by Fran Stewart
He’d always told me the same thing, every time I’d been in his car. He didn’t often drive me into town, only if the weather was blustery or if rain was in the offing. Same words. Same intonation, his light tenor voice sounding like a rather settled golden retriever. He even looked like a retriever, an old one. His white hair swept to one side from a part that hopped around the left side of his head. His habit of running a hand—sometimes both of them at once—through his hair any time of day made tidiness impossible.
I stepped out of the car and leaned down to look at him again. “I won’t be long.”
He arched his bushy black eyebrows, which were an odd contrast to his silvery hair. “In that case, I’ll wait at least two hours before I come back.”
I laughed. “No, I mean it.”
Despite my indignation, or maybe because of it, he chuckled and headed back the way we’d come.
I waved and started along the main thoroughfare but stopped as I came to a side street bordered by a low wall of stacked stone. I couldn’t remember ever having walked down that way. I headed toward a tall larch tree about halfway down the lane but was sidetracked by a gated arbor covered with an early blooming vine I didn’t recognize. The flowers were a dark peach color with darker brown veins in the petals. Feathery leaves whorled around the sinuous stems like Christmas greenery around a bannister. I breathed in an almost citrusy scent with an underlying spicy hint of—of what? Cinnamon? I glanced through the arbor to see a little stone shop tucked in between two rowan trees. A discreet sign in the door said Open. I ducked through the gateway under the bower of fragrant blossoms.
Three women stood inside, huddled in conversation. They looked up at me, and one of them, wearing a blue-and-green plaid skirt, motioned me farther in. “Ye are well come to the Scot Shop,” she said.
What a lovely old-fashioned phrase, I thought as I closed the door behind me, but all I said was, “To the what?”
“The Scot Shop. Did ye no see the sign beside the door?”
“No, I didn’t notice it. I guess I was too busy looking at your flowers. Have you been here long?” They looked a bit confused until I added, “I’ve been to Pitlochry many times and never saw your store before today.”
“Aye. Well. That’s no bother. Ye’ve found us now.”
“I’m intrigued with the name. I own a store called the ScotShop back in the States. I come here often on buying trips.”
“Do ye now?”
One of the other women spoke up. “The Scot Shop? For aye? Like this?” She waved her arm in a slow arc that took in the whole room.
“I live in a tourist town called Hamelin. It was founded by Scots years ago. Many of the men in town wear kilts.”
The first woman nodded. “And would ye be wearing an arisaidh yourself?”
“Oh, yes, at least when I’m working at the store. That or just a long skirt, white blouse, and tartan scarf.”
“That’s lovely. Feel free to look around, dear. Let me know if ye have any questions.”
I thanked her and moved to my right, but a sudden impulse turned me toward the back left corner of the shop, where I saw piles of felted fabric. It was darker there. I normally prefer a brightly lit store, but this was Scotland, after all, and I supposed the darkened corner was deliberately planned to invoke a sense of mystery. The items certainly did seem a bit mysterious. No price tags, for one thing. I touched as I went—I do love the feel of wool, particularly fabrics that are handwoven.
A pile of plaids called to me, and I stepped closer. There’s a certain look to beautifully handwoven and hand-felted cloth that can’t be reproduced by anything machine made. I reached for them, and then I turned back to the proprietor. “May I rummage a bit?”
“Of course ye may,” she said with a nod of her grizzled head.
I set the top few pieces to one side and stopped when I reached a dark plaid with blocks of blue, wide stripes of green, and thin crosshatchings of red and what looked like yellow, although in this low light I couldn’t be sure. Maybe it was white. I didn’t recognize the pattern. I knew quite a few clan tartans by name, but this one was unfamiliar to me. That wasn’t surprising, since nowadays there were dress tartans, hunting tartans, ancient tartans, and something called a modern tartan for every clan. I’d long ago given up trying to recall even the names of all the clans, much less their various plaids.
