by Unknown
“So,” she said, “Do you know why the men here wear kilts?” She held his eyes for the punchline. “Because sheep can hear a zipper.”
McKay laughed.
“The royalty will have men, women, children or sheep,” she said. “But folks like me are held to stricter standards.”
“Does your family know about you and Jordon?”
“Aye,” she sighed. “I’d describe things as a begrudged acceptance. My great-grandfather Riley went in with us as a silent partner when Jordy proposed we open a gay bar far enough away from home where our own fine citizens would not wander accidentally into a bar with a rainbow flag fluttering proudly in the breeze. After a couple of years he was accepted into the airlines as a flight attendant and I turned old enough to take over managing it.”
“Do people come to visit?”
“There’s one special friend of mine who came down a couple of times but then she settled in, married a man and soon turned her parents into grandparents. Then she came no more.” She took a left hand fork in the road. “When I was last home she had just had her third wee one.”
A few minutes later McKay started seeing signs welcoming them to Aviemore. “We’ll be stopping here to pick up some supplies. I always bring my family fresh foods. I’ve already put some spirits into the trunk. Being one of the owners of a bar means I am very popular when we’re ready to raise a toast.” She parked and looked at McKay. “My family’s not a wealthy one, and the bar’s made a bonnie profit. If they won’t admire me for my being a chick magnet, they will admire me as nouveau riche. I’ve never come home empty handed.”
She pulled into a small Tesco and took a yellow list from her purse. McKay followed her with a shopping cart as she started to efficiently hand him fruits and vegetables and then sorted through meats. “I’d offer to take you around to grab something for us to eat, but the moment we drive up to my family’s home they’ll be trying to stuff our faces before our car doors will close.” She pointed out her choice to a clerk who started wrapping her selections in paper. “Jordy would sometimes bring a boyfriend home from Edinburgh and not warn him. His guest would grab something to eat here in Aviemore. Then Jordy would take him from house to house in our village and each family would insist his visitor eat again. He’d laugh as the guy felt as if was going to explode and tell him to bounce up and down on his chair to pack the food down because they had another home to visit and then they’d have to go to the castle for the real feast.”
McKay helped her load up the bags and boxes into the backseat. She pulled out and headed east. The way became a journey through the woods and any sense of the small resort town was soon left behind.
“They’ll sing songs in an older language than we use now,” she said. “You might see them do things you consider odd, but that’s just what we do here.” She took another left fork and increased her speed. “If you’re curious about something it would be better to ask me about it privately. People are not used to opening up to strangers.”
“You mean odd things like Morris Dancing?” He had been puzzled to see photographs of men Morris Dancing in his guidebook, which had led him to watch some on-line videos. To his American eyes, the dancing looked like Monty Python’s interpretation of a gay pride parade. Each video had featured a different group of dancers and they varied in colors and costume but each one seemed over the top and most wore hats covered in flowers. In the seven videos he had watched, he had yet to see a butch looking dancer.
“We have something like that with the Mums,” she said. “Although you’d be more proper to call them Mummers. Morris Dancing was outlawed in Scotland as the Presbyterians came into power with the Reformation hundreds of years ago. But our village is so isolated and protected by our own fair Lairds who hold traditions highly, many things are still as they were.”
McKay began to see a castle looming in the distance but Gillian took a back road that led them behind to smaller stone houses that clustered together into their own village. “In the old days everyone lived in the castle,” she said, pulling up to one that seemed to McKay to be indistinguishable from the ones beside it. “But as no invaders showed up and the population continued to grow, the common folks started building these homes for themselves. I also understand it was easier not to constantly have the royals underfoot. Being in their own homes made people feel more like employees than servants.”
The door flew open and an assortment of children rushed out calling “Gillian! Gillian!” She emerged and was covered in an assortment of hugging hands. McKay enjoyed seeing how welcome his new friend was. He looked up and saw a few adults also coming out.
