Finding Fraser

by kc dyer

  Firth of Forth…

  4:15 pm, February 26

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Twelve hours, ten flights of stone steps, eight misheard conversations, six cups of coffee, four shortbread biscuits and two sore feet later, my first full day on the shores of the Firth of Forth is winding to a close. I mean, it is only just after five in the afternoon, but I am seriously toasted. Not sleeping on the plane didn’t help. But know what?

  I actually have a plan. A sleep-deprived, caffeine-overloaded, adrenaline-fueled sort of plan, but a plan, nonetheless.

  Remember the map on the inside of my copy of OUTLANDER? Well, that day——the day of an event I try very hard not to recall——in Philadelphia, while the lineup to have our books signed snaked back and forth for more than three hours, I tried to trace out Claire’s route, with a purple Sharpie I borrowed from the lady behind me in line.

  Apparently she used it to write poetry.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have chosen an implement that would bleed through to the dedication page. But no matter. Because the map is now indelibly written on my soul. Or, at least the soles of my shoes, since I think I’ll be walking a whole lot more than Claire ever did. In the end, the map-making proved a little difficult, as I had trouble locating many of the places Claire visited, but I did my best.

  So, though I do not have a stalwart horse, complete with kilted horseman to hand, nor even the modern equivalent of car and driver, and though the ground is covered in ice and not likely to offer the joy of a summertime stroll through balmy air, and even though Claire’s route as mapped from the story is strangely convoluted and several of the locations are entirely fictional, none of these things will stay me from the swift completion of my appointed rounds.

  Or round, technically.

  Because that’s what the plan is. A circumlocution of this lovely country in which I find myself, with significant stopping points as visited by one Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall Fraser a mere 250 fictional years ago. At each of these stops, I shall leave no stone unturned in my search for a Jamie-like man of my dreams.

  I have splurged on one more night at this whimsical Edinburgh B&B. I plan to eat all the biscuits, in spite of the fact that it will bring my total to six for the day, thereby ruining the mathematical rhythm of the opening sentence of this post. And tomorrow? First stop: Inverness. (Actually, my first stop will be the Edinburgh bus station.) Shortly thereafter followed by a visit to the city where Frank and Claire second-honeymooned before she made her life-changing journey. I’ve found a hostel near the center of town that boasts hot running showers.

  What more can I ask?

  - ES

  Comments: 37

  HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:

  Book club members SO excited you are in the land of Jamie and Claire, Miss Emma. We re-read OUTLANDER in your honor.

  ParisiansLovePipers, Paris, France:

  Nous retenons notre souffle…We hold our breath that you might travel safe. Drone on, Emma!

  (Read 35 more comments here…)

  I closed the lid of my computer feeling completely gobsmacked (a word I picked up at the train station here and plan to work into conversation as much as possible). It had taken me a full twenty minutes to read the comment section of my blog.

  Twenty minutes, because, gosh, it appeared that HiHoKitty had a whole host of friends who were ardent fans of Jamie-san. The idea that thirty-six Japanese readers cared enough to comment left me feeling delighted and heartened. I’d even picked up what appeared to be a member of a marching pipe and drum band from France. Take that Sophia and Paul, you naysayers!

  But hot on the heels of the flush of success came an unexpected feeling of responsibility.

  When I’d begun the blog, it was more or less a means to keep me focused on the idea of finding my particular version of Jamie. Clearly, I hadn’t really thought things through, as evidenced by my sister’s disdain. But less than three weeks after starting the thing, it had become a kind of … addiction.

  Finding Fraser was supposed to be a personal diary to my inner self. But in a way, it had also become my sort of version of a Canterbury Tale, situated slightly further north and some six hundred years into the future. The only difference being the object of the pilgrimage; not so much the shrine of a saint outside a big church as a contemporary Scotsman ready to pledge his heart to an errant American girl.

  Practically the same, really, wouldn’t you say?