I lifted it, expecting a square or rectangle of material, but the felted fabric, surprisingly lightweight and supple, was shaped to drape around the shoulders. “A shawl,” I said, more to myself than to anyone else, and clutched it to my chest. A wave of warmth, coziness, and comfort spread through me.
“Och, lassie, don’t go picking up that aulde thing.” The nasal voice came from the third woman, the one who hadn’t spoken before. She turned to the plaid-skirted woman. “I surely don’t know why ye keep it around.”
The woman murmured something, but I paid little attention. The shawl felt so warm in my arms, so enveloping.
“. . . from my great-grandmother.”
I fingered the edge of the shawl. I couldn’t imagine anyone having something that old. It didn’t look like it could be—what would it have to be? A hundred years old? The woman in plaid looked like she was in her late seventies, so the shawl, if it had belonged to her great-grandmother, would have to be 120 years old maybe? It certainly looked in good shape for something so ancient. “Did you say your great-grandmother made it?”
“Och, no,” the woman whispered. Her skirt matched the pattern of the shawl I held, and it swished as she swayed from side to side. “Her great-grandmother’s great-grandmother was the one who saved it from the fire that took the village.”
The other women nodded knowingly. There was always a story of some devastating fire that had swept through a village, claiming not only the houses but lives as well. That was why, I was sure, this town was built of stone.
“It was her great-grandmother’s before her, and that woman’s great-grandmother even before, and another nine great-grandmothers before that. It always passed to the eldest great-granddaughter, but now”—her voice quavered with what sounded like regret—“I’m the first to have no daughter of my own. ’Twill have to go to my sister’s branch in Nefyn.”
I couldn’t imagine that many great-grandmothers. I often wished I could have known my great-grandmother. She sounded like such a hoot. My grandmother—my mother’s mother—had told me often that her ma always claimed to be able to see ghosts. It was something of a family joke, but there was an undertone of chagrin that there could have been someone so crazy in the family. When my brother and I turned ten, though, I blew out my half of the birthday candles secretly wishing I could see a ghost someday.
My ancestors, the ones I knew of, went back almost to the 1700s, when Hamelin was founded, but the records before then were destroyed when half the town burned down. That was well close to three hundred years ago.
But how many hundreds of years was this woman talking about?
I looked at the shawl I still held. Ridiculous. It couldn’t be that old. Anyway, would anyone sell something that had been in the family for so long? I was being spun a tale. Still, I liked the feel of the shawl. “I’ll take it,” I said, and cringed. I’d just made the worst mistake a buyer can make. The woman knew I wanted it, so the price would go up accordingly.
“Of course ye will, lassie,” she said. “It’s been waiting for ye all these years. Ye are the one.”
I’m afraid I gawked at her. The one what?
“’Tis so,” she said. “The shawl is yours. It always has been. Can’t ye tell?” She reached out and took it from me, holding it up under my chin. She nodded. “Aye.”
At that moment, feeling almost as if I were in a trance, I think I would have paid any amount for it. But the price she named was reasonable indeed, and I paid it without hesitation, silently blessing the w
oman for her lack of avarice.
“It’s a Farquharson,” she said. “Did ye ken that?”
“No,” I told her, “I’m not familiar with that clan,” and started toward the door.
“Och, ye soon will be,” she said.
I held the shawl tight against me as I headed back toward the main street. I couldn’t imagine what she meant.
For some reason, I wasn’t much in the mood for shopping that afternoon. I kept thinking about Ben y Vrackie, the mountain a mile or so north of town. I felt an urge, almost a yearning, to climb it. I hugged the shawl more tightly, relishing its softness. “Let us climb,” an inner voice urged me. At least, that’s what I imagined. Maybe it was a fragment of an old poem I’d read but couldn’t recall. I laughed the thought away and returned to the cottage, surprising both the Sinclairs.
I placed the shawl over their hall tree. “Mrs. Sinclair? Would you like to take a walk up Ben y Vrackie?”
“Today?” Her eyebrows rose right into the wrinkles across her forehead.
