by Tammy Swoish
But the Backstreet Boys and *NSYNC are okay boy bands to accompany sweeping brooms.
Fiona had the whole “Bye, Bye, Bye” dance down—yet another wacky personality.
Yeah, okay, I did the dance too. I mean, I was sweeping a barn, so why not?
I would never, not even under medieval torture, publicly admit to enjoying the dancing. But I did.
When the song ended, Fiona and I were laughing so hard we both had tears in our eyes.
The dancelike stomp moves really released some stress. However, my pop music preferences stay in my past—my elementary years. I've grown up and am much more mature in my musical tastes. I won't allow anything but rock to be downloaded onto my iPod. I'm not picky, though. I'm as big a fan of the retro eighties hair bands as I am of Nickelback.
My iPod is dead, and I didn't think to bring any way to charge it, so I guess I'm stuck in the nineties with Fiona.
Bye, bye, bye.
Blisters
I have a monster blister on the palm of my left hand. I should've worn gloves when I swept the barn. Who knew?
Mom said I should pop the blister, stop my whining, and go to bed.
Yeah, well, she doesn't have any blisters. You don't get blisters from planting frilly flowers around the castle.
I hope the flowers live. Mom kills flowers. She's like the Black Death of horticulture.
Ghost in the Corner of My Loft
Thumping and heavy breathing in the corner. Can't sleep.
Day 3
Morning
According to the chore list, this week Fiona and I will be working our way through two of the four rustic cottages on the property.
Rustic? More rustic than the one Mom and I are living in? Like it could get more Middle Ages than having to boil water to take a sponge bath.
When Fiona picked me up, her hair was still wet from her shower. Never thought I'd be envious of shampoo, conditioner, a loofah, and running water, but I was.
Mom and I showered in the castle last night. Showers would have to be an evening ritual because I wasn't walking through the cold morning air, in my pajamas, to take a shower.
My manicure is a mess. Luckily I brought my own polish. If Fiona's taste in nail polish is like her taste in music, she probably has tons of hot pink.
I'll fix my nails with some black or deep purple tonight. That will suit my mood.
Cottages
It turns out that Mom and I are staying in the nicest of the four cottages at MacKensie Manor. I know that's difficult to believe, but it's true.
Fiona drove me to the cottage farthest from the castle. I sat on the back of the four-wheeler holding a bucket of cleaning supplies in one hand, two brooms and a mop in the other.
You know, people do break their arms in accidents riding on these things.
Fiona, sensing my fear like a dog smelling raw meat, drove over the pastures like some crazed Highland witch. I must admit that once I relaxed, I enjoyed it.
The ride couldn't have taken more than twenty minutes. By the time we reached our destination, my palms were imprinted with the markings of the mop handles, and I couldn't wipe the smile off my face.
Fiona cut the engine and looked over her shoulder at me. “I love driving,” she said, climbing down.
I nodded.
“What's wrong, Sami? Ye look like death.”
My stomach had not gotten the message that I was having fun.
“Are ye sick?”
I hiccupped, tasting traces of vomit on the back of my tongue. I hate the fact that I have a weak stomach. Mom and Dad call it motion sickness. I call it: I'm a big fat baby.
“Why don't ye lie in the grass for a bit? That'll make ye feel better.”
I climbed off the four-wheeler and plopped down on the lawn, taking deep breaths.
“Just rest for a bit,” she said. “Some people cannae handle riding. Maybe ye'll get used to it. Will ye be okay?”
I closed my eyes and nodded, willing the sky to stop spinning.
“Come in when ye feel up to it,” she said.
Hot Scot
Sprawled out on the grass, trying to regain my focus, I had my first look at a McClintogg—Adan McClintogg.
He didn't look like the Son of the Evil One; his genes were too good. The earth had settled around me, so my vision was fine.
He was riding a horse, kind of a squatty, muscular horse. I guess it was one of those Highland ponies I'd read about online.
Not that horses are important when I'm staring at the best-looking guy in the world.
