Hot Scots, Castles, and Kilts

by Tammy Swoish

  “Aye.”

  He stood behind me, and the chivalrous process started over.

  Twenty shots later, I could finally hold the cross-bow at the correct height and shoot the thing all by myself, although Adan always had to step in and help me load.

  Shot thirty-one. I hit the target dead center. The minute the bolt left the bow, I knew it was perfect. Adan laughed and circled his hands around my waist from behind. “ 'Tis my bonnie lass,” he said. Then he quick-kissed me on the neck. “I can feel your pulse racing here,” he whispered, touching another spot with his lips.

  Whoa! The advantages of shooting a crossbow are incredible.

  Nessie's Shy

  That's what Adan said on the ride home.

  “She's a timid creature. She doesn't want the world to know she exists. She's content living the old ways deep beneath the water.”

  I smiled. Adan had done that all afternoon, saying crazy things about Nessie. He spoke about her like she was a family friend.

  It made me want to kiss him.

  Wait—maybe I wanted to kiss him because he was so hot and had such great hands. My desire to smooch with him had nothing to do with his spiritual connection to the Loch Ness monster.

  Orbs

  Fiona has gone crazy. The whole light anomalies/orbs thing is making her think like a possessed witch-hunter. Tonight she brought me a hundred pages of documentation on paranormal light anomalies that she'd found on the Internet.

  I have to admit, she's getting me kind of geeked about it. There's a ghost—an unhappy, tormented one named Sam—in my loft.

  Maybe Scotland is rubbing off on me. Ghosts, Nessie, clan wars. It's so medieval nutso.

  I bet people would pay big bucks to stay in a haunted cottage.

  I brought this up to Fiona, but she said it wouldn't be fair to use Samuel in that way. Like he's an old family friend or something.

  I think Fiona's mad at me because I hung out with Adan this afternoon.

  Mom told her. Mom can't keep a secret. Note to self: Don't tell Mom anything.

  Anyway, Fiona's been grouchy, saying things like “He's a McClintogg.” Fiona is mentally stuck in her stupid clan war, but that's her issue. Even if he is a McClintogg, I, a MacKensie—sort of—had a super-great day with him.

  Fiona nudged my ribs with her elbow. We sat on the end of my bed. She turned the digital video recorder so I could see the screen. “There, did you see it?”

  “No.”

  She sighed. “Stop daydreaming about Adan McClintogg and focus.” She made his name sound all nasty and evil.

  “He's not bad, Fiona,” I said. “He packed a lunch and everything.”

  She harrumphed. “Pay attention to Samuel.”

  Fiona needs to get a life.

  Day 19

  Pimples

  Two days and I haven't heard from Adan.

  My forehead has two pimples and my chin one. This is terrible.

  What if Adan sees me like this?

  I could always wear a paper sack over my head, not that it matters. I haven't seen Adan. Fiona says it's because McClintoggs only think of themselves, and that to Adan I'm the equivalent of a medieval peasant, while he sees himself as some kind of king.

  Fiona needs to learn friend-comforting skills.

  Soap

  Okay, so we ran out of soap last night, and with my pimple outbreak, that is completely unacceptable.

  Mom's catching the MacKensie insanity. She says we'll make our own soap instead of simply finding a store and buying some more.

  What is the point of that?

  Mom said we should experience everything that future tourists will.

  “They can't bring their own soap?” I asked.

  “The point of MacKensie Manor running as a working farm is to give people the opportunity to live and participate in all parts of the past,” she said. “That means making soap.”

  “That sounds dumb.”

  “No,” she said. “Dumb is stinking because you don't want to take the time to make soap.”

  I cracked my pinky knuckle. “What? I don't want to stink. We could just go and buy soap.”

  “That's not the point. The point is to live the way people did in the past.”

  “I never asked to live in the past.”

  She started tapping her right foot, and I knew I was in for it.

  “Sami, life isn't always about what you ask for.”

