Mash Up

by Gardner Dozois

  “West of Kessock?” The officer frowned. “I went through there a few days ago. That stretch of coast has nothing but the tumbled remains of a few crude hovels which have been abandoned for decades.”

  “Perhaps you are mistaken, sir, for I left it not much more than a fortnight ago.” He seemed still puzzled, so I dared a question of my own. “What brings you here, sir?”

  “I am looking for the Highlanders,” the officer answered in a slightly uncomfortable fashion. “My colonel ordered me to undertake the search.”

  “Highlanders live no more in this land,” I said in as steady a voice as I could manage. “Tell your colonel if he seeks soldiers that the only voices heard in these Highlands now are those of the sheep.”

  “I would have agreed with you until I saw this village,” the officer admitted. “But when the queen asked—”

  “The queen?” I interrupted, so amazed I forgot my manners to my betters. “Has ought become of King George?”

  “King George?” He gave me a puzzled look. “Queen Victoria reigns. The army needs regiments for the fighting in Crimea. Her Majesty asked, ‘Where are the Highlanders?’ My colonel took that question as a royal command to answer, and so sent me to find them.” He swept one hand around. “I’ve found but few persons in the Highlands, and those not Highlanders. Until now. How came this village to endure while so many others have gone to ruin?”

  “I do not know, sir,” I told him. “I know not from whence it came. I lived here before we were turned out and sent to the coast.” I indicated the unmarred grass near me. “But nothing remains, and a village that I have no memory of sits nearby that has no memory of me.”

  The officer gazed down at the village. “But it is a Highland town. The men wear kilts.”

  “Please, sir,” I hastened to defend my hosts, “they know nothing of the ban. I know not how, but they know nothing of the Forty-five. Pray do not report them or return with soldiers to take them.”

  His gaze shifted back to me. “Take them? The ban? Of what?”

  “Of… of the kilt.”

  “But that was long ago. Since then King George IV himself wore a kilt like those I see!”

  “George IV?” I felt a strange sensation fill me, as if my whole had filled with icy sea water, and I shivered so I could barely speak. “King George III is dead, then?”

  The officer’s eyes widened. “For many years. How can someone as young as you be surprised by that? I told you that Queen Victoria rules now. How could you not know?”

  “I am lost.” I do not know why I said that, but it suddenly felt true.

  The officer gave me a sympathetic look, one that felt more real than the habitual kindness of the villagers. “You’re distraught. Forgive me. I’m going down into the village. I would feel more at ease if you accompanied me.”

  Though I wondered at his true motive in asking me along, I walked beside him while he asked about myself and the village. I answered as best I could, the obedience to the law and authority drilled into me as a child still strong, but this man did not act with the arrogance I had come to expect in those set over me. He actually seemed concerned for me, though I knew not why, but as we spoke more, his worries appeared to lessen.

  The people of the village greeted the young officer without surprise, as if his coming had already been known to them. For his part the officer studied the young men and seemed well pleased. “A company of such men would be worth a regiment of ordinary souls.”

  One man beckoned the officer toward the tavern. “Have a meal and refresh yourself. We’ll see to your horse.”

  The lieutenant went with him. I had not been dismissed and stood unsure for a moment, then followed. When the officer noticed me, he seemed startled, but not displeased.

  Inside the tavern, they plied Lieutenant Calvert with platters of food, tankards of ale, and glasses of whiskey. He ate well but drank sparingly, despite their urgings, and asked about the town and the region, the men of the village giving cheerful but vague answers every time.

  “The queen needs soldiers for the war in Crimea,” Lieutenant Calvert announced. “She has asked for the Highlanders. All able-bodied men of the Highlands are invited to enlist in the queen’s service.”

  “We would not go against the wishes of our queen,” a man said in the silence that followed, and I wondered if I had misheard a slight emphasis on the word “our.” “But we are loath to leave our homes.”