He was so hot, the temperature within a five-mile radius increased at least ten degrees.
Maybe I was having some kind of a weird teenage hot flash. He was so handsome, my brain forgot about my queasy stomach.
He was riding beside a fence of piled stone about twenty feet behind the cottage. Gorgeousness radiated off him so strongly I could smell it from where I sat. Then I sneezed.
Crap. Was I allergic to him?
Fiona walked out the door, her attention focused on the rider and his horse. He waved. She glared.
“Fiona MacKensie!” he shouted. “What are ye doin' in that run-down cottage?”
“Get off my land, Adan McClintogg!” she shouted.
Mrs. Conklin's English lessons on Romeo and Juliet flashed through my brain—love kills, especially when the two families hate each other.
Well, this sucked.
I looked at Adan, then at Fiona, then back at Adan. I hoped she didn't kill him.
He pulled on the reins, stopping his horse. “I'm on my land, Fiona.”
“No, 'tis mine.”
“Aye, but for how much longer?”
He had the hottest voice I'd ever heard, all confident and accented. But by now he should have learned to read Fiona's facial expressions. He was sitting on his horse, very near to enforcer-personality Fiona.
“We've a year to pay you, McClintogg.”
“Aye.” He waved to me and rode away.
“Wow.” I sneezed again, stood, and walked toward Fiona.
“Adan McClintogg is an arrogant noble, a worthless man, the heir of all McClintogg Land.”
“You have to pay him within the year?”
She turned and looked at me. I think she had tears in her eyes. “Before my dad died, he'd borrowed money from the McClintoggs. We've a year left to pay, or they take our farm.”
“Wait,” I said. “You hate the McClintoggs because you owe them money?”
“Auch, nay, I hate them because they're Mc-Clintoggs.”
Clan Wars
I told Mom about the incident with Adan.
She said, “Fiona seems to be having issues dealing with the death of her father. She wants to find someone or something to blame it on.”
“And she's picked the McClintoggs?” I said.
“Yes, and now the term of the loan is almost up, and Molly has to get the farm out of debt.”
“Or the McClintoggs will take it back?”
“Yes. Molly says the McClintoggs have been waiting patiently. They believe the land is rightfully theirs.” She sighed. “Were you not listening to anything Molly said the other day?”
“So you've brought me into a full-blown Scottish clan war, Mom? Do you have any idea how dangerous this could be? I didn't even buy any plaid before we came.”
Mom looked irritated and confused. “What does your buying plaid have to do with this?” She threw a small log on the fire. She'd finished her work in the castle garden today determined to cook a quiet meal for the two of us at our cottage. “Kind of exciting, don't you think?”
“What?” I asked. “Cooking over a fire, getting blisters, the ghost in the corner of my room, or possibly getting killed by some lunatic rival clan member?”
Mom laughed. “Ghost?”
“Never mind.”
Ghost Is Making Noises in
the Corner of the Loft
Tonight my loft ghost began to thump gently on either the wall or the floor. I wish he'd le
ave me alone and go haunt downstairs in Mom's room.
Day 4
Fiona
Her light hair and blue eyes don't fool me. She's not a sweet, innocent girl. She's nefarious. That's a cool word—sounds wicked rolling off the tongue.
Today we worked on the second cottage, cleaning and making a list of larger repairs for our moms.
I asked, “Is the castle haunted?”
“Aye,” Fiona replied.
That did not make me feel better about my loft ghost.
“I think my loft is haunted,” I said.
“Aye,” she said. “It's said that's where Samuel Logan hanged himself in the seventeen hundreds sometime.”
I stood in the middle of the main room. Fiona moved to the windows and began washing them.
Are all Scottish people crazy? Clan wars are not normal; ghosts are not normal. How could she wash windows? What if there was a ghost here now? A chill raced down my spine.
“Why don't you have them exorcised or something?”
She didn't turn. “Why would we do that, then?”
“Why? Are you serious?”