  I nodded. Mom was in lecture mode, and once she's there, she won't stop.

  “We do things sometimes because they're just the right thing to do. And you stink, so we're making soap.”

  I lifted my right arm and smelled my pit. “I stink?”

  Things were going downhill fast. I stank, and the lecture was about to hit me like a speeding train.

  “One, Molly and I wrote back and forth for several months before I even learned about her situation, the possibility of their losing their land and all . . . and, two, I offered to help.”

  “Mom,” I said, “I don't care about that. I stink. Can we just go and buy some soap?”

  She pulled the large wooden bowl off the shelf, turned, and set it on the table. “Why?” She looked at me, waiting for me to answer.

  I sat through ten seconds of silence before I spoke. “Because I'm getting pimples, and I stink.”

  She shook her head. “Because helping family is the right thing to do. Geez, Sami, I can't believe I've raised someone so selfish. What if we needed their help?”

  “Selfish? I'm out there milking, counting sheep, and cleaning.” I pointed at her. “You're using power tools and building things. Doing cool stuff. I”—I pointed at my chest—“am spending every day working with Fiona. She's always talking about ghosts and complaining about the one date I had with Adan while I'm swiping at cobwebs and scrubbing windows. Do you know how hard it is to get all the soap streaks off the glass?”

  She shook her head. “It's not about what chores we're doing. It's about helping.”

  “Fine, then, let's switch partners. I want to use the power tools,” I said.

  She nodded. “I think that would be great. I'll work with Fiona tomorrow and get to know her. You can work with Molly. Now, go out to our garden and pick some lavender.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Why?”

  She sighed. “Because I need some scent for the soap.”

  “I don't like lavender.”

  “Since when?”

  I shrugged.

  She looked at me like I'd lost my mind. “Fresh lavender in soap is the best.”

  “How do you know that? It's not like we've ever made soap.”

  “I have.”

  I turned to the door. “You mean one of your characters has made it?”

  “No, I made it once.”

  “Why?”

  “So the character in my story would know what to do. Writers research, Sami, and then, if possible, live the experience to make it real in the story.”

  I left, slamming the door. I wish I had a crossbow. I'd go do some target practice or something. I wonder if Fiona has a set of golf clubs. I could swing one of those for a while. I like to do that when I'm frustrated.

  Characters In Books Are Not Real

  People Doing Real Things

  Seems logical.

  Characters are just that—pretend people with pretend problems. Who cares if they know how to make soap scented with lavender or roses?

  I yanked a spear of lavender and pulled the entire plant up. I shook the dirt from the root.

  Great.

  Mom enjoys doing research. I've always thought it's annoying that she spends so much time getting to know her characters. But learning to make soap just so her character could is . . . cool.

  Rats.

  But why did she have to pull me into it? I'm not writing a novel. I don't need some killer scene full of details on the art of soapmaking.

  I pulled another plant, this time pinching the stem below the blossoms and not yanking out th
e entire thing. Success!

  As much as I hate to admit it, having a mother who writes is pretty cool. I mean, I wouldn't be here in Scotland if she had some other job.

  Yeah, maybe someday our family would have traveled to Scotland, but then it would be just as tourists. Seeing a new country as an active part of a family is awesome.

  I sighed and yanked out another plant. Shoot.

  I hate being wrong, and now I felt bad about saying I didn't get along with Fiona. She's kind of cool.

  I hate it when my mouth spits out things I don't really mean.

  Now I'll have to apologize. Crap.

  Bathing Scars

  Okay, I have to admit, the soap does smell good, and it works—I'm clean and I no longer stink. Mom and I boiled extra water, stoked the fire, and filled our bath “tub” to the rim. I've learned to relax in the small tub lined with towels.

  There was one slight problem. Mom doesn't know how to extract the fragrance without putting the entire plant in the mixture, stem and all.

