by Becky Banks
“Mother, it’s not like I demanded to know if Grandpappy left me anything in his will. I just asked—”
The room suddenly had ears for our conversation.
“What’d you ask?” my father turned from some friends he’d been chatting with.
Hand on her hip, my mother gave me a look. It said, Now you’ve done it.
“I was asking Mother,” I said, giving her an equal look back, “if we had learned anything more about our family lineage.”
My father shrugged. “We’re Bakers.”
“No. The whole Minary thing from Christmas,” I said, exasperated. Was I the only one who still cared?
“Nicole Ransome Baker, that’s enough. I told you, not here,” my mother cut in.
“Why? I don’t see why I can’t ask about our history—my history—now.” I punctuated my point by stabbing my fork into what was left of my pie. “Grandpappy was the one who told us!”
Exhausted by my family, I spent the rest of the evening walking the dusky rows of the orchards, all the while thinking that my flight back to Portland couldn’t come soon enough.
CHAPTER 3
The week after my graduation I made the decision to research my family history in full. When you spend two years researching and studying, the need to do it doesn’t just stop the day you graduate. Plus, the truth was, even through the final revision of my master’s thesis and its defense, I couldn’t stop thinking about Grandpappy’s revelation.
A search on the good ol’ World Wide Web for the Minary name’s home base returned a few possibilities, but the most reliable data seemed to point to a place called Glentree, which was on an island called Skye, off the western coast of Scotland. Convinced there was no better way to do research than in person, I bought a plane ticket to Scotland and made one last try for information from my parents.
My father would no doubt still be in the fields, leaving my mother to answer the phone. My timing was excellent—it was Wednesday, and Wednesday was bridge day. By this hour, my mother, an avid player with the local ladies of society, would be sauced up to her eyeballs.
“Minary. That’s right,” she said after the initial lecture on going alone to a foreign country. “You don’t like being a Baker? You know, Cole, when I married your daddy, I was proud to take his name. We are a respectable family, and if you spent more than a moment thinking about it, you’d see the same. Chasing some foreign name isn’t what I think your grandpappy would want you spending all your time doing, either. You should be proud of your Baker heritage.” She was relaxing into what I had long ago understood as her soapbox performance, one of her heart-to-heart moments wrapped in a guilt trip, the multiple cocktails no doubt helping.
“Mother, I am proud to be a Baker, but it’s not our heritage. Our heritage is this Minary name,” I said and waited. All I heard was paper rustling. “You understand that, right? That by blood I am no longer a Baker but a Minary?”
“You know, Ruby says that I ought to tell you this,” she said, ignoring me. I thought I heard the distinct sounds of ice tinkling against the sides of a crystal tumbler. “Ah yes, Minary. This is a copy of your cousin’s report that he gave to us. I was going to send it to you but just couldn’t do it. You always take things too far. Anyway, Minary is from the British Isles, probably Scottish . . . Your cousin found a name, lessee”—she slurred her attempt at “let’s see”—“his name is—”
“A name!” I shouted in a fit of frustration and excitement. “You have a name?”
“Yes, yes, dear. I’ve had it for months. And don’t get so excited,” she said, taking another swallow of her drink, the tinkle echoing through the phone. “It’s unladylike.”
“Mother,” I said, before she could get any further with her favorite line of reprimand. “The name?”
“Oh yes. It says here that the name your cousin found actually came off of the back of a photograph. Did you know that that was what started this all? He thought he found a picture of his daddy as a boy in a box full of old photos, so he showed Grandpappy. Turns out, that was what he was asking him down there at the end of the table—who this man was, and how they’d gotten the picture to look so old! Well, it turns out that they aren’t teachin’ cursive in schools anymore ’cause his name was right there on the back! Ha! Can you believe it?” Her drink gave strength to her Carolina accent.
I took a deep breath. “That’s nice, Mother. So what was that name on the back of the photograph?”
She took a sip of her drink, smacked her lips, and said, “Iain Eliphlet Minary.”
