Hot Scots, Castles, and Kilts

by Tammy Swoish

  We were close enough that the gleam of the manor house's lights marked our path like flashes of lightning. Safety.

  Mom jerked my hand, pulling me toward the door, but I got there first and began banging. Mom stood behind me so we were back to back. She'd stop the monster from getting me. I kept my eyes focused on the grain of the wood door. Whatever was behind us, I didn't want to see.

  Fiona opened the door. The stone courtyard lit up around us. Fiona stepped back and Mom pushed me in, slamming the door. Adrenaline pumped through my body so fast, I thought my knees would buckle.

  “That was exciting,” Mom said, leaning back against the door. Then she started laughing.

  “Yeah.” I rolled my eyes and took deep breaths. I thought I was hyperventilating. I wasn't positive.

  Mom had lost her mind. I was positive.

  Fiona looked back and forth between Mom and me. Great—country mouse thought I was insane, a panic-stricken nutso.

  At that point, I just wanted to eat, go back to our cottage with an armed guard, lock the doors, light a fire, and sleep.

  Family Meal

  Molly's cooking is the best I've tasted in my life. She'd made beef stew. It was thick and clung to the homemade rolls. After eating I was so content, I wanted to rub my belly. I was warm from the inside out.

  I could hear Mom, Molly, and Fiona talking, but I was too full and exhausted to participate in any conversation. I'm not even sure what they talked about, since I could barely keep my eyes open.

  11 p.m.

  After we ate, Molly drove us back to the cottage. My heart could not have taken another stroll in the dark with Mom.

  Sleeping

  Fine, now I'm wide awake. The cottage is dark, and spooky quiet. I'm writing by candlelight. The small, weak flame keeps bouncing and sputtering. I hope the nightstand doesn't catch on fire.

  I'm dead certain the cottage is haunted. Did I say dead? It's not like I've seen a ghost or felt a breath of cold air on the back of my neck or anything, but I know something's watching me. It's crouched in the corner at the far end of the loft, the very corner that my weak, stinky, smoky candlelight doesn't brighten.

  I keep hearing this moan, like a guy rolling on the basketball court after spraining his ankle. Or maybe like someone who's walking around carrying his decapitated head.

  I'm giving myself the creeps. If I had more guts, I'd get out of bed, take the candle, and check out the gloomy corner. Not.

  I like watching reality shows where people hunt ghosts and stuff, while I'm sitting safe in my room living vicariously through the television personalities.

  I'm going to take a deep breath, blow out the candle, and cover my head with the blanket.

  If there's something here, I don't want to see it. And if I can't see it, then it won't see me.

  Right?

  Day 2

  Breakfast

  I Miss My Snooze Button

  I don't eat breakfast, unless it's a piece of toast or an English muffin that I chomp while running out the door.

  I love my snooze button. It's empowering to control the short bursts of time.

  We were invited to eat at the manor house, MacKensie Castle. That's its official title.

  I wonder how many years it takes for a run-down pile of stone to be classified as a castle. Is there a requirement for a building to be called a castle, or could I call our house back home a castle if I wanted?

  The castle is half a mile east. There are two bikes outside our cottage, but again Mom decided we'd walk.

  Didn't she remember last night?

  Bikes would be quicker, but I wasn't biking alone in a foreign country where I barely understand anyone.

  “How did you sleep?” Mom asked.

  “Fine.” I didn't tell her about the ghost in the corner. I've learned not to tell Mom certain things, or they wind up in one of her novels. My private life has been scattered throughout her stories. Which sucks.

  Mom doesn't understand the meaning of the word “private.” My bedroom is in her latest story. I'd read all about the sloppy teen girl's room on a “to be edited” page she'd left on the dining room table. I'd immediately hung a sign on my door: NO TRESPASSING.

  Mom smiled. “This is so exciting. It's the perfect way for us to experience real life in Scotland. Plus, we could spend some quality time together.”

  My mom's having a tough time letting me grow up. Not that she's smothering me or anything, but sometimes—well, all the time—she worries too much.