  “Yet Highlanders have always done so,” the lieutenant challenged him. “Tens of thousands of Highlanders have answered the call, filling dozens of regiments in past wars. Yet now but three scant regiments of troops can be filled from the Highlands. The queen needs you all.”

  But though the men applauded the officer’s brave talk and the past heroism of regiments from the Highlands, they gave no promises, and the sky grew dark outside. “Stay the night,” the villagers urged. The lieutenant agreed cordially enough, and I left for the house where I had been allowed to stay.

  The next day, Lieutenant Calvert persisted in seeking volunteers, but the men of the village continued to evade his requests, instead engaging him in their games and competitions. He seemed to enjoy these greatly, and did not appear unhappy when more than one of the village women flirted with him. But he later sought me out. At first he still spoke to me in simple terms; however, as I answered and asked politely of his own self, he seemed gladdened by the form of my replies.

  I found myself looking forward to any meeting with the young officer. I knew his station was far above mine, yet silly dreams had long been my only comfort and even now I found solace in them.

  Another day went by, and another. Though each day he politely rebuffed the advances of the village women and seemed ever more pleased when with me, Lieutenant Calvert grew steadily less content as the men of the village offered entertainment and delay, but no volunteers for the army. Finally one day, I saw the lieutenant saddle his horse and ride out of the village, face set with determination. My heart fell, but he was back in the evening, seeming perplexed yet also relieved. “Despite all that this village offers, I should not stay,” he told me with more than a trace of guilt.

  “A man has his duty,” I agreed, though I wished I could say other things as well. I had never met a man half so kind or respectful of me as this one.

  Lieutenant Calvert looked away and nodded. “Yes. I got lost today and ended up back here. I need to try to leave once more tomorrow. Will you eat supper with me?” I had unaccountably grown more nervous in his company, not less, but readily assented.

  After the meal, the lieutenant smiled at me as if at a friend, taking me aback in a pleasurable way. “Mary Chisholm, though you and I are alike strangers here, can you tell me where the church is?”

  “The church?” I sat silent a moment, startled to realize that I knew not the answer. “I have seen no church, sir.”

  “Where do the folk worship on Sunday?”

  I felt myself flushing with embarrassment. “Sir, I cannot say. One day runs into another here, and which one is Sunday I never heard, nor saw any worship services. The plain truth is that I’ve not thought to ask.”

  He gave me a curious glance. “You do not seem the sort to not care for her soul.”

  “I care, sir.” I nerved myself to speak the truth. “When the agents came to my people to force us from our homes and our lands, the ministers walked among them, preaching that scripture demanded that we obey those set in authority over us, and warning that the eternal fires awaited any who defied such authority. My soul was troubled less by such fears than the fact that ministers of our good shepherd cared less for His human flocks than for the flocks of Lowlander sheep. Since then, I have placed more stock in the words of the gospels than in the words of ministers.”

  Lieutenant Calvert smiled again. “You are bold. Do you doubt the authority of those over you?”

  I sighed. “Sir, such authority is real and we must obey. Yet I have only seen obligation demanded of those w
ho serve, even though always was I taught that the obligations ran both ways.”

  “Bold and not unwise,” he amended. “I’ve met few women like you, Mary Chisholm. But isn’t it strange to find a village of this size with neither minister nor church?”

  “Strange is but a small word for such a thing. Perhaps their minister is away.”

  “Perhaps. I’ve asked and received no clear answer. That should be no surprise, because for all this village has, it seems to lack clear answers to anything.”

  “It has no burial place,” I said, only now grasping that nowhere had I seen one. “But perhaps they’re like parts of some other clans. The MacDonalds of Glencoe and Stewarts of Ballachulish, I was told, would take their dead to an island in a nearby loch.”

  “That could be.” Lieutenant Calvert shook his head. “I must think.”

  He rode out again the day after, but was back before the sun had set and sought me out. “Tell me truly. These are your kin, Mary Chisholm?”

  “Aye, sir. So they say.” I bit my lip then blurted out more. “I do not know these people. I should be happy here, but something feels amiss and I know not what.”