“Aye, why cause them any more grief than they've already given themselves?”
“What if something happens?”
She stopped scrubbing. “Like what? They can't harm ye, Sami . . . they're dead.”
“What about the local priest?” I asked. We were all Catholic. The Catholic Church does not approve of loose spirits. The Father could talk some sense into her. There were priests specially trained to remove wandering souls and send them home . . . wherever that might be.
“Father Stanley,” she said. “Aye, he's a good man and loves a good bit of ghost hunting.” She dipped her rag into the bucket of soapy water.
“Priests aren't supposed to like ghosts,” I said. “They're supposed to get rid of them.”
Fiona squeezed the rag and looked at me for a minute. “Why would Father Stanley be wantin' to get rid of Samuel?”
“He's a ghost,” I said.
“Aye, and that's no reason to be exorcising him.” She looked at me like I was the nutso one.
I grabbed my bucket of soapy water and sponge. “It's not normal, Fiona,” I said, moving as far away from her as I could, which wasn't very far considering this cottage didn't have a loft.
Ghosts probably loved her.
Samuel Logan
I was alone in the cottage. Mom hadn't returned from her work detail with Molly, and Fiona had dropped me off about twenty minutes ago.
I was sitting at the table when I felt the cold breath on the back of my neck. The hair on my arms rose. I had to work to swallow. I forced myself not to run.
“Sam,” a voice whispered, bouncing from one wall to another.
I took a breath. “What?” I was not sure I'd said the word aloud. I looked around the room. I was alone. “What?”
“I am Samuel,” the bodiless voice said.
I leaned back in the chair so I was balancing on the two back legs. “Who?”
“Samuel Logan. Are ye dim-witted, lass?”
A breeze moved over my thighs. I jerked, and the chair flung out from under me. My bottom hit the wood floor. “Knock it off!” I shouted.
The cup I'd been drinking water out of flew off the table.
“What the heck?” I said, standing.
“Ye said knock it off.”
My butt hurt, my water was all over the floor, and I was carrying on a conversation with a dumb guy-ghost named Samuel Logan. “What do you want?”
“I think I'm a spirit,” he said.
“Duh.”
“I dinnae understand the word ‘duh.’ ”
I shook my head. “Never mind.”
I stood there silent. I didn't know what to say to a ghost.
The quiet lasted so long I thought he'd gone. I sighed and sat down.
“What?” Samuel said.
I jumped up and cracked my pinky knuckle. “What do you want?” I asked. Geez, was he just going to stand around and never leave? That was creepy.
“I dinnae know,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Huh. I dinnae—”
“. . . know what that means,” I finished. “Why are you here?”
“I dinnae know. Lass, how many times do I need to tell ye?”
Great. He was insulting me. “I can't see you,” I said.
“Aye, right . . . ye cannae see me? 'Tis not good. I can see you,” he said.
“That's because I'm alive.” He was trying my patience.
“Aye. I think I'm dead.”
“You think?” Samuel Logan wasn't a very confident ghost.
The house became quiet again. I called Samuel's name three times, but he didn't answer. I have no idea where he went. Maybe he exorcised himself.
I'm keeping this encounter to myself. If I tell Mom, she'll quiz me, digging for details so she can write a paranormal scene.
Day 5
Cows
A farm with sheep in the hills taking care of themselves would be an okay farm by me. But, no, as it turns out, the MacKensies also have a couple of dairy cows. I've been given charge of one while Fiona takes care of the other.
Fiona's cow is named Sugar because she is sweet and gentle. Mine is named Bessie, daughter of Beelzebub. Fiona calls her Bessie; I added the Beelzebub because it fits her distressed, evil personality. She's probably possessed by one of the nasty ghosts Fiona's so fond of keeping around. Or maybe she's a Mc-Clintogg cow.