  We have scratches all over our bodies from the ground lavender stems. It took me about an hour of brushing to get the bits and pieces from my hair, not to mention the fact that it makes terrible conditioner. I freaked out when I saw the pile of hair I'd pulled out just with one swipe of the comb.

  Mom said we'll have to keep trying until we get it right. It wouldn't be good for a paying guest to look all beat up after a bath. Mom and I are the guinea pigs.

  Yeah, the live-like-a-peasant crash-test dummies.

  Mom's Driving Me Nuts

  Why do parents (especially my mom) have to know everything? Mom's been grilling me for an hour about my friendship with Fiona and what I think of Adan.

  It all started when I asked her to help me comb the knots out of my hair. I sat at the kitchen table while she worked from one knot to another. She had me where she wanted me—helpless and tied up in knots.

  She tried keeping her interrogation innocent, but she knew what she was doing. Each strand of hair ripping out from the roots was a message to me: talk or go bald.

  “You and Fiona seem to be getting along,” she said.

  “Yeah. She doesn't shop, though,” I said. “And she doesn't like Adan because he's a McClintogg. Oh, and she wants me to help her find Samuel's murderer.”

  “Samuel?”

  “Yes, remember the ghost?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  I nodded. “His name is Samuel Logan, and Fiona is convinced a McClintogg killed him.”

  “What?”

  “Ouch! Come on, Mom, be careful.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “Is that why this Samuel ghost is still around?”

  I shrugged. “That's what Fiona thinks.”

  “Interesting.”

  Yeah . . . right. That's going into one of her stories.

  “Uh-huh,” I grunted.

  “What about Adan? He seems like a nice boy.”

  I shrugged. “I haven't heard from him.”

  “I thought you said the date went well.”

  I shrugged again. “Yeah.”

  “Boys can be idiots,” said Mom.

  “Yeah.”

  Day 20

  Clan Wars

  Ten sheep are missing.

  Fiona believes the McClintoggs have stolen them.

  Whatever. That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard.

  Found Sheep

  The lost sheep were at some secluded pond taking a break, sleeping in the shade.

  Duh, Fiona.

  5 p.m.

  Mom has been gone all day working with Molly. She said something about using a saw.

  I thought I was going to get to work with the power tools.

  Guess not.

  11 p.m.

  Fiona's here. I haven't said anything about the missing sheep and neither has she. It's like it never happened. Weird.

  Clan wars, in Fiona's mind, obviously include a healthy dose of denial.

  Fiona came armed with her ghost-hunting equipment: a digital camera, digital voice recorder, and one black outfit for each of us. Why? Maybe Samuel will be able to communicate better with us if I'm not wearing tan. Ha.

  It's not like we're burglars breaking into someone's house to steal the family diamonds under the cover of darkness.

  Who cares if the spirits of the dead see us coming? Maybe light colors would be for the best. Then if the spirits saw us, they'd stay in their spirit world and stop whispering things like “McClintogg.”

  I looked over Fiona's shoulder at the display screen as she flipped through a recap of the evidence we'd already captured. Even now I saw nothing except a couple of spots of light.

  “Tonight's our lucky night,” said Fiona. “I can feel it.” She turned and looked at me. “We're going to get something.”

  Samuel Logan . . . MacKensie?

  Fiona and I sat on my bed. I'd had to change into the black clothes she'd brought me because we were going to sneak onto McClintogg land or something.

  “Remember we found birth records of a Samuel Logan MacKensie?” she said. “There wasn't anything about when or how he died. It's like he disappeared.”

  “Maybe you have the wrong Samuel Logan,” I said.

  “Impossible. There's only one,” she said.

  “Seriously? In all of Scotland, there's only one Samuel Logan?”

  She sighed and cracked her pinky knuckle—yeah, she does that too. “We're not looking in all of Scotland, Sami. There's only one mentioned in the records of this area.”

  “Oh.”

  She pointed to a stack of papers. “Samuel was born in 1272.”

  “What? Are you serious?” I asked. “I thought he killed himself in the seventeen hundreds, Fiona.”