  Fortunate Foreigner…

  6:30 pm, February 26

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  I’ve recovered a bit after the long day, and decided in honor of my collection of blog friends, to summarize my trip to Edinburgh Castle.

  The trip started poorly, mostly because the place was so freaking expensive. But when I dug out my old student card from the University of Chicago, the girl behind the glass took pity on me.

  “Ach,” she said. “This is three years expired, Miss.” She looked around in both directions and leaned in on the crackly mic. “But seein’ as it’s the low season and all, and as there are no stewards on at the moment to tour you aboot, we’ll go with the student rate, shall we?”

  I beamed at her.

  “Jes’ spend the extra in the gift shop, love,” she said, and slid the ticket through the slot in the window.

  As I stepped away, I saw she’d slipped in a bonus voucher for a self-guiding audio tour.

  Moments later, I clutched the audio guide to my bosom and scurried off before she could change her mind.

  And the castle?

  Blew my mind.

  I stood inside the blue sentry box at the front gate, and looked down the road they call the Royal Mile. The air was crisp and wintery, but most of the snow was gone for the moment. The bits that remained were crushed into slush between the cobbles on the street. It stretched all the way down to the Scottish Parliament buildings, just about exactly a mile below, though I couldn’t see them, because the road leading away from the castle was not exactly straight. I did get a glimpse of the roof of a church I had passed on the climb up, its spire now below me; black against the gray sky. I caught my breath from the hike up and thought about the more than two thousand years of history that lay under my feet.

  Two thousand years. I had no idea. But according to my audio guide——and I held that audio guide in the greatest authority——there had been settlement on this rock since at least nine hundred years before anyone thought of following a star to see a baby in Bethlehem. The first fortress had been built on the rock sometime around 600 AD and its walls were mortared in time and blood.

  It was breathtaking.

  Determined not to let the girl at the entry booth down, I listened to every option on the headset. I walked through every storied room, stared at every tapestry, admired every sharpened death implement. In spite of no sleep on the plane and severe jet lag, I spent the entire day prowling the grounds. I stood under the razor-sharp points of the portcullis gate, grateful that the thing appeared to be stuck open. I leaned against the studded iron door. I caressed the cannons, and even wept a little over the graves of the garrison dogs, buried in a tiny section of garden.

  I don’t know what I expected, but those gray castle walls won my heart completely. I wandered every inch of the place.

  If Jamie (or his doppelgänger) was anywhere to be found inside that monumental building, I would have found him.

  He was not.

  I did spend a lot of time smiling at Scottish men, but most of them just averted their eyes and scurried off. My flirting technique clearly needs work.

  But tomorrow is another day, and for now I plan to seek my dinner somewhere near the Royal Mile. Goodnight all my wonderful new blog friends, and (since I am feeling generous) goodnight to you, too, Sophia. Next time we chat, I will be in Inverness, the Highland location of Frank and Claire’s second honeymoon.

  - ES

  Comments: 67

  OzziGrrrl, Brisbane, Australia:

  Chee
rin’ you on Emma——root them plaid laddies!

  HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:

  All Scottish men wear kilts, yes? Or not in daytime?

  SophiaSheridan, Chicago, USA:

  Are you inventing these so-called followers, Emma? I wouldn’t put it past you. Anything to prove a point. But fake followers are not going to help you find a job. Come home. And listen——there’s this cute guy working IT in Paul’s office. He’s an actual human being, Emma. Better than some Scottish figment of your imagination, right? Come home.

  (Read 64 more comments here…)

  I thought long and hard about heading out for food after writing the last post. The lack of sleep and the over-abundance of exercise had combined to make me feel like a zombie. But in the end, the idea of eating yet another packet of shortbread cookies drove me out the door. The little bed and breakfast I was staying in was located in what the Edinburghers called the Old Town, just up the hill from the train station on Princes Street.

  That was, apparently, to distinguish it from the New Town, which was the part of the city below the castle. The New Town was first built before America was a country, and once I knew that, it pretty much gave me a sense of the way Scots view the passage of time.