“No. You’re right. It’s too late for that, but maybe tomorrow?”
For some reason, she looked at the shawl.
“That sounds lovely,” she said, glancing at her husband, who raised his bushy eyebrows and shrugged.
“Of course.” She sounded like she was answering an unspoken question. “’Twould be a lovely day for a walk, dearie. We’ll leave here just after midday and take our tea with us.” She headed into the kitchen.
“I don’t want to be any bother,” I protested.
“Nonsense, lassie.” Mr. Sinclair looked toward where Mrs. Sinclair has disappeared into the back. “We’ve not been up on Ben y Vrackie for . . .”
“. . . nae for a year or twa,” she called.
I ate a quick dinner at the pub down the lane and turned in early. I’d set my clothes out on the chair beside the window with the shawl draped across them. Tomorrow, the mountain. Why did I feel so excited about climbing a big hill? With the moonlight streaming across the bed, I slept.
3
A Wee Ghostie in the Meadow
Breakfast was the usual porridge, sausage, and a coddled egg. Mrs. Sinclair set them in front of me with an admonition to “eat heartily. ’Tis hungry you’ll be on the mountain this afternoon otherwise.”
I passed the morning pleasantly enough wandering around town and ate lunch at a small pub. It was such a lovely day, I’d left the shawl in my room.
Finally, I couldn’t stand the wait any longer, and headed back to the B and B.
Within moments Mrs. Sinclair appeared, tucking in the flap of a rucksack, two others slung over her arm. “Tea, nuts, and biscuits,” she said, handing one pack to Mr. Sinclair and one to me.
I ran upstairs and grabbed the shawl. It was likely to be chilly on the side of the mountain. As I climbed into the back of their little car, I hoped I wouldn’t regret that I hadn’t taken the time to go to the bathroom. Karaline always accused me of TBS—tiny bladder syndrome—whenever we hiked at home.
Mr. Sinclair parked in a small graveled area at the beginning of a well-defined trail. He hefted the rucksack. Some well-meaning person had placed a blue porta potty—here it was called a Portaloo—at the mouth of the trail. I excused myself to make use of it. I couldn’t recall it from the last time I’d hiked here, but was quite grateful for it this time.
Why, I thought, had I chosen to come here rather than to explore more of the Pitlochry shops? This trip was short to begin with, and here I was wasting several hours.
Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair had gone ahead. They sat on a large stone outcropping a few minutes up the trail, waiting patiently. “Thank you,” I said, and we headed uphill.
The climb to the summit is supposed to take less than an hour, but I’ve never been much of a hiker. Oh, I like to take long walks, but I have a tendency to stop—often—to look at odd stones, bits of plant, and puddles of mud. Also, I must admit, I do get out of breath if I try to keep up a regular pace. So I’m afraid I slowed the Sinclairs down, but they were used to me. We’d taken this walk before. They adjusted their pace to mine, and Mrs. Sinclair stopped occasionally “to look at this lovely view,” she said, but I knew it was so I could catch my breath.
I spotted a charming meadow a ways off the main trail and called to the Sinclairs.
Mrs. S cocked her head at her husband. “Did I not tell ye?”
He didn’t answer, just disrupted his hair again with both hands.
We drank our tea from pottery mugs. Mrs. Sinclair disliked plastic and Styrofoam as much as I did. The grassy meadow flowed down the hill beside a gurgling brook that tumbled toward the loch below. Most of the mountainside was covered in heather, which tends to be prickly, but this one place sported grass, and a towering larch spread its deep green branches like a billowing cape. There were other trees on Ben y Vrackie, but none so large as this. How could I have missed it on my previous hikes?
After we munched a bit on filberts and walnuts, Mr. Sinclair stretched out on the turf beneath the tree and pulled his hat forward over his eyes. “A wee nap,” he muttered—an unnecessary explanation.
