make you their spokesman. The Scottish Nationalists,” replied the flustered MP.
Ginny’s father broke into a roar of laughter.
“Naebody in England wad listen t’ an auld Highlander like me,” he said. “No maitter hoo much sense I might bring t’ the discussion.”
“I don’t know, laird,” rejoined Andrew. “You might be surprised.”
“Weel, as I was sayin,’ auld King MacAlpin’s the one wha did it.”
“I would enjoy hearing about him.”
“Weel then, laddie—I’ll tell ye. It was back in the 800s, jist aboot the same time as the Vikings cam oot o’ the north wi’ their ransackin’ an’ pillagin’ an’ the like. Ye see, laddie—”
“Oh, Papa,” Ginny broke in impatiently. “Dinna ye start tellin’ Andy one o’ yer lang stories noo. We’re gaein’ fer a ride.”
“He said he wanted t’ hear’t, lass—didna ye hear him wi’ yer ain twa ears?”
“Ay, Papa, but—”
“You shall tell me everything this evening,” said Andrew, stepping in as the diplomat before the argument could escalate further.
The laird nodded, satisfied.
“Nay, Papa,” smiled Ginny.
Fourteen
After breakfast and what turned into a fascinating hour of listening to Finlaggan Gordon, Andrew and Ginny saddled two horses and set out across the countryside.
A brief rain had fallen during the night, the only remaining evidence of which now lay underfoot rather than overhead. As they rode away eastward from the castle, the brilliant day reminded Andrew of the morning back at Derwenthwaite not so long past—yet in another way for the searching parliamentarian, a lifetime ago—during those weeks when he had first begun thinking more personally about Scotland. His overnight visit with Duncan MacRanald had followed, and his reading of the legend of the brothers Cruithne and Fidach. And now, such a short time since, so much had changed.
They had packed a lunch, for Ginny said they would be gone most of the afternoon. It was warmer today. Both horses and riders were perspiring freely before they were an hour toward their goal.
“Where are we going?” asked Andrew soon after they had set out.
“I want t’ show ye what oor clan is named fer!”
“Oh yes! What is it—Lake something or other?”
Ginny laughed.
“Lochnagar,” she said. “But ’tis a mountain, not a lake.”
“I thought a loch was a lake.”
“It is. I dinna ken why it’s called that—but that’s its name . . . Lochnagar.”
They rode on and reached Loch Callater, a proper lake, in about an hour and a half. There they stopped for ten minutes to water the horses, then continued gradually up and onto the slopes of the great mountain itself. They passed a number of smaller lakes as they made their way through valleys and across wide bare expanses of heath, bearing northeast and constantly upward. They splashed through dozens of brown, foaming streams tumbling down their rocky courses and passed through three or four dense pinewoods, from which their way opened onto meadowlike moors with still pools scattered throughout. Eventually they began ascending steeply again, now around giant boulders and up rocky inclines, leveling out finally to a long steady slope of treeless heath. This side of the mountain would lead to the summit.
It was just before one in the afternoon when they at last drew in sight of the crest. Ginny reined in her mare and stopped. Andrew drew alongside.
“Why are we stopping?” he asked. “It looks as if we’re nearly done.”
“Ay, we are—I thought maybe ye’d like t’ race t’ the top, there yonder.”
“Race!” laughed Andrew. “I’m no jockey on the back of a horse. And this hardly looks like safe terrain for a gallop.”
“Ay, but these twa horses know every inch o’ the way. There’s no worry o’ them stumblin.’ Ye can tak yer pick o’ the two, whiche’er one ye think the faster.”
“I suppose I’ll stay where I am.”
“A canny choice. Are ye ready, then? I’ll gie ye a head start—hang on!”
As she said the words, Ginny lashed the rump of Andrew’s mount with the small leather whip in her hand and gave a bloodcurdling shout to go along with it.
The beast leapt forward and lurched into a gallop, nearly throwing Andrew from the saddle. He recovered himself, then hunched forward and did exactly as Ginny had told him—hang on!
Regaining his balance, he glanced back. Ginny still sat where she was, laughing with glee. The spirit of the race now possessed him. Looking now the part of a wild man in the saddle, Andrew kicked at the sides of his steed, shouting exhortations to greater speed.
When he had measured about a third of the distance, Ginny suddenly exploded after him.
Andrew had not seen his companion in full gallop all morning, nor did he see her now. Had he glanced back, however, he would have observed her mare gliding over the uneven heath as if it were the trimmed and mown grass of Kensington Gardens. The perfect motion could be gauged by the steady position of the great head, whose flared nostrils worked in rhythm with the blurred invisibility of the hooves, sucking in huge drafts of oxygen to power the mighty equine lungs.
Leaning forward, her own back parallel to the ground, the beast’s mistress required no whip now, nor shouts, to urge her steed on. Fingers and heels and whispers were sufficient, for the creature was well acquainted with her voice and her touch. The two moved across the earth as one, with a speed marvelous to behold. Ginny’s eyes glowed with the fire of her race, red hair flying windily about as an extension of the mare’s auburn mane, wide exhilaration spread across her face.