  From the guide on my bedside table, it looked like all the cheapest places to eat were to be found in the New Town, just down the hill. It was a decent walk from my place, and after six hours of climbing stone steps and slithering along icy cobblestones, my legs and feet were just about done in. I had no idea if a bus could even take me in the right direction, and cab fare would have been five pounds at least.

  I learned this because I asked the lady who took my audio guide back at the castle gate.

  So, as I slid out of my little bed and breakfast place onto the Royal Mile, I steeled myself to pay the cab fare. But it was nearly seven-thirty, and night comes early to the gray Scottish lowlands. There was not a taxi to be seen in the dark. A block or two down, the road intersected with another that appeared to wind down toward Princes Street, and I headed that way on my very sore feet.

  On the winding road however, my luck turned and I spotted a small pub, from which emanated the sounds of joy and frivolity. Surely they would have a phone I could call a cab from?

  In I went.

  It turned out the price of a beer was less than half the cost of a taxi ride to the New Town.

  I learned this, because I asked the lady taking beer orders behind the bar.

  As I sank down on what appeared to be the only open seat in the place, my feet screamed in relief. Or they would have, if they’d had little mouths. Which they did not, I’m grateful to say, because how weird would THAT have been?

  The server who had so generously told me the relative price of beer and taxi cabs reappeared seconds later with a golden glass of ambrosia in her hand.

  My table was a tall one and had a dangerous tilt to it, which may have explained why it was unoccupied. I leaned back against a wall in the corner and slipped off one of my boots. By the time I’d taken the first few sips, I’d forgotten that I didn’t generally like beer, and had been transported into the strange euphoria of exhaustion, hunger and the ecstasy that came of being able to rub one’s sore foot in secret under a table in a Scottish pub.

  I decided to sit there for a bit and just soak in the atmosphere, listening to Edinburghers enjoy their end-of-workday cheer; and when my feet had sufficiently recovered, I’d walk down the hill to find someplace to eat.

  The plan was somewhat thwarted, though, when I knocked my entire beer into my lap.

  In truth, it wasn’t totally my fault. I’d been watching the ruddy nape of a neck at the table beside me and idly wondering if Jamie would drink beer in a place like this—if he lived in the present day, of course.

  Whoever the guy with the ruddy neck, was, I could only see the back of his head. It was a nice head. Well-shaped, and covered in a thick thatch of dark blonde hair, lighter at the tips and gelled a bit northward, from the looks of things. His shoulders were square under the cover of a heavy cable-knit sweater, and he was enjoying the company of a sweet young thing, very blonde and blue-eyed. His hand lay proprietorially on her arm as they talked.

  A dark-haired girl beside the blonde who was quite clearly the worse for the wine she’d been drinking suddenly shrieked with laughter. “Ye slay me, Laoghaire,” she cried, practically snorting wine out of her nose. “Ye fookin’ slay me!”

  Okay, okay, so I know she wasn’t really saying “Laoghaire”. Lawrie vs Leery, right? But, still, it’s pretty close.

  Close enough to make a person jump a little, bump the wobbly table and maybe spill their beer into their lap. I managed to grab the glass as it teetered, but not before half the contents washed in a golden wave that shone briefly in the low light of the pub before soaking the entire crotch of my jeans.

  I may have let out a little cry of despair.

  But I have to say, in retrospect, that this wasn’t all bad. Because the young man Not-Really-Laoghaire had been talking to thought it was his fault.

  One minute I was staring in disbelief as my only pair of jeans—with me in them—took on a look usually associated with severe incontinence. And the next, a large young man was swabbing my leg dry.

  Very large.

  With fair hair that might have been reddish before it was highlighted.

  I had barely a moment to think that this was the closest thing I’d had to a sexual experience with a man in more than a year, when he spoke. “Ach, I’m so sorry, Miss. My chair must’ve hit your table …”

  “It’s—it’s okay,” I said, unwilling to cop to the fact I’d spilled my own beer onto my own self. “It’s a wobbly table,” I added, in a tiny concession to honesty.

