Sparks in Scotland

by A. Destiny

  Whoa.

  The area was a large open field with portions bracketed off. A long row of young girls dressed in their finest dancing clothes were currently kicking and swinging their legs. Their arms were thrust in the air as they danced proudly. People in the crowd clapped and cheered, and the bagpipes roared and lilted.

  Our group moved to an area that wasn’t as crowded and observed the dance competition. The girls wore a look of concentration on their faces; their bright-colored kilts bounced with every kick of their legs.

  I took out my camera and grabbed some action shots. With the sun pouring across the field, everything was illuminated perfectly.

  “Your mom and I are going to grab food,” my dad said. ­“Hungry?”

  “I’m still full from breakfast,” I told him, turning my camera on its side to take portrait-framed photos. “I’ll stay right here, okay?” I knew with the crowds this large, my parents would want me to hang out with our group.

  “Okay, we’ll be back soon!” Mom and Dad waved and left toward the food tents.

  I put my camera away and hung close behind Tilda and her folks, who were speaking rapidly and pointing at the dancers. When Tilda saw me, she beamed and moved back to my side.

  “Hello, Ava! This is great, yah?”

  I nodded. “I could never dance like this. I’m not nearly coordinated enough.” At her frown, I rephrased, “I’m very clumsy. I trip a lot.”

  “Oh, I see.” Her eyes twinkled with laughter. “Yah, I love to dance. But . . . I have never danced like that.”

  “What kind of dancing do you do?”

  “I am . . . modern dancer, I think is how you say.”

  I blinked in surprise. “Really? How cool! I took dance lessons when I was a kid, but I was very, very bad. My mom finally stopped making me do it.”

  When I was five, I’d watched some old dance movies and decided I wanted to learn how to do that. Mom signed me up for six months of dance lessons . . . where I found out that (a) I was far too uncoordinated to ever look graceful at dancing, and (b) the practice was really, really boring and repetitive for me. No, dancing wasn’t my thing, but I could appreciate the art and beauty for those who did it well.

  Graham’s laugh hit my ears, and I turned my head automatically toward it. His teeth flashed as he threw his head back and chortled at something his dad said.

  “You . . . like him, right?” Tilda said in a low voice to me.

  My first instinct was to downplay my crush. I gave a casual shrug. “Sure, he’s a really nice guy.”

  Her lips quirked. “Yah, he is. And . . . very handsome too.”

  The music ended, and the crowd broke out in cheers and claps. I joined in, as did Tilda. The winning dancers were announced, and we applauded the girl who won first place, who had tears in her eyes and a broad smile on her sweaty face.

  The dancers left, and I saw a row of guys in shorts and tank tops start stretching. Must be time for track events.

  I kept my face neutral, aimed toward the field, and answered, “Yes, he is very handsome.” Heart thudding, I continued, “I do have a little crush on him. Not that anything is going to happen with it, of course.”

  “Why not?” Tilda sounded genuinely confused.

  I looked at her and saw that confusion in her eyes. “Because he lives here and I live in America.”

  “And you have no phone or computer in America?” There was a teasing lilt in her voice.

  I chuckled. “Yes, I do, but . . .” Anxiety knotted my stomach, and I took a step toward her so I could speak in a lower voice. “I can’t tell how he feels. I think he likes me too, but it might not be as much as I like him. And I don’t want to get hurt again, caring about someone who won’t miss me when I’m not around.”

  Laying it all out there, making myself say the words, was strangely cathartic in and of itself. The tightness in my chest eased up a bit.

  “Oh. Yah, I see.” Her eyes turned sad. “I have had boyfriend where . . .” She stopped to think about her words. “Where I like him more.”

  “Exactly. I had a boyfriend like that, and when we broke up, it was awful, even though I knew he was never going to like me as much as I liked him.” I gave a heavy sigh. “And I’m worried—”

  “This will happen again,” she finished. “That is scary, yah? But . . . I see in his eyes. He watches you when you do not see. Many times, I have seen this.”