Had he seen it, Andrew would have witnessed an expression he would never have forgotten the rest of his days. As it was, he would have to make acquaintance with the Celtic fire of those eyes in other ways. The only indication of the great velocity of the pair was given by the occasional clumps of sod that shot up from behind the powerful hooves as they flew across the ground.
Steadily Ginny gained upon the horse and rider ahead of her as if Andrew were out for a mere leisurely canter.
When she galloped by, hair streaming behind, and without so much as a glance to the side, Andrew was astonished at how swiftly she passed. How could she have suddenly found such speed in her horse’s legs? Unless his was an old nag, and she had been setting him up for this moment. . . . No, that could not be, since she had given him his choice of mounts.
Before he had even completed his thoughts, she was past him and pulling away. She glanced back briefly, and the wild exuberance on her face revealed itself. Andrew beheld it only for an instant. The next, she had turned forward again and was increasing her lead up the slope.
By the time Andrew reined in at the summit, Ginny sat easily atop her heavily breathing mare, watching his arrival with the joy of fun across her face.
“Were you trying to make me look bad!” shouted Andrew as he rode up.
Ginny threw her head back and broke into laughter of pure delight.
Andrew could not help joining her.
“Alastair canna keep wi’ me either,” she laughed.
“Can anyone?”
“Not yet.”
“I thought as much!”
Again Ginny laughed, then dismounted her mare. Andrew followed. For several moments, the only sounds to be heard were the great expansions of two huge rib cages, accompanied by the alternate puffs and inhalations from the distended dragonlike nostrils of the two beasts.
Andrew and Ginny caught their breath more easily as they gazed slowly about them, where all directions sloped downward.
Still without speaking, Ginny unfastened the bags from the two horses and began unpacking their lunch. The horses had recently watered in a stream they had passed, and a bagful of oats would soon occupy them as well.
Fifteen minutes later, Andrew and Ginny sat and nibbled contentedly on oatcakes and cold kippers while some distance away the two mares grazed about for what grass they might find.
“It’s so beautiful here,” sighed Andrew, who had still not stopped his wide-eyed exploration of the distant horizons.
“It has always been one o’ my favorite places,” said Ginny.
“But . . . but what is it,” Andrew went on, as if carrying on a dialogue with himself that had been in progress for some time, “—what is it that makes it so alluring?”
“What du ye mean?” asked Ginny.
Andrew smiled. “I suppose for someone like you, who’s grown up in the Highlands, perhaps it’s not so unusual,” he said. “You’re used to it.”
“Used t’ what?”
“All this!” replied Andrew, rising to his feet and swinging his hand in the full gesture of a circular arc, as if no more than the gesture were required to illuminate his meaning completely. “Don’t you see? It’s so different than anywhere else! So desolate, so wild, so open, so huge! I don’t know how to explain it! It’s more splen
did than the tidy gardens and lawns and flower boxes in England. Even though my own home isn’t really like that, either, out here you feel you’re touching something ancient, something . . . almost—I don’t know—something holy, as if this must have been how it looked when God was halfway through His creation and hadn’t yet gotten everything neat and orderly for human beings to live in.”
Ginny laughed.
“Now that’s a way o’ describin’ it I’ve ne’er heard afore! Are ye sayin’ the Creator didna git altogither finished wi’ Scotland?”
“That’s not it,” laughed Andrew, kneeling back down to the ground. “It’s not incomplete—it’s even better! Because it’s older, maybe nearer to what God might have intended. Not that this is how it looked when He was halfway through, but how it looked before humans came along and tamed everything.”
Ginny laughed again. “Maybe it’s ’cause I’ve always lived here, but it doesna seem sae unusual t’ me.”
“It is unusual—believe me,” rejoined Andrew. “There are not many places on the earth that can compare with the majesty of where we are sitting right now. Just listen.”
He stopped. Both were silent a long while.
“I dinna hear a thing,” said Ginny at length.
“Exactly! It’s the peaceful silence as well as the wild aspect of the terrain and scenery. We’re miles from any other human being. No airplanes, no cars or trucks or busses, no city, no voices. Find a place in England where you can say such a thing.”
“It isna always sae quiet an’ still—ye ought t’ see Lochnagar when all this is covered with thunderclouds, an’ when the storms are flyin’ an’ the snow’s pilin’ high an’ the wind is blawin’!”
Andrew nodded. “I would like to see it then!”
“’Tis too wild for man when it’s like that,” said Ginny. “When the snow’s flyin’ aboot Lochnagar, that’s when I bide in the castle!”
Again Andrew rose and began walking softly about, breathing in deeply, as if the air itself were imbued with the quality of reverence he had spoken of.
He walked about alone for some time, feeling a gathering of the same mystique he had felt so many times in his northern journey.
An Ancient Strife Page 23