CHAPTER 4
Scotland is like my university town of Portland—it rains. A lot. And based on the breakfast that sat before me on my first day in the little town of Glentree, Scotland, food and drink were the staples for keeping the dreariness at bay. I stared at the food—a bowl of porridge (offered with or without whisky, but definitely without the e in whisky), eggs, sausage, toast, bacon, grilled tomato, and potatoes—and it stared back at me in challenge.
Carol, my host and owner of the stone, three-story Victorian-era townhome where I was staying, moved about the breakfast room tidying up after the other guests, who had already left. The room was small and quaint, with old wooden tables polished to a shine and vases of flowers filling the space with their own brand of cheery sunshine.
Carol had wild auburn hair and a warm, motherly attitude that I knew could change at a moment’s notice, should something or someone get out of line. She was married to Will, whom I hadn’t met yet because he did the cooking. They had bought the townhome to turn into a bed-and-breakfast as a fun retirement project. I had gotten all that by the time I took my first sip of tea.
“Carol,” I asked as I mopped up the remnants of my egg yolk and sausage with a piece of toast, “is there a historical society in Glentree?”
Carol paused a moment. “Historical society? Like the history of Glentree?”
“Well, not exactly. I’m doing genealogy research.” Thinking about it, I amended, “Yes, I suppose the history of Glentree would be a good place to start.”
“Your family started on Skye? Well isnae that lovely. Let me see. I’m not really sure but ye should probably want tae visit the library first. ’Tis a good place tae do research, aye. Oh! And truly each castle on the island has deep history as well and might be a great source of knowledge.”
“Excellent.” Castles, I thought dreamily, and pictured myself sitting at an ancient desk, thumbing through volumes of antiquated texts, surrounded by the intoxicating musk of old books. “Thank you, Carol. Do you have the names of the castles I shouldn’t miss?”
“Aye, well, I would ask the research librarian at the library, Deloris. The ones I can think of are Castle Laoch, Dunvegan, Eilean Donan, and Clan Donald has Castle Armdale and a very prolific history as well.” Carol tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Come now, what is your ancestor’s name? Maybe with a stroke o’ luck, I’ll have heard o’ him, aye?” she said and winked at me.
I smiled back at her. “That would be some luck. His name is Iain Eliphlet Minary,” I said, careful to roll the r, as they did here.
Carol’s hand dropped. “Who?”
“Oh, uh. Iain Eliphlet Minary,” I said again, wary of her reaction and thinking that I’d just sworn in Gaelic.
She relaxed a little. “Oh, I though ye said Minory, spelt with an o.” She shook her head and gazed out the window, her face taking on an unusual look of profound regret and stern curiosity. “No, I havenae heard o’ them.”
“Oh,” I said. I’d been hoping for something more. Minory was almost identical to Minary and a possible lead in my research.
She smiled down at me, her usual demeanor returned. “Take a look at the library. That and the castles will have historical documents ye can look through. More tea?” she asked.
I nodded. “I’ll do that. Thanks for your help, Carol.” It still felt like there was something she was avoiding, though. “Is everything OK?”
“Oh, ’tis nothing d
ear.” She smiled nervously. “Only, the library is located just outside o’ town on Viewfield Road. I’d hate for ye tae get lost, bein’ that ye are my guest and all.” She stopped, then added hastily, “But if I were ye, I would not say I was daein’ research on Minory to anyone who’s a MacLaoch. And whatever ye do, don’t go to Castle Laoch and mention it either. Castle Laoch is owned by the MacLaochs, ye see?”
Whoa, I thought. “OK, Carol, I won’t, but how will I know if they’re a Mac—”
“Now there’s a good girl!” She interrupted me by giving my hand a pat. “Ye enjoy the rest o’ your breakfast and give me a shout if ye need anything more.” With that, she bustled from the room, leaving me to stare at the empty space where she had been standing.
CHAPTER 5
The brisk walk to the library was just that, brisk. It was a standard Scottish day, according to Carol—overcast with the threat of rain and a high of 12 degrees Celsius (54 degrees Fahrenheit). I felt the two cups of tea I’d had with my breakfast, their caffeine as well as their warmth. My heart seemed to be fluttering in my chest by the time I walked down the stairs to the basement of the library, where the historical document room was located.