  “Something is amiss,” he agreed. “Yes. Will you share an evening meal with me again in the tavern, Mary Chisholm?”

  “People will talk,” I objected.

  “Let them. You help me think and bring me welcome companionship.”

  “Then I will accept your kind invitation, sir.” I expected many a curious glance and whispered comment when we entered the tavern, but the villagers seemed to simply accept things in a way unlike the small places I had known.

  Unease built in me through the meal, then I finally spoke of things that sounded absurd to me. “They gossip little here. I have seen no ill will, nor real arguments. The men fight at times, even engaging with dirk and sword or fighting with blows of the fist, yet none ever take lasting injury.”

  “It is odd,” Lieutenant Calvert said in a low voice. “Wonderful and odd, both. This place is what I dreamed to find in the Highlands. I feel as if I have stepped into a novel by Sir Walter Scott.”

  “I am not unlettered, sir, but my reading is yet weak. I have never heard of this Sir Walter Scott.”

  “He wrote tales, some of them of the Highlands.” Calvert’s gesture included the entire great room. “This could be a scene from such a book. Highland warriors like paladins of old and every woman a fair lady. I admit that I feel a strong desire to stay here despite my duty. Have you thought to leave?”

  “Where would I go?”

  “I understand. But I have tried. There seem to be no boundaries, and yet I cannot ride away, even though duty demands it of me. After hours in the saddle, I find myself turning a hill and see this village before me again. The first day, I thought that I had lost my way. Today, I know I did not turn back here, and yet here I came.”

  “You rode out each day with no farewells,” I said before my better sense could stop me.

  He took no offense, instead seeming discomfited. “You could present me with a white feather for that and I would have to accept it. It was very hard to try to leave. I feared that if I had to say farewell to you as well, my resolve would fail me.”

  I felt a flush rising on my cheeks. “Sir, you are an officer of the army. A gentleman. I am a poor Highland lass.”

  Lieutenant Calvert shook his head. “But in one of Sir Walter Scott’s tales, or others like it, all Highland lasses are ladies as fine as any at the royal court in Westminster. The Highlanders are a noble race in such stories.”

  “Noble?” I spoke louder than I intended and drew some glances from the villagers. Casting my voice lower, I spoke with great agitation. “We’re a proud people, sir, but we’re not fools enough to think the world sees us as noble. This Scott is an Englishman despite his name, or a Lowlander? Never did they call Highlanders noble. Savages. Thieves. Idle and slothful. Useless. I have heard all those. But never noble. Mi-run mor nan Gall. You have heard of it?” Lieutenant Calvert shook his head again. “The great hatred of the Lowlander for the Highlander. It has always been thus. This writer Scott spoke of others than Highlanders if he used the world noble.”

  “But if Highlanders are such as these,” he said with a tilt of his head to indicate the others in the great room, “they would be seen as noble. Look at them. Every one healthy and strong. It’s as if the cholera never came here.”

  “The cholera?”

  “You must know of it.” I shook my head and Lieutenant Calvert seemed baffled. “It came before the famines. Between them they killed so many—”

  “Famines? In the Highlands? Where?”

  This time he took a while to answer, gazing at me as if uncertain of himself. “Everywhere. The last famine started a few years ago and is hardly past as yet. You know nothing of it?”

  I felt a chill again and could not speak, but only shook my head like a child.

  Lieutenant Calvert spoke very slowly. “You told me when we first met that you had been here about a fortnight.”

  “About that, yes. It could have been a wee bit longer.”

  “You believed that George III was still king. I thought you feeble-minded at first and took care with you, though I have since learned that your mind is quick and sharp.” Calvert paused as if nerving himself. “What year is it, Mary Chisholm?”

  “Eighteen fifteen.”

  “I left London on August twelfth, eighteen fifty-four. Could you have been here for forty years, Mary Chisholm?”

  I stared at him. “No, sir! I haven’t even seen twenty winters yet!”