  She squinted. “Rumors.” She cracked her pinky again. “ 'Tis an old country, Sami. 'Twas the time of Sir William Wallace.”

  It annoys me when Fiona gets all haughty about her country. I don't know why.

  She tipped her head toward the stack of papers.

  Crap, I couldn't keep quiet. “You're telling me our ghost, Samuel, fought with William Wallace?”

  “Wouldn't be so unheard of,” Fiona said. “Many men in our village died fighting for their idea of freedom, including some MacKensies.”

  “Of course,” I said, waiting for Fiona to make some rude comment about the McClintoggs. She can't say something positive about the MacKensies without countering it with something negative about the McClintoggs.

  She continued, “McClintoggs fought alongside MacKensies then. We always stand with our countrymen in times of war. McClintogg and MacKensie hatred has nothing to do with the outside world.”

  I thought for a minute. “So . . . that means neither a McClintogg nor a MacKensie had anything to do with ghost Samuel's death.”

  Fiona said, “Samuel came back from the war and lived the quiet life of a farmer. That's what the legends say.”

  “Legends,” I said. “It's a bunch of old guys sitting around in a tavern talking.”

  “Nay,” she said. “Don't underestimate hearsay.”

  I sighed and played along. “So, an uneventful life. That doesn't lead to murder, Fiona. Maybe you're reading too much into what you think you heard on the recording.”

  She shook her head. “No, I heard the name ‘McClintogg,’ and so did you, Sami. Something happened.”

  “There are no records of him either way, living or dead,” I said.

  “And there's the legend of his hanging himself,” Fiona added.

  I shrugged. “Maybe it's just that, a legend.”

  She shook her head. “I dinnae think so. If it was nothing more than a story, the ghost of Samuel wouldn't still be here, speaking to us.”

  Dressed in Black,

  Sitting in a Dark Field

  Fiona's brilliant idea for the rest of the night consisted of sitting at the edge of a field and watching for signs of ghosts. Battle ghosts, to be precise.

  I was beginning to wonder where Fiona was doing her gh
ost research. According to her, one of her sources at the local market had given eyewitness accounts of seeing soldier ghosts marching in this field, a medieval battlefield. I didn't know what this had to do with Samuel or why others could see ghosts and I couldn't.

  “They wear clothing from the Middle Ages,” Fiona whispered. “Sometimes they walk around like they're in a camp; other times they charge an unseen enemy, and other times they are bandaged, decapitated, or bloody and stumbling.”

  Great, she's a ghost-hunting nutso. Her obsessive personality is way out of control.

  “What does this have to do with Samuel Logan?” I asked.

  She whispered, “If he was a soldier, it'd make sense that he'd show himself on this battlefield. Maybe we'll see him.”

  “I'm freezing, Fiona.”

  “Aye,” she whispered. “It's the change in temperature that comes before the spirits.”

  I pulled my knees up and rested my chin on them. This was stupid. “How are we going to know if we see Samuel?”

  She pointed. “I've spread special herbs on the ground in front of us. He'll know we're looking for him and come to us.”

  “What?”

  “Aye, he'll come to us.”

  Must be Samuel didn't want to talk to us, because we sat there from midnight until dawn and nothing, not even one decapitated figure.

  Day 21

  Double Date

  Adan stopped by my cottage this morning. Luckily I took a shower last night in Fiona's bathroom and didn't have any lavender sticks in my hair.

  He brought his friend Shane. They wanted to go on a double date, if we could get Fiona to agree. Shane said something about admiring her from afar but not having the courage to speak to her. Their plan involved using me to play matchmaker. Awesome!

  Personally, I thought Shane would have better luck asking Fiona out without Adan around, but I guess he was looking for strength in numbers, so the three of us went to MacKensie Castle to find Fiona.

  When Fiona saw us, her eyes spit fire at Adan, but she didn't know how to react to Shane. Her split personalities had to be going nuts inside.