A long, oak reception counter stood in front of the rows and rows of files and books that took up the entirety of the library basement. A man was talking to an older woman in a cardigan and glasses behind the counter. I gazed about as I waited my turn. To my right was a study table and beyond that, against the wall, an antiquated computer and microfiche machine. The air was cool and filled with the distinctive smell of old paper I had imagined. I knew that within the shelves behind the woman at the counter there would be something, at least one thing, even a tiny clue, that would tell me about my ancestry. My excitement peaked, making my insides jittery—or was it still just the full effect of Carol’s tea? When I looked back at the counter, it was my turn.
The woman turned out to be the Deloris, and we connected right away. I learned she had been with the library since she was old enough to pick up a book, her mother having been the librarian before. Eventually we came around to the subject of why I was there.
She didn’t even blink an eye. “Ye know, that name sounds just like Minory. Are ye quite certain that it isnae Minory?”
“Not 100 percent, no. Do you know anything about the Minory lineage?”
“Oh aye, big legend around that one. Best ye go have a look-see for yourself tomorrow at Clan MacLaoch’s castle and visitor center when it’s open. The MacLaochs have a long history that includes the Minorys. Castle Laoch has been in that family for over eight hundred years. Matter of fact, the clan is still together. On its thirty-fourth chieftain now,” Deloris said, clearly impressed. “Castle Laoch is not but a couple kilometers. Ye could walk there if the weather is fair. This time in May ’tis hit and miss, aye? Oh!” she said, as if just remembering, and nodded toward the door. “The man who was just in ’ere is the MacLaoch clan chieftain, and he could tell ye a thing or two about the Minorys, I’ll tell ye that.”
“A chieftain?” I said, thinking of old photos of American Indian chiefs, bare-chested, with feathered headdresses.
“We only have documentation that starts in the 1850s,” Deloris said, ignoring my comment, “and the castles will have more information than we do. Castle Laoch would be the place to ask.”
I paused for a moment, thinking. I wasn’t sure that I should explicitly go against Carol’s warning. “Do you know any reason why I might not want to mention my Minory research to a MacLaoch?”
“Och!” she said dismissively. “Some like to get upset by it, but ’tis nothing but an old fairy tale or curse, depending on what side yer standin’. I personally dinnae put much stock in fairy tales. I know just the two who could give ye firsthand knowledge of it though. Old birds, they are. Down at the harbor they run MacDonagh and MacDonagh Tours—it’s a boat tour that will take ye out the harbor and past the point, through the small fishing isles, over to Castle Laoch and back. From what I’ve heard, they’ll tell ye more than ye need to know about the fairy tale, but I’ll let ye figure that out for yourself.” She gave me a knowing nod.
After giving Deloris information on where she could reach me if she came across anything useful in the stacks, I headed down to the docks.
CHAPTER 6
The Glentree harbor at midday was sparsely populated with boats, most of the fishing vessels at sea. The rocky shore held a lone flat-bottomed boat at its edge and two old, craggy men standing on either side of it hollering at each other.
“No, I didnae! Ye did, and if ye cannae remember where, I’ll no’ be the one tae tell ye. Ye blithering bawbag!”
“Nae tell me? Me? I was the one who asked ye tae put the fishin’ knife awa’ in the first place, and now ye won’t tell me where ye put it? Ye are the bawbag, ye bawbag!”
“Bluddy bastard.”
“Arsehole.”
“Fu—”
“Lady!” one shushed the other as I approached.
“How can we help ye?” The other addressed me with a full smile of semistraight and semiwhite teeth and gave me an elegant bow.
“I’m looking for MacDonagh and MacDonagh Tours. Something tells me I’ve found it?” I smiled back.
Both men wore green fishing slickers with rubber boots and rain caps in the same drab color. The old men themselves were identical, too—both white haired and blue eyed—with the exception that one had a crooked nose that must not have been properly set after being broken, while the other’s was straight.