The children danced away to allow their elders to greet Gillian on their own. “McKay,” she said, “meet my Aunt Agnes and Uncle Liam—they’re Jordy’s parents. And this is my great-grandfather, Riley.” She turned from the hug she was giving to the oldest looking human McKay had ever seen. The only person he had known who looked even more ancient was Mona. When Mahihkan was forced to introduce McKay to the reality of the Supernatural community he had seen Mona at a distance. Mahihkan had simply identified her as a “non-shifter.”
McKay was curious exactly what type of Supernatural she was but Mahihkan was reluctant to elaborate. “I’ve said far too much to you as it is. Besides, it sort of feels like Outing a person as gay to tell you what others want to keep a secret when it comes to their identity.”
“I need some time alone with you,” she leaned in close to Riley’s ear. “McKay is trying to find where his grandfather came from.”
“You’ll have your chance to gab with your Sinn-Seanair,” Agnes said. “But leave Riley alone for now. We’re right in the middle of getting things ready and I need to herd you both inside so we can properly feed you. So what might you be bringing us this time?”
McKay opened the doors of the back seat and a parade of older children started toting in the packages and boxes the adults assigned them. Her Uncle Liam was charged with bringing the liquor from the trunk. There were more than a dozen adults inside and McKay gave up trying to keep track of the number of children. When Gillian opened a bag of candy the sweets and the children suddenly disappeared. The noise level dropped considerably.
After a brief introduction that left McKay’s head full, Agnes started filling two plates from the many pots warming on the stove. When they finished, Gillian showed him to her old room while the rest of her family went back to their preparations.
“This may be one of the few times we have a bit of peace,” she said, flopping on to a bed. “Let me look at your grandfather’s journal.” He nodded and pulled it out of his bag. Agnes came by a moment later carrying a tray with cups and a pot of tea. She set it on the table by the bed and McKay thanked her.
Agnes stared openly at him. “You look like you should be on TV or something,” she said, almost to herself. “Movie star looks, we used to say.” She turned and walked out, shaking her head. She closed the door behind her.
“Want to take a bet as to how long she’ll hold out before asking you if you’ve slept with Jordy?” Gillian laughed and started to inspect the journal. By the time she had finished a second cup of tea, she looked up at McKay. “I can help some, but not nearly as much as I’d like. There are parts of it that seem as if it were written by someone like Riley—a bit long-toothed—what my Aunt Agnes would call auld-farrant. That means old-fashioned. It’s a bit thick but I can sound it out. There’s some interesting stuff and I’d like to go back over it with you later. But there are whole sections of this that I don’t even recognize as related to Gaelic. Do you know if your Grandda spoke any other languages?”
McKay frowned. “Not to my knowledge. He only talked about his Scottish heritage and he pieced out that information in as small amount as he could.”
“For the entries that aren’t in that strange tongue, he uses terms that would still be used in our village today, at least by the older members. I’ll ask Riley if he ever heard of Logan McKay. I’ll also show h
im the mysterious writing but I don’t want to get your hopes up.”
“Anything you or your family can tell me I’ll appreciate.”
“He writes about some of the things you’ll see while you’re here.” She glanced again at Logan’s tight and clean writing. It was also obvious to her Logan’s eyes had been wide open to the fact this was all a nest for the Daoine Sith. It was the first time she had ever seen The Secret they were supposed to keep spelled out on a page. Apparently Logan was a human who wasn’t trying to hide anything even in his private journal. Her childhood was filled with dire warnings to never talk about the reality of their local Lairds or that magic was as commonplace as sheep.
“What did you know about Logan’s history?” She turned the journal over and looked at him.
“After he left Scotland he stayed with a cousin of his who had married an American she had met when he was stationed overseas during World War Two. From Chicago he moved to Seattle.”
“Aye,” she nodded. “He uses an old word for the Ocean. He needed to be two oceans away. That makes no sense to me. I’m just telling you what I see.”