  “That’s clear enough, and I might wonder at your story, except that you are the only one in this village who gives me answers.” As he looked around, his gaze seemed fearful, matching the tight feeling inside me. “It is impossible. How could you have been here forty years, yet not aged? How could this village have kept at bay all the ills which have afflicted this land?”

  I took a sudden deep breath as the answer came to me. “Sir, do you know of the Other World? Have you been told of the Second Sight? Of goblins and faeries and witches, and those like An Duine Mor, the Big Man who walks at night to herald the coming of great woe? Have you ever heard of the Fair Folk?”

  He frowned at me. “I heard tales from my nursemaids as a child, and have read many books that draw on such legends.”

  “Then tell me, sir, what happens to those who stumble upon the Fair Folk and enjoy their hospitality?”

  His frown deepened. “They feast and celebrate for a day or two, but when they leave they find that years have passed—” Lieutenant Calvert’s words ceased, then he looked around once more with wonder and fear mingled on his face. “But they’re just stories! None of that is real.”

  “Not real? Who told you such nonsense? Many a soul in Strathglass saw An Duine Mor striding through the hills on the nights before we were cast from our homes, and my own mother had the Sight come upon her once. A spark appeared from nowhere to alight on her arm and burned her not, then vanished, and by that she knew that my brother would die that day. Certainly the tales are real.” I tapped the table between us. “Real enough for your wine glass to rest upon.” Then I grimaced and my voice dropped lower. “But I do not understand. These are not as the Fair Folk were told to me, else I would have known who they were long before now. This village pays homage to the old tales, to Fionn MacCumhail and his like, but neither he nor his Feinn would belong here, I think. These people know the old stories, but these people are not of the old stories.”

  “The legends.” Lieutenant Calvert gave a pained laugh. “Is that what explains it? Your legends, your land. The Highlanders owned this land, but no more. They’re gone in many places and those that are left are being cleared from their hills to make way for more sheep. The Highlanders are gone.”

  “I have not forgotten.”

  “Others have.” Calvert sighed. “They do remember the ancient and proud fighting reputation of the Highlanders. That’s why the queen
wants them in her regiments. And they remember your old stories. But once the savages are gone, cleared from their lands, then it’s safe to make romances of them, isn’t it? Turn them into clean, handsome paragons of virtue and chivalry as well as fighting skill. Turn their hovels to nice homes, turn their rude villages into welcoming towns, turn their threadbare garments into well-tailored fantasies.”

  “The tartans,” I murmured. “These villagers speak of ‘clan tartans’ supposedly ancient in design and I know nothing of these. By our badges have the clans always been known.”

  “Yes. There’s a new history to go with the emptied Highlands, isn’t there? They make paintings of these lands and show Lowland shepherds herding their sheep. They read the books of Scott and think the Highlanders were like King Arthur’s knights.” He gave me a look of sympathy. “This isn’t your faery world, Mary Chisholm. Not the one of your kin. It’s their dream, the Lowlanders, the English, who now rule the land and have put their mark on more than its surface.”

  “They have taken my true people from me,” I gasped. “These people here, they claim to be my Highland kin, but they’re not mine and they’re not Highland. They’re from this Scott person, and from others of his like.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Calvert agreed. “This village is their fantasy brought to life, not yours, because now this is their land, not yours.”

  “It is a lie!” I cried, stumbling to my feet, my voice rising. “A lie made by the same people who cleared my kin from the glens and hills of the Highlands! They destroyed us and then they took our lives for their romances! Ah, God, could you not give my people the dignity of their truth? Did who they were have to die with them, replaced by some faery dream of a people and a place that never was?”

  The room had fallen silent. Everyone was looking at me and Lieutenant Calvert. The young man who had first greeted me stood up and walked slowly toward us, stopping but an arm’s length away, his ready smile finally replaced by grim seriousness. “Mary Chisholm, you have been welcome here. This is what you sought. That is why the door opened. Here is land and kin.”