Highland Laddie Gone

“It was a massacre,” said Elizabeth, ignoring him. “And after the battle, the Duke of Cumberland’s army spent months in the Highlands, killing every man, woman, and child they could find. They virtually obliterated the Highland clans.”

“Hardly that,” Geoffrey protested. “Judging from these Scottish gatherings, I’d say you were all breeding like hamsters.”

“We’re the refugees,” snapped Elizabeth, glossing over a few centuries. “The ones who could escaped to Ireland, and then to America or Canada.”

Geoffrey nodded comprehension. “I see! But, Elizabeth, what are the Campbells doing here then? Shouldn’t they all be back in Scotland, living it up, having the place all to themselves?”

Elizabeth was shaken by this hitherto unconsidered question. “Never mind about that!” she muttered. “They’re probably all descended from younger sons who got booted out to the colonies.”

“That’s right,” smiled Geoffrey. “I’d forgotten that everyone in Virginia is descended from the English nobility. Not a yeoman in the state.”

Elizabeth made a face at him.

“With all that fiction going around, I don’t see why I couldn’t be a Royal Stewart. Wasn’t Bonnie Prince Charlie called The Pretender? It fits right in.”

“Forget it, Geoffrey.”

“You are so unreasonable. You won’t even indulge me in my one bit of whimsy, when I have been a perfect saint about putting up with your eccentricity.”

Geoffrey turned around and stared meaningfully at the passenger in the backseat, who returned the glare with malevolent yellow eyes.

CHAPTER TWO

“POOR Cluny!” cried Elizabeth, glancing again into the rearview mirror. “Does he look hungry?”

“He’s gazing longingly at my throat,” said Geoffrey. “It may not be the same thing.”

“We’d better feed him. Can you reach that cooler on the floor of the backseat?”

“With my hand?”

“I can’t believe that he would condescend to bite you, but I’ll stop the car anyway.”

Cluny, the clan mascot, was a regal bobcat who embodied the Chattan motto: Touch Not the Cat. He lounged on the backseat, wearing a tartan ribbon over his metal collar, and a look of heavy- lidded insolence. Several times a year, Cluny’s owner lent him out to attend Scottish festivals, where he enjoyed overeating and sneering at the antics of the primates. Since Cluny was de-clawed and had never found anyone worth the energy to bite, he was generally believed to be tame, but his expression of cordial dislike kept most admirers at bay. “My ancestors used to eat your ancestors,” he seemed to be thinking behind his yellow stare.

Elizabeth stopped the car on a level stretch of grass beside the road. “Poor pussums,” she cooed. “Is-ums hungry?”

Cluny yawned and flexed a paw against the upholstery.

“I wish you had been that solicitous when I wanted to stop and eat,” Geoffrey remarked.

“Get the cooler out of the backseat,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll walk him around.”

Geoffrey hoisted the plastic ice chest, which was heavier than he expected, and deposited it ungently on the grass. “What’s in this thing? Judge Crater?”

“The bobcat bill of fare for the entire weekend. All I have to do is keep adding ice to the cooler-and there should be lots of that around, considering how those doctors drink. Come on, Cluny, din-din.” She opened the box. “Let’s see what we have here. How about ground chuck?”

“As opposed to Geoffrey Tartare,” murmured Geoffrey, edging out of the way.

“He must be very expensive to feed,” Elizabeth remarked as Cluny inhaled a fist-size chunk of meat.

“Consider the alternative.”

“Dry cat food?”

“Door-to-door salesmen, Jehovah’s Witnesses…”

“I keep telling you, he’s not dangerous. Just a little reserved. I hope he’ll get along with dogs. Marge may be there.”

Geoffrey smiled. “Does she know what you think of her?”

“What?… Oh, I see. What I meant was that Marge Hutcheson always brings border collies to the games, and I wouldn’t want them to chase Cluny. Or vice versa. Marge was always one of my favorite people at the games. I used to help her set up the gates and ramps for the herding competition.”

“Do you mean to tell me there will be sheep at this ordeal?” asked Geoffrey, inspecting the sole of his shoe as if anticipating future indignities.

“No. Of course, in Scotland border collies herd sheep; but for the games here, sheep are too much trouble to haul around, so most exhibitors use ducks. It’s amazing what the dogs can get those ducks to do.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ll bet if we got a giant carnivore to slink around after you, you’d be doing amazing things, too.” He paused to look at Elizabeth, who was hopping on one foot with one hand arched over her head.

“I’m shedding,” she informed him, placing her left foot in front of her knee, then behind it, then in front again.

“A balsam conditioner would do you a world of good, but why are you bouncing around like that?”

Elizabeth pretended to stop in order to answer his question, and Geoffrey pretended not to see her gasping for breath. “Shedding,” she said between heaves. “Name of… dance step… Highland fling… practicing.”

“You’re not going to practice too much, are you, dear? Father insisted that we learn CPR, but it’s been years.”

“Dinna worry about me, laddie!” snapped Elizabeth.

“Oh, now really, this is too much! I can take the costumes and the peculiar dancing, but if you start lapsing into a vaudeville Scottish burr, I will lock you in the trunk for the duration of the festival.”

“You’re not going to be any fun at all.”

“Nonsense! I shall be indispensable. With all those demented hams running around pretending to be Jacobites, I shall be that all-important figure: the audience. I expect to enjoy myself hugely.”

“You’ll be lucky if no one brains you with a bagpipe,” muttered Elizabeth.

Dr. Colin Campbell glared at the gaggle of pipe-band members trying to dash across the road to the cafe, apparently trusting their youth and stamina to transport them before his Winnebago mowed them down. They couldn’t be presuming on Dr. Campbell’s good-will: the nonexistence of that was an accepted fact among the games crowd.

Just what you’d expect of a Campbell, most people said, thereby overlooking an important psychological point. Highland games festivals spent a lot of time emphasizing Scottish traditions and lauding Bonnie Price Charlie, whose band of overconfident nincompoops were slaughtered, sword in hand, by the musket-toting Campbells. To the idealists enamored of lost causes, coming to a battle well fed, with state-of-the-art weaponry and a sizable army to back you up, was cheating; and the Campbells were vilified in song and jest for their calculating and unsportsmanlike behavior. Some two hundred and forty-odd years after the Battle of Culloden, the Campbells were still considered the flies in the broth of Scotland, which explains why Colin Campbell thrived on ill will. What other sort of person would go, year after year, to a gathering at which he was guaranteed to be hated?

Dr. Campbell waited until he could see the whites of the pipe band’s eyes before pumping his horn, which blared out, “The Campbells are coming! Hooray! Hooray!” As he sped off in the direction of the campsite, he could see them in his rearview mirror shaking their fists and shouting Campbell epithets. Colin smiled; it was an auspicious beginning for the games.

* * *

Jerry Buchanan winced as he removed his kilt from the monogrammed clothes bag. Whoever had inquired “What’s in a name?” had not been a Buchanan of Scottish origin. In Scotland, last names denote clan affiliation, and