by Stuart Daly
‘Only one?’ a highlander from the crowd yelled. ‘That’s pathetic!’
Dougal singled the man out. ‘Interrupt me again, an’ ah’ll have ye removed. As ah was sayin’, each competitor will hae one toss tae see if they can qualify tae enter the next round.’ He paced twenty yards, drew another line on the ground and addressed the competitors. ‘Ye need tae throw further than this line in order tae get two more throws. The person who throws the furthest will be the winner. Now, ye can take a run-up, but ye cannae go past that first line. If ye do, yer throw’ll be disqualified. Am ah clear on that?’ The clansmen nodded, and Dougal strode back to join them. ‘Ye’ll compete in the same order as ah marked ye off. Also, when it’s nae yer turn, ah need the rest o’ ye standin’ back by that wee flag over yonder. Ah’ve lost count o’ how many times ah’ve seen a man lose his balance an’ toss the caber into his rivals or the crowd. The last thing ah want is for someone tae get squished.’
‘That would put a wee dampener on things,’ Roland muttered in Caspan’s ear, clearly concerned at his proximity to the action.
‘If ye fail tae qualify or are disqualified, ah want no arguments,’ Dougal continued, pacing before the competitors. ‘Just accept it an’ go an’ join yer friends in the crowd. If there are no further questions, let’s get started.’ He consulted his parchment. ‘Fist up will be the MacGillis Clan, followed by the Macintosh an’ Campbell.’
There was a fanfare of bagpipe music and cheering as the first highlander stepped forward. He was a heavy-set man with a wild look in his eyes and flaming red hair. He waited until his fellow competitors moved back to the flag before heading over to the caber. Two high landers assisted him to lift the log upright and place it on the ground. They then hurried away, leaving the clansman to wrap his arms around the caber and brace his shoulders against it.
The music stopped and the crowd went silent. The MacGillis highlander steeled himself, drew several deep breaths then lifted the log. His eyes bulged and his muscles corded, but he barely managed to raise it. Struggling, he took a shaky step backwards, lost his balance and almost dropped the caber on his toes. The log then fell towards him, forcing the highlander to scream and run for his life. The crowd roared with laughter and the bagpipe music started again.
Caspan shook his head in dismay. ‘Poor Lachlan. What have we put him up to?’
Roland’s eyes were wide with excitement. ‘This is fantastic!’
The next two competitors were lucky not to get killed when they stumbled backwards and dropped the caber. The third managed to maintain his balance and throw the log, only it went straight up, thumped down between his feet, then toppled back towards him. He shrieked and dived aside just in time. Of course, the spectacle was awarded with a chorus of laughter and applause.
The fifth competitor, a burly Glengarry highlander with a neck like a bull’s, spat in his hands and hoisted the log from the ground. Keeping it steady, he lumbered towards the first line and threw, but even he was eliminated, the caber falling several yards short of the qualifying distance. He didn’t take it very well, hurling abuse at the taunting crowd and threatening to clobber one particularly vocal spectator.
Angus Wallace was the first to make it to the second round, not only clearing the second line but setting a new highland record. He beat his chest and glared challengingly at the remaining competitors as he walked past them.
Lachlan was the fourth-last to compete. By this time, only three clansmen had qualified. He doesn’t look very confident, Caspan thought. He glanced around nervously as he stepped up to the log, crouched and set his shoulder against it. He wrapped his hands around the caber, drew some deep breaths, then nodded at the assistants at the other end. They helped hoist the log into a vertical position before stepping away.
Lachlan struggled under the weight of the enormous caber and teetered to the left. Caspan feared it might slip from his grasp and fall into the crowd, but Lachlan steadied himself and, with his muscles bulging, rushed towards the throwing line. He heaved with all his might, sending the log sailing through the air. It hit the ground end-first, then toppled over itself, almost doubling the distance it had been thrown.
One of the assistants ran over with a length of rope with knots tied along every yard. ‘Thirty-two yards,’ he hollered to Dougal after measuring the distance.
The quartermaster’s eyebrows arched in an impressed manner. ‘We hae a competition on our hands,’ he announced to the crowd. ‘That throw was only half a foot shorter than Angus Wallace’s! Congratulations tae the Strathboogie clan!’