  Really?

  My skepticism must have come across in my expression, because she continued, “My boyfriend, he is at home. We did not begin to date for a while. He . . . needed to have time to figure out his feelings.” She laughed. “But me, I was knowing from day one.”

  “So what did you do? How did you two end up together?”

  A loud voice called out that the sprint was starting. We turned toward the track and saw the row of guys lined up. Their faces were stern and focused as they bounced on their heels, then lowered themselves into sprint position.

  The shot fired, and they took off to the yells of the crowd.

  When a tall, thin guy with fiery red hair crossed the finish line, we broke out into whistling applause. His cheeks were stained red, his huge smile practically splitting his face in two.

  The next round of runners began to warm up, and we resumed our conversation.

  “So, I tell him how I feel and I ask him to his face, do you like me? Because I want to be your girlfriend.”

  A laugh of surprise barked out of me. “Seriously, you just asked him?”

  She shrugged, a bashful grin curving her lips. “And why not? If I know I want to be with him, I should tell him, yah? And not keep it the secret.”

  Huh. For some reason, I never thought about just outright telling Graham I liked him and I wanted him to stay in contact with me. But maybe I should. Why not? After all, what did I have to lose by being brave? I was a modern girl, and I didn’t need to wait around for him to tell me he liked me.

  My stomach erupted in a mass of butterflies, and I swallowed. So much easier said than done. Not to mention it was still making myself vulnerable. And if he said no, that he didn’t want to stay in touch . . .

  “I’m afraid of being rejected,” I admitted in a rough whisper.

  “It is so scary,” she said, empathy clear in her tone. “But . . . when I see him, I see his interest in you. I don’t think he will tell you no. I have an older sister. Her name is Sigrid. She is in university in Stockholm, and her boyfriend, he is in university in France. But . . . they have been together for over three years now. If two people want to be together, they will be.”

  My gaze darted toward Graham again, and I caught him looking at me. His cheeks turned pink, and he looked away, which got my heart racing like crazy.

  Maybe Tilda was right. Maybe I’d been missing some big signs just because I was too busy worrying about looking foolish or being rejected. His friend Jamison had told me back in Glasgow that Graham had a crush on me. And we’d done a lot more talking and connecting since then.

  Could I really do this? Push aside my fears and just . . . tell him outright that I wanted to stay in touch? If I got too scared to admit my feelings, I could always frame it in the friendship way. Tell him I wanted to keep up to date on his band or something.

  But at least I’d be showing interest and putting the ball in his court. And other people have made it work out long distance. Besides, I only had two more years of high school left. After that, I could go anywhere, do anything I wanted. Like take vacations to Scotland.

  The thought made me smile.

  “Thanks for talking to me, Tilda,” I said, and impulsively gave her a hug, which she returned with a warm squeeze. “I shouldn’t miss the chance of something good because I’m too afraid to take a risk.”

  “I am glad I am helping.”

  The next hour or so went by fast. Our
group got food, except for my parents, and I tried a bite of haggis for the first time. And it would also be the last time—I couldn’t seem to get past the mental block of what I was eating, so my stomach got a little queasy. ­Graham wouldn’t stop laughing at the faces I made and then finished the haggis for me, giving me the rest of his fish-and-chips.

  I accepted them gratefully, and when Tilda gave me a look that said, See? I rolled my eyes in a good-natured manner at her.

  The next couple of hours were fun and thrilling. Huge, ­muscle-ripped men in kilts began tossing heavy objects—weights, even smoothly buffed tree trunks (which I learned were the infamous cabers). When a contestant got the caber to flip and land on its end, standing straight up, we roared our approval.

  Graham stayed close to my side, and though we didn’t talk much, the air between us was comfortable and easy. The three of us had a great time, and by the time the bagpipes and drums band came on the field to signal the end of the games, I was tired, a little sunburned, but very, very happy.