“Ye sure have! This is my brother, Angus, and I am Bernie,” said the one with the straight nose.
“Pleased tae meet ye,” Angus said, giving me a nod.
“Ye can remember our names,” Bernie said, “by remembering that I’m the handsome one and that Angus is like his name, full o’ bull.” He slapped his leg and guffawed loudly.
It took only a few moments to get out of the harbor and onto the placid waters, most of the delay due to the brothers arguing about which of them should help me into the boat and which was to push us out into the water.
We bobbed along, taking in the majestic, gray basalt cliffs rising like iron gates to our right, the rich green of pasture grass softening their edges. Opposite the cliffs, the ocean beckoned, small, grassy mounds indicating a smattering of isles between us and the open Atlantic.
Angus and Bernie seemed made for the water. They may have looked as if they were closing in on one hundred years of age with their dark, weather-beaten skin and the deep crinkles around their eyes—probably as much from smiling as from squinting against the sun and rain—but they were as nimble and agile as teenagers when it came to the boat. They moved instinctively as the boat skimmed lightly over the coastal waters’ low ripple.
“Before we get started on our tour, we’d like tae know about our guest. Where ye’re from and what ye’re most interested in?” Bernie asked, affecting the composure and manner of a professor beginning his first day of class.
Angus was seated behind me, manning the outboard motor. “Aye,” he agreed. “Bernie here used tae lecture at the local college, so if I know what ye’re interested in, I can tell Bernie when tae shut that trap o’ his if he’s prattling on about some nonsense!’” Angus wheezed a reedy laugh and gave my ribs a conspiratorial jab with his elbow.
“What are ye telling her back there?”
“Just telling her nae tae be shy, brother!” He gave me a wink.
Bernie harrumphed. “All right.” Then, smiling at me: “Now go ahead, dear, what brings ye out tae Glentree?”
“I’m doing family research,” I said.
“Ah, aye. Come to discover which clan ye belong tae, aye?”
“Well not rea—”
Bernie interrupted and leaned around me to Angus. “Donald or Fraser, this one?” he asked his brother, nodding toward me.
“Fraser? Ye daft? Look at her. Nae, she’s Irish, no’ Scots.”
“Irish? Nae. She’s Scots—a Stewart,
maybe?”
“Stewart.” Angus eyed me as though I were a boat he was appraising. “Aye, maybe,” he finally said, with a shrug.
“Aye.” Bernie nodded. “Lass, we’re ready. What’s the name that ye think is yer family name? We think it’s Stewart—that is, if ye are Scots.”
I laughed. “Maybe I’m all of the above. The surname I think I know for certain is Minary.”
“Ho!” both men exclaimed, and the boat nearly upended.
Angus straightened us out as I clung to the side, having slid to the floor with the upset.
Bernie exclaimed, “Angus! Get hold of yourself!” Then he looked at me. “Say that name again, lass?”
“Min-a-rrry,” I said, enunciating the a and rolling the r.
“Ah,” they both said.
“Thought ye said Minory,” Angus said.
Still on the floor of the boat and still startled, I gingerly got up and resumed my place on the wood plank that was my seat. “It could be Minory. Unfortunately, my grandfather—the one who informed my family that we were Minarys by bloodline—died, and no one in the family knows for sure . . . ” I trailed off. On one hand, I hoped I was a Minory, since there seemed to be plenty of information about that family. On the other hand, who were these people that their name would evoke such a response, that they would have created a legend so strong that people in the present day still got upset at the mere mention of the name?
“I spoke to Deloris at the library, and she said that you both might know more?”
“Ah! Deloris!” Bernie said. “Yes, well, Minory. I’ll tell ye that that name has a history, ’ere it does.”
“Aye, right it does,” Angus added from behind me.
“I dinnae know about Minary, but I’ll tell ye about the Minorys.”
Angus decreased the engine power, slowing us down. It felt like the signal to the real beginning of our tour. We motored between the shore and the green humps of the islands. The towering cliffs still to our right were broken up by wide-open coves; I could see freshwater from mountain streams emptying into the ocean.