Roland cheered and clapped madly, then caught himself and glanced questioningly at Caspan. ‘Um, was that supposed to happen?’
‘Not exactly,’ Caspan replied in a hushed tone, lest they be identified as impostors. ‘Didn’t we tell him to get eliminated first round?’
‘I thought that was the general idea.’ Roland started applauding again. ‘Still, you’ve got to give credit where it’s due. What a throw! You know, we might win this game yet.’
Caspan’s expression was solemn. ‘I know, and that’s what worries me.’
He wanted to have a quiet word with Lachlan, but nobody was allowed near the contestants. What was Lachlan trying to achieve? He could be competitive at times, particularly during sword-training sessions, and Caspan wondered if he’d got caught up in the moment and been spurred on by the crowd. There was always the possibility that he had every intention of making his toss fall short of the qualifying line and things had gone terribly wrong. Whatever the reason, Caspan was very concerned about the amount of attention Lachlan had attracted.
The highlanders yet to throw came over and congratulated Lachlan. Those who’d made it through to the next round shot him scathing looks, particularly Angus, whose stern features gathered darkly.
The next two competitors had their turns, but both failed. The final highlander’s legs buckled beneath him and he threw the log towards the crowd. The spectators panicked and dispersed, but Caspan and Roland were stuck at the front and had nowhere to run. They watched, terrified, as the massive caber toppled towards them and slammed down barely a yard from Roland’s feet.
The clansman standing on Roland’s right clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Are ye all right, lad?’
Roland looked uncertainly at the man, clearly wondering what he should say, seeing as his accent wasn’t very convincing. ‘Ach, ah almost stubbed mah wee toe,’ he managed.
Caspan gave him a smug look and poked him in the ribs with his elbow. ‘And you didn’t think that sentence would come in handy,’ he whispered.
‘That’s narrowed the field considerably,’ Dougal declared to the audience. ‘Only four o’ the original twenty-six remain. Can we please hae a big round o’ applause for our Wallace, MacCleod, Cameron and Strathboogie finalists!’ The crowd gave an enthusiastic cheer. The quartermaster waited for silence, then continued, ‘Each o’ the remaining competitors gets two more throws. They’ll go one after another, in the same order as before. Even if their first throw is a foul, they’ll still get a final attempt. At the end, the person who throws the furthest out o’ their three attempts will be our winner.’ He beckoned Angus Wallace to come forward. ‘When yer ready.’
A hushed expectancy fell over the crowd as the burly clansman rubbed dirt in his hands, tucked his kilt between his thighs and took his next throw. It was even better than his first, beating it by almost a yard.
The MacCleod and Cameron clansmen each passed the second line, but fell several yards short of the new record. It was then Lachlan’s turn. He wiped his palms on his shawl, spotted his friends in the crowd and smiled nervously at them. Caspan gave him a cautionary look, trying to indicate that he should intentionally foul his next two attempts.
Roland, on the other hand, thrust a clenched fist in the air and yelled, ‘Strathboogie! Strathboogie! Strathboogie!’ In a matter of seconds hundreds of spectators had joined the chant.
‘What are you doing?’ Caspan asked, h
is voice barely audible over the ruckus.
‘Giving Lachlan some moral support.’ Roland beamed, nodding proudly at how the crowd had gotten behind his friend. ‘The Strathboogie can win this, Cas. Imagine what it will do for the reputation of our clan.’
Caspan grabbed him by the shawl and pulled him close. ‘But we’re not Strathboogie clansmen, you great puddenhead!’
Roland was aghast. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Now don’t spoil the moment. I think something special’s about to happen.’ He thrust his fist in the air again and continued chanting.
Caspan chewed his bottom lip nervously as Lachlan hoisted the caber against his shoulder, this time holding it steady, and rushed towards the throwing line … putting his right foot over it. The crowd moaned disappointedly as he dropped the log and went back, his head lowered, to join his fellow finalists.
Roland scowled. ‘Talk about anticlimactic! If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn he did that deliberately.’
Caspan had to hold himself back from slapping Roland across the face and knocking some sense into his thick head. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? He’s not supposed to win!’