  Being an only child is the worst. When you're ready to spread your wings, there are no other siblings for your parents to attach themselves to.

  I'm going to have lots of kids. And I'll give them all the privacy and freedom they want.

  Castle, Shmatzle

  It looked different in the light of day. Of course I'd seen it last night, but my mind had been focused on escaping the clutches of the night goblin. Today was my first look at the high, moss-covered stone walls, the Gothic windows trimmed with chipped black paint, and the weeds sprouting through the cobblestones of the courtyard.

  Despite the run-down appearance, I know a person has to be rich to live in a castle—even an old, dusty one in the middle of nowhere. Mom and I have hit the jackpot, spending the summer with our wealthy Scottish relatives.

  So why are we stuck living in a run-down cottage with no running water or electricity? MacKensie Castle, although not fancy, has to have at least a million rooms, some with power.

  Okay, I'm exaggerating about a million, but it is the largest home I've ever been in. It's not a storybook castle with archer lookouts in the turrets and a moat around the perimeter; it's more like one of those castles you see on television where royalty go to spend the summer holidays.

  Molly, Mom's twin—well, almost—was standing in the front courtyard wearing a wide-brimmed straw sun hat, khaki shorts, and a red T-shirt. Her arms were elbow deep in the dirt of a giant terra-cotta pot. “Morning,” she said.

  Of course it would've fit into my fantasy world even more to see a hot gardener doing the planting instead of Molly.

  She smiled, reminding me of a kid making mud pies. Maybe she'd given the gardener the day off so she could play in the dirt.

  A minute later, Mom and Molly were finishing each other's thoughts. When Molly pulled her hands out of the dirt, Mom had already moved the bucket of clean water to the bench so it was easier for Molly to reach. Molly didn't have to say a word. Creepy.

  “Let's eat,” Molly said, lifting her hands out of the water. Mom grabbed a towel off the stone bench and handed it to her.

  “How'd ye sleep, Sami?” Molly asked.

  “Good,” I lied.

  Where was Fiona?

  She has electricity, so she was probably still hitting snooze on her alarm clock.

  Always Judge a Book by Its Cover

  On the inside, MacKensie Castle looks like a mad scientist's lab . . . after he's tried unsuccessfully to split a zillion atoms at once.

  Fiona and Molly live in five rooms: two bedrooms, the kitchen, the bathroom, and the living room. That's as far as my nosing around got me before Mom and Molly called from the kitchen. They were covered in flour, and breakfast was served. Fiona came out of her bedroom and joined us.

  After breakfast, which consisted of eggs, sausage, and scones, Molly and Fiona gave us a quick tour of the rest of the castle. There were at least thirty rooms. Most were empty and had cobwebs in the corners. The few pieces of furniture were covered with dusty white sheets.

  “This is the ballroom,” said Molly.

  Once upon a time, a long time ago, this room must have been awesome. Now it was dark, musty, and unused.

  Three crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, each wrapped in thick, dust-covered plastic. The far wall was a sheet of floor-to-ceiling stained glass, with huge French doors; one was propped open. Through the gap I could see the stone-spindled railing of a patio.

  The draft from the windows would explain the nee
d for the monster fireplace in the center of the north wall, which made the one Mom and I had at our cottage look like a kiddies' first fire pit.

  “There's a garden through the glass doors,” said Fiona.

  Mom was quiet. I could tell by the look on her face that she was taking mental notes. This room was transforming in her mind into descriptive words that would be included in her next novel.

  I asked why they didn't use that part of the house.

  “Before my husband, Angus, died,” said Molly, “he'd begun the necessary restorations. We haven't had the funds to complete the process.”

  “We do a little at a time,” said Fiona, “but we've a farm to tend also.”

  I'm not great with budgets, but I bet it would cost millions to restore this castle.

  Dad would call MacKensie Castle a money pit.

  I'd agree.

  We walked back into the kitchen. Our Scottish relatives weren't rich, at least not spend-their-money-on-stupid-rich-people-kind-of-things rich.