“He met my grandmother Mary McKenzie there. They had a son named Donald and he married Kathrine McCloud. My father was a Professor at Berkeley.” His voice grew a little softer. “I never met my Grandmother Mary. My parents were killed in a car crash when I was little. I barely remember them. My Granddad drove down to California to claim me. He’s been the only family I’ve ever known. He got a phone call his cousin in Chicago had passed away when I was around twelve. She left no children.” He hesitated. “I’m all alone.”
“Alone,” she smiled, “but nae unloved. Never unloved. There’s something special about you, McKay.” She closed the journal and sat back.
She was still irritated at the major sections of text she could not read. Logan’s revealing pen also restricted her as to those she could trust enough to see what else Logan had described. There was no way she could take it to one of the many Sith. They would burn it and would consider removing the last remaining trace of the McKays. That her own life would be worthless was a given. The only one she could really trust was Riley. Nervously she unconsciously wove a small braid in her hair. As children they called such a thing a Sith braid. It was supposed to be a protection against their glamour. She caught herself halfway through and laughed at herself. Riley had told her long ago the secret was to envision she was weaving together the three strands of her soul, spirit and mind. When those were in harmony—that was the greatest protection she or any human could have against the unknown.
There was again a knock at the door and Gillian stood up to open it. Her Aunt was staring impatiently at her, the older woman’s hands full of clothing. As she walked in her eyebrows rose upon seeing the small braid in her niece’s hair. “Wrap a wee ribbon about that if you intend to parade around the castle,” she said in a low voice. She placed her burden on the bed and turned back to McKay. “Tradition is important to the people here. For the Fest it’s expected we dress appropriately. Seeing as how you are our guest I’ve pulled out some things that should fit you.” She looked at Gillian and added, “I had your own outfit aired out and cleaned in anticipation of your arrival. Now the two of you get busy because you’ll need to be ready before true dark.”
She shut the door and McKay ran his finger across the fine wool. “That one is mine and you should not be doing drag for the Fest,” Gillian teased. She separated the items out and pushed the proper ones in his direction.
“It looks a lot less complicated in the photos,” he said. “What’s this?” He held up a strip of the brightly colored cloth.
“’Tis a fly plaid,” she explained. “It will go over your shoulder and covers your heart.” Taking charge she began to dress him. “Aye,” she said as he removed his shirt with a model’s experience appearing in public both in and out of clothes, “You’ve abs worth waiting for. No wonder you attracted Jordy’s attention.” Skillfully, having dressed several younger male cousins as she was growing up, she told him the old names of each article of clothing and had him presentable in a few minutes. “Your sporran is crooked,” she said as she pulled at it. “It’s large enough to hold your wallet—and a supply of condoms,” she laughed. “I was only concerned about the fit of the ghillies, but your feet seem made for them. Are they comfortable?” He nodded.
“Now—one more thing—left or right?” she smiled again.
“What does it matter when I’m in a kilt?” Now Gillian looked confused.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m asking if you’re left or right handed. It makes a difference for the placing of the sgian-dubh.” She went back to the bed and came back with a knife—the handle was made of deer antler.
“Wait—I’ve got this—in my guidebook it says dubh means black. But there’s nothing black about that knife.”
“Aye,” she said. “It can mean black as sin, but it also means hidden.” She placed it into a thin leather sheath. “You tuck it in at the top of your hose—on the right or left side depending on your dominant hand. Just the top part of the hilt is to show—the rest being hidden.”
“So it’s a secret weapon?”
“Nay,” she laughed, “it’s because a kilt has no pockets. And ‘tis no secret since all of us know where you keep it. Throughout our history the sgian-dubh was used a lot more to cut cheese and bread than as a weapon. What you think of as knives and forks are more recent additions to our tables. This,” she said as she handed him the knife, “was meant to be practical for everyday usage.” She grinned in a wicked way. “Although there is a story an angry wife stabbed her husband through the heart with his own sgian-dubh when she caught him cheating.”