Roland looked at him, shocked. ‘And to think you wear Strathboogie tartan!’ Caspan opened his mouth to berate him, but Roland grinned and tousled his hair. ‘I’m only pulling your leg, ye wee Jimmy. Of course I know he’s supposed to lose, but I’m having so much fun.’ He wiped fake tears from his eyes. ‘I’ve never been more proud of our little Lachie. Who would have thought he’d one day enter the inaugural highland games?’
Caspan shook his head in wonder and turned his attention back to the competition just in time to see Angus Wallace take his final turn. It was a tremendous throw, but it didn’t beat his record, nor did the next two highlanders’ tosses, leaving all the pressure on Lachlan.
Spurred on by Roland, the crowd chanted as he strode up to the caber. Angus approached him with an outstretched hand to wish him good luck, drew him close and whispered in his ear. Caspan could tell by the sour look on Lachlan’s face that the Wallace clansman most certainly did not offer him words of encouragement.
His jaw gritted determinedly, Lachlan rolled his shoulders and, with the help of the assistants, lifted the caber. He staggered several steps back before gaining his balance, then, allowing the log to tilt forward, charged the line. Using the momentum of the falling caber, he roared and pushed with all his might, propelling it through the air.
The caber hit the earth and almost toppled over itself, but froze in a vertical position. Everybody held their breath, watching in awe as the log slowly fell forward, beating Angus’s record by over two yards.
Caspan buried his head in his hands and moaned. Peering through his fingers, he watched Roland lead the charge towards Lachlan. The highlanders lifted Lachlan atop their shoulders and did a victory lap around the fort, all the while chanting, ‘Strathboogie! Strathboogie! Strathboogie!’
‘Yep,’ Caspan muttered to himself, trailing dismally after the throng. ‘This could not have gone worse.’
CHAPTER 17
THE HIGHLAND FEUD
‘Haven’t we had an interesting day?’ Caspan commented once they’d returned to their campsite and things had settled down. It was the first opportunity he’d had to talk to his friends since Lachlan had won the competition, well over an hour ago.
Roland looked up from their simmering stew and pointed his ladle at Lachlan. ‘Yeah, you’ve got some explaining to do, young man. So much for getting eliminated first round. I didn’t know whether to cheer or drag you by the scruff of the neck out of there.’ He winked at Caspan, who rolled his eyes.
‘There’s barely a highlander in this fort who doesn’t know who you are now,’ Caspan said, turning to Lachlan.
‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I don’t know what happened with my first throw. I had every intention of stepping over the line and being fouled.’ His eyes narrowed angrily. ‘But there was no way I was going to give in after what Angus said to me.’
‘And what was that?’ Roland asked.
‘You don’t want to know.’
Roland leaned forward eagerly. ‘Oh, yes I do.’
Lachlan regarded him for a moment. ‘Well, let’s just say that I don’t like people insulting my mother.’
‘Ouch. That’s a low blow,’ Roland agreed. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t clobber him with the log.’
‘That’s what I felt like doing, but I thought the best way to get back at Angus would be to beat him in the game.’
‘Making you the most famous person in the entire camp,’ Caspan muttered dourly.
Lachlan’s brow furrowed in annoyance. ‘I know. It wasn’t the smartest thing to do. But what’s done is done. I can’t take it back now, so let’s just move on from it.’
Roland tut-tutted as he continued to stir the stew. ‘What a wicked web we weave when first we try to deceive.’
Lachlan kicked him in the shin. ‘Knock it off. And how’s that saying relevant?’
Roland tapped the side of his nose. ‘In more ways than you can think.’ He pointed at the bagpipes Lachlan had won in the competition. They were lying on the ground just inside the tent. ‘What are you going to do with those?’
Lachlan looked at them disinterestedly. ‘I really don’t care.’
‘Well, if you don’t want them you can always give them to me,’ Roland offered.
‘And what will you do with bagpipes?’
Roland’s eyes glistened excitedly. ‘I’ll learn how to play them, that’s what.’
Lachlan drew a patient breath and muttered, ‘Ask a stupid question.’
‘So I can have them?’