  He paused at the sound of my voice, handful of soggy napkins in midair. “Ach, worse still—and you a visitor, too.” His forehead crumpled with concern.

  “Really, it’s okay. It woke me up. I’m massively jetlagged, and I need my senses about me to make it back to the place I’m staying.”

  “That may be true,” he said, his big brown eyes boring into mine. “But let me at least buy you another beer.”

  I shook my head, but he was already waving at the server. She waved back and he placed his large hands on the table and shook it critically.

  “Righ’,” he said. “I’ll just have a look …” and vanished beneath the table.

  In a second he bobbed up again. “That’s seen it,” he said. “The ol’ beer mat solution.”

  I peered into the gloom under the table, and sure enough, he’d folded a couple of cardboard coasters and jammed them under one of the table legs. I gave the table a shake. “I think you’ve got it.”

  He smiled and blinked both his eyes at me. “Trust me, Miss,” he said. “Ah’m a mechanic.”

  I laughed. “Really?”

  “That I am. And you—are an American. Are ye a student?”

  I nodded, and glanced over his shoulder. The two girls he was with seemed oblivious to the fact he’d moved over to sit beside me. They were deep in conversation; the dark-haired girl who had, just seconds before, been shrieking with laughter was now openly weeping, eyeliner streaking down her face.

  “Yes, American, but not a student. Just here visiting for a while. Is—is your friend okay?”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Ach, she’s no’ really my friend. Friend of a friend, yeh ken? And a wee bit pickled for my tastes, for all that. But tell us about yerself—whereabouts in America are ye from? New York City?”

  “Chicago, actually. It’s further …”

  “West. Yeah, I know it. Jazz and blues, Charlie Parker and the Bulls.”

  I ogled him. “You follow basketball? I thought it was only soccer over here—and cricket.”

  He looked pained, and slapped a hand to his heart. “Ach, don’t paint us with that brush. Pansy Englishmen’s game, that one. Now, rugby—there’s a game a man can sink his teeth into. But yeah, next to rugby, it’s the NBA a
ll the way for me.”

  He leaned back on his stool and looked at me appraisingly. If I hadn’t been sleep-deprived and stinking of beer I probably would have fainted on the spot, but even as it was, I had to fight the urge to lick him. Tall, fair hair in an over-grown crew cut, warm brown eyes. The sleeves of his sweater were rolled back over well-muscled forearms. The server returned and dropped two fresh beer mats on the table, followed by a replacement of my half pint and a pint of Guinness for him. He held up the beer to me.

  “To Michael Jordan and charming American visitors,” he said.

  I tried to look away from his forearms and clinked his glass with my own.

  “So, what is it ye do in Chicago, Miss Yankee?”

  “I—uh …” I began, stalling a little, when suddenly the dark-haired girl’s streaked face appeared over the shoulder of my new tablemate.

  “Hhayymissshhhhh,” she said, draping herself across his back and wrapping her arms around his neck. “We’re lonely, man. Who’s your new friend?”

  He shot an irritated look at her and pushed her arms off his shoulders. “Eilidh, behave yerself. We’ve an American guest here—first day, aye?”

  I nodded. Eilidh looked unhappy at being pushed aside. “Ach, another tourist, no doubt.”

  She leaned on the table and waved a finger in the direction of my face. “I deal with the likes of you all shummer,” she said, a trifle blearily. “I do the ghosht tour out of the Cathedral on the Mile. Twishe a day—three times on Shundays. All day every day, Americans, Japanese and the damned Germans. Always the damned Germans.”

  The very cute Scottish guy scowled at her again, and toyed with one of the beer coasters. He had a working man’s hands, red and rough, but his nails were clean. His finger traced the logo on the coaster.

  “Eilidh …” he repeated, warningly, but she ignored him, shaking her head sorrowfully.

  I held my breath to see if she would cry again, but her mood shifted abruptly and she brightened.