The disaster began with Fiona handing me a bucket, pointing to Bessie, and giving the command to milk her. Okay. I hadn't done or said anything that would make her believe I had any history of milking a cow. I don't like looking stupid, though, so I watched her for a minute, memorizing her every move. If she could do it, I could. I don't have a brother or sister, so I'd never experienced sibling rivalry until then. And since Fiona is just a distant relative, maybe it's a good thing I'm an only child.
I put the three-legged stool at Bessie's right side, sat down, and cleaned the udder with the wet rag. Then I closed my eyes, reached out, and grabbed a teat. It felt like dried rubber.
I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and pulled. Milk streamed out and soaked onto the straw-covered ground.
Dang . . . I forgot the bucket.
I placed the bucket under the udder and began pulling and milking. The bucket was filling. That was easy. I figured I'd be out-milking Fiona in another five minutes.
I moved on to another teat and pulled. I still had the other side to finish. From my peripheral vision, I saw Fiona moving around Sugar, carrying her bucket and stool.
Dang. Pull faster, Sami.
I'd get quicker and become Queen Milkmaid.
Okay. I needed to focus.
Get a grip, Sami.
The teat was dry. I stood. I could not walk in front of Bessie because her nose was pressed into a wad of hay hanging on the wall. I had to go behind her. I hated walking behind big animals.
What if she kicked me?
I closed my eyes and in one big hop-step was past her backside.
Confident that I understood the milking process, I had become one with the cow, I sat and grabbed another teat. Bessie seemed more uncomfortable with me on this side. My heart was racing. The more timid I became, the more she twitched.
Her tail constantly whacked me in the face like I was some annoying cow-milk fly. Then, with one wellaimed crack, Bessie's tail flew into my open mouth. Long cow hair . . . gross. There was dried brown stuff on it. I spit. Disgusting.
I don't want to know.
Bessie kicked the bucket over—twice.
I lost most of the milk. The second time, I fell off the stool trying to stop the tipping bucket, and my butt landed in a wet puddle that I hoped was spilled milk. I had straw in my tennis shoes, cow hair in my mouth, and milk caked on the butt of my Abercrombie jeans.
Fiona laughed. I didn't have to turn and look at her. I could picture her nose crinkled into that annoy
ing expression she gets before she begins to snort-laugh.
There was nothing funny about this. I was determined to finish milking—although I would've loved to let Bessie's milk glands swell and shrivel, or whatever happens to a cow when she's not milked.
In the end, Fiona's bucket was filled to the top. Mine wasn't. She'd won this round.
Fiona smiled. “Now we churn it into butter.”
Oh . . . bring it on.
My Arms Are Falling Off
Churning butter is a punishment that should only be given to the most hardened criminals. Fiona says it's one of the jobs that people vacationing here will be able to perform.
Right. You'd have to pay them to stay here.
Molly and Fiona's vision of saving MacKensie Manor by turning it into a working farm/vacation-reenactment destination is the world's worst money-making scheme.
Day 6
Mom's in Writer Mode
She's sitting at the table, her journal open in front of her, writing notes and drawing sketches.
Mom always gets quiet when she's putting new elements of a story together. Plus, the new journal is a telltale clue. Each story gets its own special notebook.
Mom has boxes of journals—pages and pages of plots, characters, settings, and research. They're stored in a corner of the attic. They only make it to that sacred storage location if the stories have been published. The living room and her bedroom are full of the journals she's keeping on unpublished works.
She hasn't talked to me about any of her stories for two years, probably because the last time she did, I told her that romances were stupid, and that she should try writing a mystery. Smart people buy mysteries, I said. She told me I was wrong and hasn't talked to me about a story since.
I kind of miss it.
From what I remember, Mom has some pretty cool women in her stories. You know, the tough, I-am-so-confident-I-can-handle-anything type. Most of them have really cool careers, too. There was an astronaut, a mortician, an archaeologist . . .
Any one of Mom's heroines would know how to cook using a fire.
I wish Mom did.
I'm taking a lamp upstairs tonight. The glass globe is dark and burned from the flame, but I'm hoping it will give off more light than my stubby, stinky candle.