‘They’re all yours. I’m sure you’ll be a perfect match. You’re so full of wind you’ll have no problem blowing up the bag.’
Roland pumped his fist triumphantly in the air and rushed over to give the bagpipes a quick inspection. Caspan regarded him with an amused grin.
‘So you’re seriously going to learn how to play them?’ he asked.
Roland shot him a mock unimpressed look. ‘Ach, ye wear our wee bonnie kilt, but yer aboot as Strathboogie as a Salaharan camel. Of course I’m going to learn how to play them. I’m planning on mastering a solo virtuosic style. I can picture it now.’ He swept a hand before him as he envisaged the scene. ‘There I am, outside Morgan’s office, greeting the dawn with a good old-fashioned tune. Ah, mornings at the House of Whispers will never be the same.’
Caspan chortled, imagining the expression on Morgan’s face. ‘You can say that again.’
‘How’s that food coming along?’ Lachlan grumbled. ‘I’m starving.’
‘They say nothing builds an appetite like throwing logs.’ Roland hurried back to the stew and took a sip. He closed his eyes contentedly and smacked his lips. ‘Ah, just perfect. I was worried we’d left it for too long and overcooked it. Hopefully this time we’ll be able to eat uninterrupted.’ He served up two fresh bowls and gave one to each of his friends. ‘What do you think?’
Caspan filled his spoon and gulped down a mouthful. ‘Not bad at all. We’ll try heading over to the forge once we’ve eaten.’
‘Wish us luck,’ Lachlan said sourly.
‘What can possibly go wrong?’ Roland smirked and pointed at Lachlan. ‘We’ve got the local celebrity with us.’
Lachlan scowled and flicked the contents of his spoon at his black-haired friend.
Having eaten their fill, the boys decided to put their plan into action. While Lachlan went into the tent to collect the broken sword, a group of six teenagers stopped in front of Caspan and Roland. One of them stepped forward: a tall, lean boy in his late teens and with a challenging stare.
Caspan cursed his bad luck. They wore the tartan of Glengarry clansmen.
‘Look what we hae here?’ the boy announced in a mocking tone. ‘This cannae be right. The Strathboogie would never be brave enough tae answer a call tae war. They must hae got lost tryin’ tae run away.’
Caspan stared at the remnants of his bowl, trying to avoid eye contact. ‘Ye’d best be on yer way.’
The boy snorted contemptuously. ‘Typical o’ a Strathboogie – too scared tae draw his sword, but more than willin’ tae sneak into our land an’ steal our yaks. Yellow-livered cowards, ye are.’ He leaned over and spat into their pot, then regarded the treasure hunters, waiting to see how they’d react.
‘Whoo said Glengarry clansmen hae noo class?’ Roland muttered. ‘Och, this fellow’s positively oozing it all oover the place.’
Caspan gave him a reprimanding look. Could things get any worse? First Lachlan had won the caber toss competition and now they were being confronted by members of a rival clan.
The boy glared at Roland. ‘Are ye tryin’ tae be funny?’
Roland yawned lazily. ‘Nah, it just comes naturally.’
The highlander snarled and kicked Roland’s foot. ‘Watch yer mouth, yak-stealer, or ah’ll slam it shut for ye!’
Roland smiled dismissively and clicked his tongue. ‘Remember what Roy Stewart said aboot fightin’? It would be a shame tae see that handsome face o’ yers stuck in the pillory, ye wee Jimmy.’
‘What did ye just call me?’
Caspan scowled at Roland and raised a placating hand at the warrior. ‘Think nothin’ o’ it. It’s an expression we use in our clan.’
‘A term of endearment,’ Roland added, ‘reserved for oonly the moost truly remarkable o’ people.’
The highlander clenched his fists. ‘Get up!’
‘Ah’d prefer tae stay sittin’, if ye donnae mind,’ Roland said, sipping at a spoonful of stew. ‘Ah find it helps with digestion.’
‘Why ye!’ The highlander reached down, grabbed Roland by the scruff of his shawl and pulled him to his feet.
Caspan jumped up. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he couldn’t just sit there and watch Roland get beaten. The Glengarry boys circled around him, their fists clenched.
‘Put mah friend down, or ye’ll have me tae answer tae.’