  The bus ride back to our B and B was hushed. I mulled over Tilda’s words. She was right. If I wanted it, I should just ask for it. Maybe even tomorrow. Determination and courage filled me. I grabbed my earbuds, popped them into my phone, and turned on music to help me unwind.

  ChapterThirteen

  Early the next morning, I wanted to send a message to Corinne, since I hadn’t talked to her in a while. Dad opened his computer and let me access the chat messenger. He left to probably go grab coffee, and I settled in at the tiny wooden desk in our room.

  I didn’t have a separate bedroom this time, but the room was so charming, I didn’t mind. The wallpaper was blue-striped, and our beds were cozy with several blankets layered on. I’d slept hard and woken up refreshed.

  When I got on the messenger, I saw something from Corinne, and my heart thrilled.

  FoxyCori: Hey, you! I know you’re in bed, dreaming about cute Scottish guys. Hope you’re having fun! Miss you like crazy. XO. *So* much to catch up on when you get home.

  I could hardly believe this was my ninth day in Scotland. Just four full days left in our bus tour, then a last day in ­Edinburgh before going home. Time was flying by a little too fast, even though I missed Corinne and couldn’t wait to talk to her. I typed out my reply:

  AvaBee: Scotland is amazing so far. Check out these pics. Yesterday we went to the Inverness Highland Games!

  I uploaded shots of the kilted men throwing cabers, the dancers, the haggis I hadn’t finished. Then I did one of our entire group, which a kind stranger had taken for us with my camera.

  AvaBee: Today we’re going to a battlefield and then touring a glen. This country is so beautiful. I wish my pictures captured it better.

  AvaBee: Okay, signing off. XO can’t wait to catch up with you!

  I logged out, got dressed, and popped down the hall to meet my parents for breakfast. This dining room had one long table—it was a smaller inn than where we’d stayed in Oban, but the owner was a friendly man around my parents’ age who was attentive and ran a tight ship.

  We ate quickly, then made our way to the bus. I noticed the German family was missing the mom and one of the boys.

  “Is everything okay with them?” I asked my mom with a nod in their direction.

  “Steaphan said the other little boy wasn’t feeling well, so his mom is staying here with him for the day.”

  “Oh, that’s a bummer. You’ve been doing okay, right? No more migraines?”

  She beamed at me and stroked my hair. “I’m fine, honey. Sometimes I get those random flare-ups, but I’ve been careful to avoid triggers. Ready to do more exploring today?”

  I nodded, and we got on the bus. Graham was already there, his eyes warm and inviting when they hit mine.

  “Mornin’, Ava,” he said in that husky, familiar way of his.

  My chest tightened, and it took me a moment before I could reply. “Good morning, Graham. I’m looking forward to today’s trip.”

  He nodded. “We’ll be leaving in a few minutes. My da is just making sure Lucas is taken care of before we go. Poor lad.”

  I leaned on the seat opposite his, still standing in the aisle. Everyone else except Steaphan was on the bus, so I wasn’t going to block anyone from entering. “Yeah, I heard he’s not feeling well.”

  “He woke up with a stomachache.”

  I remembered Lucas shoveling in multiple handfuls of candy and sweets yesterday at the Highland Games. Apparently, ­Graham remembered it too, because he chuckled with me.

  “Aye, not so surprised about that, are we?”

  “I can’t blame the kid. When I was that age, getting to eat that much junk food was worth the cost of stomach pains.”

  His dad finally boarded the bus and gave me a wink. “Mornin’, Ava! Okay, group. We’re leaving in just a minute. Find yer seats, please.”

  I waved my fingers at Graham, then at Tilda when I passed her row, and she grinned. Then I got to my seat and tucked into the corner.

  The ride to the battlefield passed in a blur of scenery outside that was over before I realized it. So much green and grass and trees and nature. It made my soul feel at peace. I could easily see why Graham liked doing the tours with his dad. What a great chance to explore your own countryside, and relax, too!

  The bus pulled to a stop, and Steaphan stood and faced us. His face was serious, an unusual look for him, and the general hum of our group went silent.