He tucked it carefully on his left side. “I hope this won’t lead to a permanent dent on my leg in the process,” he smiled at her.
“Nah,” she said. “You’ll not be wearing the sgian-dubh flat against your leg so long that you’d be in any danger.” She stepped back to look at him.
“Amazing,” she whispered. “You should always wear this.” She laughed, “You were born to wear it.” She pulled him to the mirror in the corner of the room.
In the past few years he had worn a wide assortment of high-end fashion. But he had never thought of wearing something like this. He looked as if he belonged in a museum. He turned a couple of times, watching the way the kilt moved. “Jordy used to spin in front of this same mirror like that when it was his turn in the castle.”
“Is this his?” He touched the antique brooch on the fly plaid she had called a “sword and targe.” It was a miniature sword and shield. In the center was a lemon colored gem about the size of a quarter she had told him was a Cairngorm stone—a crystal from the nearby mountains
“Surely you’re joking,” she smiled. “Jordy would never leave his things here when he can wear them proudly at every event he fancies. He’s emailed me pictures of him looking so righteous at gay pride parades in Japan or Amsterdam. When you’re on foreign soil, you’ll always stand out as a true Scotsman.”
She had begun dressing herself. “When a man puts on the family’s finest he looks like a Laird. But to my own eyes when I put this on I look as if I should be carrying a tray of drinks in a pub for American tourists. I hate dresses because they’re such a statement of how I’m seen and my expected role back here at home.” She shook her head when she looked in the mirror and opened a drawer to pull out a ribbon that picked up the colors she was wearing. She pushed one end through the braid she had made and then pulled half of it out, criss-crossing it on top of what her Great-Grandfather Riley called her “spiritual protection.” Satisfied she put her arm through his. “Now let us show off how good we City Folk look. Get ready for a tour of the Fair Lairds’ castle.” They walked past her Aunt Agnes who nodded her approval, then both left to join the Fest.
Chapter Six
Niall sought the Pooka who was fuming in front of the great Fireplace. “Rory,” he began. T
he Pooka felt the Sith push at him with his glamour and it made him furious.
“The hell you’re doing?” he spat. “Trying your magic at the likes of me? You can screw with the mind of any human or Sith, but Pookas are immune to your meddling.”
“But at the bar--” Niall frowned.
“It was my pleasure to trick you—letting you think it was your witchy ways that seduced me when in truth I seduced you. All I needed to do was spread my legs and you were mine. What were you trying to do just now? Tame me like some blind cow?”
“I was hoping to take the edge off, but if that’s no option then I’ll speak directly: hospitality is sacred and I wish no animosity or anger in our home to Mathow and our other guests.”
“Other guests? And might I be tripping over a stray Boobrie Bird or the likes of a Gille Dubh dripping his leaves and grubby moss wherever he walks? Do you let just anyone wander your halls?”
Niall frowned and thought, “I’m starting to question the wisdom of having welcomed a Pooka in my home.” He hated it when he had to admit his mother had been right and he had been wrong. Again.
“And might I be pointing out that your precious hospitality should include me as your guest as well? Just keep your mangy Wulver away from me and we’ll be fine.” He turned to face the fire again, giving his back to the Sith.
Niall walked away, struggling to hold in his own temper. He automatically headed for the place he had sought solace from since his childhood. In a few moments he entered the old chapel. He was one of the few who still used it. Looking around to make certain he was alone he waved his hands and the many candles flamed on. There was a dance of shadows and he felt the tension start to drain from him. He sat down and considered his options. There was no clean way of dealing with this—the Pooka was correct in stating the Sacred Laws of Hospitality applied as much to him as anyone else. But the thought of sharing his bed again with such a nasty piece of work made him shudder. The sex had been among the best he had had. It just came at a great price.