“A lovely idea, my dear,” Mrs. Sinclair said, and settled down beside him, her back up against the enormous larch. She smiled sweetly at him and then at me. “Rest yourself, Peggy,” she said, and patted the ground beside her.
I felt restless, though, and shook my head. “I’m going to walk down by the brook.” She waved gaily, and I turned my back on her.
The grass was spongy beneath my feet. I’ve always thought the smell of newly cut grass was the best smell in the world. This grass didn’t look newly shorn at all, but the smell was there just the same. Heavenly, I thought.
I’d chosen to travel in a sturdy calf-length walking skirt. I felt very old-world when I wore it, because it wasn’t the sort of thing Americans wore on airplanes or on hikes. I’d packed some jeans, of course, but the skirt felt better somehow. My hiking boots laced above my ankles. I’d learned the hard way that my tendency to slip on any uneven surface required me to buy good footwear. When I reached the stream, though, I slipped off the boots and my practical white socks. After a moment’s hesitation, I dipped my toes into the cold water and quickly out again, tucking them beneath the soft folds of my skirt. I pulled the shawl off my left shoulder, where I’d been carrying it, and wrapped it around me, covering the back of my neck, for I’d begun to feel a chill. I glanced back up the hill. The Sinclairs were, fortunately, out of sight behind a slight rise in the meadowland. What lovely solitude.
Mason, damn him, floated into my mind. I was better off without him. If I were completely honest with myself, I hadn’t really trusted him, ever since the day I’d found him rummaging through my purse, my checkbook in his hand. No, I was not going to let him ruin this day. The utter peacefulness of the meadow slowly sank into me the way butter melts into hot toast. I took a deep breath and then another.
I didn’t hear anyone walk up behind me, but the voice hardly startled me at all, it felt so much a part of this place. He called my name.
“Peigi? Are ye now well then?” the voice said, soothingly, gently. Pay-ee-gee was how he pronounced it. I rather liked that, and I turned my head uphill to see who had spoken. My shoulder-length hair swung forward, and I brushed it back.
“Och no!” the voice said. “Peigi! What have they done to your hair?” The distress of the burly gentleman who stood there was almost palpable, but there was a wavering shimmer around him, like heat waves above hot pavement, and I could—almost—see the far edge of the meadow through his billowing belted plaid. Heavy black hair blew back from his face, although I didn’t feel a wind. I began to think that perhaps I wasn’t the Peggy he was expecting. I began to wonder, too, if my great-grandmother had been telling the truth about seeing ghosts.
“I knew ye were ill, my love, but they kept me from ye. Was it the Fever? Is
that why they cut off your beautiful . . .” His voice faded a bit as he stepped nearer, and his left hand went to the hilt of his dirk. “Ye are no my Peigi,” he said in an accusing tone that contrasted horribly with the gentleness of his earlier words.
I slid back on my butt, farther away from him. I was going to have grass stains on my skirt, damn it, and it was his fault. I pulled my shawl closer about me. This couldn’t be happening.
“Ye are no my Peigi,” he repeated.
“Well, no,” I said. “I’m Peggy, that’s true, but not your Peggy.” Why was I conversing with this lunatic? I should be yelling for the Sinclairs, who were, unfortunately, out of sight. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“Doing here?” His indignation practically exploded. “What are ye doing on my land?”
“What do you mean your land? This is a public walking trail. I have every right to be here.” It occurred to me that maybe I didn’t, since we’d strayed off the trail to this meadow. Come to think of it, I’d never seen this particular meadow before, despite all the times I’d walked up this mountain. Maybe we were trespassing, but I wasn’t about to admit that to this cantankerous guy. “Just ask the Sinclairs,” I said. “They walk here all the time.”
“The Sinclairs?” He planted his booted feet wide apart and crossed his arms in front of his massive chest. “And what would ye be having to do with that clan?”
“What are you talking about? They’re my friends, and they’re asleep under the larch up there.” I pointed.
“What larch? The goats roam over this entire hillside, and there are no trees big enough to sleep under.”