  “I just wanted to remind ya that this is a war grave. The brutal, bloody Battle of Culloden was fought here, and many brave Scottish warriors fell and were buried in this land while defending our country. They say around twelve hundred people died in just one hour. Please be respectful—no yelling, no running. As we stroll the battlegrounds, look for the stone grave markers that tell which clan members were buried here. We’ll stay here for a bit, then go to one of the loveliest glens you’ll ever see in yer life. After that, free time back in Inverness.”

  We nodded in response and followed him off the bus. The wind had picked up and blew briskly across the massive expanse of field, rippling the tall grasses. Nearby was a modern-looking building with cool arched roofs. Several clusters of people strolled the grounds here and there, and there was a respectful tone of silence throughout.

  “After our tour through the battlefield, there’s the visitor center if anyone would like to check it out,” Steaphan continued when we were gathered in a semicircle around him. “Or you may roam the field at your leisure. Please be back at the bus at eleven. We’ll eat at the glen—trust me, it’s worth the wait.”

  Steaphan waved us on toward the start of our battlefield tour, and our group listened intently as he led us through the high heather and shrub-spotted grounds. He explained the background of the battle and the outcome, how the Scottish and Gaelic culture had been altered through the subsequent suppression of their way of life. Clans were impacted because of having their powers stripped. Even tartan wearing had been banned except for those in the military.

  I could see stone markers poking up along a strip of old road running through the battlefield, etched with the names of fallen clans, and my heart tightened in my chest. What a tragedy. This reminded me of the same haunted feeling I’d had in Gettysburg. The sensation of thousands of battle cries echoing across the fields. The brutal result of that fight and how it changed the landscape of the country for good.

  We came upon a stone circular building about twenty feet high with a memorial marker set in the bottom, honoring those who fought in the battle in 1746. I took a photo of it and noted a small bundle of flowers beside it.

  “This is called a memorial cairn,” Graham explained to us. “It was built in the late 1800s, at the same time those memorial markers along the road were installed.” He then pointed toward a charming thatched-roof farmhouse. “That building dates to the late 1800s and is on the
location where they think a field hospital stood.”

  His eyes locked on mine, and a small shiver ran through me. He was so intense, unlike most of the guys I knew at home. He was proud of his knowledge of history, didn’t try to dumb himself down. That self-confidence drew me like a beacon.

  After a moment of silence, Graham looked away from me, and I swallowed. Crammed my hands in my pockets. Peered around the field to see the tall yellow grasses swaying. The hills rolled gently. Yes, this was a place of sadness and grief, yet like Scotland itself, the land had healed and moved forward. Still proud, still noble, even after defeat.

  Steaphan and Graham finished talking, and Steaphan invited us all to tour around the battlegrounds on our own. Graham took a step toward me, but the German dad flagged him down and began peppering him with questions. He shot an apologetic smile at me, and I waved at him not to worry about it. After all, he was just doing his job.

  So I strolled the grounds with my parents, and we compared the experience to Gettysburg. They felt the same as I did—the heaviness of memory lingering in the air, mingled with the modern determination to keep on keeping on.

  When time was up, we got back to the bus and rode in silence for the most part to our next destination. There were a few whispers here and there, but I think we were all still sobered by the powerful experience of the battlefield.

  It took us a while to get to the glen. But finally the bus stopped, and Graham stood to address us. His eyes almost caressed me for a few seconds, and then he glanced at the rest of the group. “We’re here at Glen Affric. We’ve packed a lunch to eat in the glen, so I hope yer hungry. It seems the weather has held up, so we can have it outside.”

  The German dad whispered to his son Karl, who cried out, “Ja! Ja!” with fierce nods, and we all laughed. Frankly, I was starving too.

  Lunch consisted of sandwiches on thick, crusty bread with an assortment of cheese, crackers, fruit, cookies, and all kinds of drinks. Graham, Tilda, and I carried the food-laden bags up the crest of a hill and found a flat clearing that offered one of the most stunning views I’d ever seen in my life.