  “I'll make some tea,” said Fiona.

  “Molly, you tell us what we need to do,” said Mom.

  “Aye,” said Molly. “We've a list.”

  No Joke: We've a List

  A list should never exceed ten items. That seems fair. Ten is a good even number—not insurmountable, but still above the level of lazy.

  Molly's list is snapped into a three-ring binder and categorized according to location. There are sections marked Castle, Cottages, Barns, and Pastures. Then, as if that's not crazy overorganized enough, each section is sorted by urgency and cost.

  Mom can't organize a grocery list. I saw the envy in her eyes when she looked at Molly's to-do binder. This could be bad for me.

  I bent my left pinky finger, pushing it down with my thumb and cracking the knuckle. I wanted to say something to Mom—something like Don't even think about it—but I didn't want to be too obvious, so I kept quiet and hoped she'd just admire Molly's organization and not try it at home on me.

  Molly and Fiona coordinated work details before our arrival. Mom and Molly will work construction duty around the castle. Molly's been reading up on power tools. Mom gets confused with the Weed-wacker . . . so that should be good.

  Fiona and I will be the farmers. There's a whole binder on that alone. I don't know anything about farming, and if I have to wear rubber waders that go up to my hips, like Fiona's stylish pair, just lock me up and throw away the key.

  The Goal:

  Bring in Unsuspecting

  Tourists and Get Them to Work

  Your Land for You

  Molly and Fiona are insane. They're hoping to draw in the crazies who participate in reenactments and stuff. I know about a huge Renaissance festival in Holly, Michigan, every fall. I've never been, but my English teacher, Mrs. Conklin, talked about it like it was the greatest event in the history of the world; then again, she dressed like Juliet when we read Romeo and Juliet. It was hard paying attention to the theme—love kills—when we were seeing parts of our teacher's anatomy that no student should see.

  Back to the MacKensies' evil plan of visitor manipulation . . .

  First, MacKensie Manor is working with the Society for Creative Anachronism to turn the farm into an authentic medieval reenactment place.

  There has to be some basic information I'm missing, because I think people have to seriously have no life to come here and live like medieval farmers.

  “Every guest will represent and play a role in the running of the farm,” said Molly.

  Fiona nodded. “They'll all have gardens to tend, which will be a source of the family's food. We can't feed everyone.”

  Great. Let's write Warning: Could Die of Starvation on the brochure.

  “We've thought about the popularity of reality shows,” said Molly. “People want to escape reality, live a life they would obviously never experience, but do it safely. We'll give them that.”

  Escape to medieval Scotland . . . I don't think so. Escape to the mall with a million dollars . . . YES.

  “Advertising?” Mom asked.

  “We're addressing that,” Molly said. “We'll rely mainly on the Internet, linking to sites about medieval life, but we're also using the Society and relying heavily on word of mouth.”

  “The four cottages will each house one family,” said Fiona, “or a group of six. We'll provide two sets of clothing for each participant that are authentic to the Highland medieval style.”

  Molly piped in. “We'll set up one of the cottages for a baker, and we'll have a blacksmith's forge built. We also need to have an area set up for dyeing wool.”

  “We're having a festival in five weeks,” Fiona added.

  “It's a yearly event in the village of Beauly,” explained Molly. “We plan on having almost everything in place by then. People in the SCA visit the fair every summer.”

  Mom nodded.

  Fiona sighed. “Mum's had it tagged on every post from here to Inverness since spring.”

  “Yeah, I bet everyone will come,” I mumbled.

  “Yes,” Molly agreed.

  Oh brother! I didn't bother saying that I was being sarcastic.

  Clan War

  Mom, Molly, and Fiona continued talking about the festival. The kitchen started to freak me out. I swear I could hear a voice behind the east door, which I knew led to the cellar.

  I focused on the murmuring behind the door. What was it? Geez, what if they had a man locked in the basement?

  I looked at everyone. Fiona smirked at me, but Mom and Molly kept talking like nothing was going on.

  Didn't anyone else hear it?

