Jason peered down the slope, waiting for the first of his pursuers to show himself. 'And why's that?'
'If they know there're two of us, the sodding bastards'll run.'
The timely arrival of a low-strafing, rocket-bearing F-16 fighter actually scattered the attackers, but neither Jason nor Adrian would ever admit that the plane's arrival was more than an intrusion by air forces with not enough else to do.
After the conflict they had kept in touch, spending boozy, ill-remembered evenings in places most people had never heard of, until Adrian's retirement a few years ago.
Like most Highland Scots, Adrian was intensely proud of his heritage and equally eager to leave its desolate landscape and dreary weather.
In the seventeenth century, Cromwell had had one of Adrian's ancestors hanged by the neck-but not until dead-then castrated and drawn and quartered. Although presumably no longer of interest to the victim, his component parts had then been buried at various unmarked crossroads. Years later, such remains as could be found had been entombed in a grand sepulchre in St. Giles in Edinburgh. It was a fact of which Adrian was extremely vain, but no more so than that his bloodline had three centuries earlier stood with Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn, with somewhat happier results. Even family pride, though, could not overcome the misery of the nine-month Scottish winter.
Like so many British, he and his wife had sought warmer climates. Unlike most English expats, he had not chosen the southwest of France, Tuscany, or Spain. His hobby of archeology had drawn him to the stone structures of the early Bronze Age that dotted the hills of the island of Sardinia. Through either beneficence or indifference, amateur exploration was not discouraged, and the cost of living was some of the lowest in western Europe, and life expectancy the highest.
Adrian and his wife had purchased a small farm in the rocky mountains that formed the spine of the island near the tiny village of Silanus.
Adrian held the door of the Volvo open. 'You've no luggage?' 'We didn't have time to pack,' Jason said. 'Figured we could pick up what we needed when we got here.'
Adrian helped Maria into the front passenger seat, motioning Jason into the back. 'Aye, well, there's no Fortnum and Mason or Harrods in Silanus. Clare, m' wife, will have a spare frock or two. An' you, Jason-I think I can put something on yer back till you find suitable clothing.'
'I don't look good in kilts,' Jason said.
Adrian was turning the key, the Volvo's starter grinding. 'An' I'm not insultin' th' Graham clan tartan by givin' ye th' loan of any.'
The starter motor had quit whirring and simply clicked its solenoid.
'Damn piece of Swedish junk! Doesn't like the Guinea climate.' Adrian got out and withdrew a cudgel from under the seat. 'Just raise the bonnet and give 'er a tap.'
Jason could feel the blow to car's engine.
Satisfied, Adrian climbed back in, tossing the club into the backseat next to Jason. 'Like any woman, she needs to be shown who's boss once 'n a while.'
Jason was thankful Clare wasn't present to hear that.
Adrian turned the key. This time the engine purred. Adrian engaged a groaning clutch, shifted reluctant gears, and they were in motion.
He was grinning. 'An' Antonio, th' closest thing we have to a real mechanic in these parts, wanted more'n a hundred euros to repair what a good thrashin' could accomplish.'
They drove along a barely discernible trail among the foothills of the Gennargentu Mountains. Parched and sloping pastureland feuded unenthusiastically with jagged rock outcroppings. Gray rock was everywhere-in the path they were driving, intruding bluntly into scatterings of meadow, and rising into mountains. Rare patches of green stubbornly forced leaves up between stones. Scattered herds of sheep and goats added cotton fabric to the otherwise threadbare landscape. The vista was largely unforgiving and barren.
Other than the terrain's stinginess with green, it was,
Jason thought, remarkably similar to Adrian's native Highlands.
At the end of a dusty, rocky path only generosity would call a driveway, the Volvo pulled into a dirt yard. At the far end sat a one-story cottage made from the gray native stone. Two stunted trees, perpetual combatants in the battle with the mountains' winds, flanked the single front door.
Adrian gave a cheery toot on the horn, and a smiling, white-haired woman popped out of the door as though she had been waiting for the signal. Her round face was reddish and split by a smile as she trotted toward the car, wiping her hands on an apron.
Jason barely got out of the car in time to accept her embrace.
'Jason! It's' been so long…'
Tears glistened in her eyes. Despite differences in background and age, Laurin and Clare had become fast friends during the one time Jason and his wife had visited the couple in Scotland. The two women had exchanged e-mails on a regular basis, and Clare and her husband had appeared as grief-stricken as any blood relative at Laurin's memorial service. Jason would always appreciate the time and expense involved in their attendance.
Clare dabbed a sleeve to her eyes and turned to Maria.
Dropping her arms from Jason's shoulders, she gave a gesture that, in earlier times, might have been called a curtsy. ''Lo! I'm Clare.'
'Th' present Mrs. Graham,' Adrian added.
'Auld fool!' Clare nodded toward her husband of over thirty years.
Maria extended a hand as she climbed out of the Volvo. 'Maria Bergenghetti.'
' Dr. Bergenghetti,' Adrian added.
'Maria will do fine,' Maria said, darting a glance at Jason.
Clare looked from Jason to Adrian and back again. 'Have they no luggage?'
Adrian was herding Jason and Maria toward the house as he tossed over his shoulder, 'None at all. I'm sure you have a gown or two you can share with the lass.'
Clare hurried after them. 'Of course. Not that anything I have here is high fashion.'
Hie inside of the cottage was somewhat more inviting than the outside.
Entry was into a large living room with a vaulted, beamed ceiling. A number of comfortable-looking leather chairs and a couch faced a fireplace large enough to hold man-size logs. Surmounting the rough wooden mantel was a huge double-edged sword, its burnished metal attesting to regular care.
Adrian followed Maria's gaze. 'A Graham swung that claymore beside Bonny Prince Charlie at Culloden Moor. 'Twas what you might call the Stuarts' last stand. Y'see-'
'I think they'd be more impressed with something to eat,' Clare interrupted before her husband could reach full speed. 'Not much, just a typical local lunch.'
Behind her, a long wooden table was spread with a white cloth. Four tumblers guarded a bottle of red wine and a plate of carta da musica, the native flatbread so thin it did, in fact, resemble a sheet of music. A large slice of whitish-yellow cheese-Jason guessed pecorino-was next to a bowl of some sort of vegetable stew, probably eggplant, tomatoes, and fava beans. Not exactly the meal one would expect from a Highlander.
Adrian was the typical paradoxical Scot: thrifty to the point of parsimony, yet a generous and congenial host.
Perhaps apocryphal, certainly believable, was the story repeated to Jason by more than one of Adrian's former subalterns as lore in the regiment. Nightfall on base brought young Lieutenant Graham prowling the enlisted men's quarters, ostensibly to verify that no one had taken unofficial leave. His actual purpose was revealed in the morning, when a dearth of toilet paper in the latrine was noticeable. Young Graham, it seemed, had an aversion to spending his meager officer's pay to purchase necessities so readily available.
A few of his peers called him Leftenant Bum Wad until the day he retired.
But Adrian had no compunctions about sharing the 'last wee dram' of single-malt scotch or a Cuban cigar. On his sole visit, Jason had wanted for nothing. Jason supposed the generally hostile climate of his friend's native Highlands disposed him to waste nothing but offer bounteous hospitality to those who sought it.
Adrian ushered them into cane-bottom chairs, poured the red wine, and raised his glass. ' A cent'anni!' He took a sip and grinned. 'Sardinian greeting and toast; means 'live a hundred years.''
Adrian dipped a generous serving of the stew onto Maria's plate before serving Jason. 'I'll not be inspectin'