  The moaning spooked me out.

  Maybe the cellar was the MacKensie family crypt.

  “McClintoggs are pure evil,” Fiona said.

  “Pure evil” brought me back. The moaning was bad, but pure evil—now, that was something I had to focus on.

  Fiona kept talking. “Their land runs along the western edge of ours. They're cursed and place evil spells on anyone who comes in contact with them.”

  Molly laughed. “Dinnae be so dramatic, Fiona.”

  “I'm not,” said Fiona. “And ye know it.”

  Molly looked at Mom. “ 'Tis a history of bad blood between our two clans.” She looked back at Fiona. “A rivalry that's long past, Fiona. Robert McClintogg is a good man.”

  “Why is there a rivalry?” I asked.

  Fiona raised her hands like she was getting ready to explode into a tantrum, but Molly stopped her.

  “My husband, Angus, borrowed money from a McClintogg,” said Molly.

  “Why?”

  “Gambling!” shouted Fiona, looking at Molly. “He took back what the McClintoggs owed us after years of thieving our sheep and cattle. He didna borrow it.”

  Molly shook her head. “The lands of McClintogg and MacKensie used to be one. Which clan was the original owner has been debated for over a century.”

  “ 'Tis ours,” said Fiona.

  “Aye now, our portion is.” Molly looked at Mom. “I'm afraid Fiona has a touch of the clan war in her.”

  A touch . . . ha! Note to self: Never mention the name McClintogg to Fiona.

  “Fiona's great-great-grandfather won the land in a card game from a McClintogg,” said Molly. “We needed money. The bank wouldn't loan us any, so Angus went to the McClintoggs.”

  “And made a deal with the devil,” said Fiona. “McClintoggs have Satan's own blood running in their veins.”

  Holy crap. This girl had serious problems.

  “ 'Tis enough,” said Molly, raising her voice. “A feud that started over a hundred years ago and is over. Dinnae try to bring it back, Fiona. I'll not have ye speaking hatred toward anyone.”

  Fiona didn't say anything else. We finished our tea in tense silence—except for the moaning coming from the basement, but apparently I was the only one who heard that.

  These people were insane. Medieval reenactments, clan wars, family crypts in the basement, blood of Satan. .
. . What had Mom gotten us into?

  And more importantly, how did we get out?

  Fiona

  Fiona has multiple personalities.

  Granted, I've never met anyone with this particular mental condition, but she has it. As soon as Molly told her to stop talking about the McClintoggs, Fiona fumed and then became the typical happy farm girl.

  But I'm not going to risk being on the receiving end of her nutso rage.

  She needs therapy, or a manicure, or something.

  The Barn

  The barn is made of the same stone as our cottage, but it's bigger and has electricity. It doesn't have a hip roof like I'd see back home in Michigan, but distinct peaks, the higher of the two sloping down over what looks like an addition.

  “We have both Blackface and Cheviot breeds,” said Fiona.

  I nodded like I knew what she meant.

  Fiona rolled her eyes. “Sheep. They're breeds of sheep.”

  What self-respecting teenage girl knows about sheep breeds?

  She pulled the heavy door to the side. “They can survive and breed in the hills with nothing from us.”

  Valuable information, since that meant I wouldn't be expected to feed them.

  Fiona latched the door to hold it open. “Do ye even know what a sheep looks like, or are ye too busy spending your money on their fancy wool?”

  She was insulting me?

  Personality three emerges.

  “Yeah, I know what sheep are.”

  “Have ye ever seen one outside a petting zoo?”

  “Ummm . . . no.”

  11:00 a.m.

  Swept the barn. If sheep lived in the hills, why did they need a clean barn?

  2:30 p.m.

  Mom and Molly brought us tuna salad sandwiches. I didn't know they ate American food here.

  I was filthy, and cobwebs were sticking to my sweaty skin.

  I hate cobwebs. I hate sweat.

  I felt like there were creepy crawlies in my hair.

  She's Stuck in the Nineties

  Pop music. Too nineties for me.