Highland Laddie Gone

The first tent on Clan Row belonged to the Campbells. They were flying the family standard: a boar’s head emblazoned with the motto Ne Obliviscaris (Forget Not), and a cardboard poster on an easel listed the family names associated with Clan Campbell. A woman in a white sundress was straightening a stack of brochures while several other people sat in lawn chairs under the canopy watching the milling tourists. Elizabeth, who felt that being Maid of the Cat obliged her to be friendly to all festival participants, waved and smiled.

The woman with the brochures smiled back, but a voice from the tent called out, “Just a minute, young woman!”

Elizabeth flinched. She recognized the voice.

A gnome of a man in a green and white kilt marched out from the shade of the tent, squinting and scowling.

“Would you like to pet the kitty?” asked Elizabeth innocently.

“I would not,” snapped the old man. “I suppose you’re the Chattan’s Maid of the Cat this year?” Elizabeth nodded. “It’s a lot of damned foolishness. Not traditional at all. But if you’re bound to do it, I think you ought to observe the Highland customs.”

“Oh, really?”

“Women… do… not… wear… kilts!” He seemed to be strangling with rage.

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “And MacPhersons do not take orders from Campbells!”

“At least we don’t permit our womenfolk to go around pretending to be men,” snapped Dr. Campbell, who was enjoying himself hugely.

“This isn’t Scotland; it’s America. And a lot of people here would say that you were in drag!” Elizabeth jerked Cluny’s leash and stalked off.

Colin Campbell’s face turned Stewart-of-Appin red. “Young woman, do you know who I am?” he thundered after her.

Elizabeth looked back over her shoulder. “Yes,” she said. “I recognized you from your picture on the banner.”

It was a good exit line, Elizabeth thought as she swept off in the direction of the Chattan tent, but she felt guilty about having used it. Mother would kill me, she thought. She had just been-never mind the provocation-openly rude to an elderly gentleman, something that well-brought-up young ladies did not do. But, she told herself with a giggle, Geoffrey will love it!

Even so, she decided to be more diplomatic henceforth. She was Maid of the Cat, after all, and she saw that role as a variation of the beauty-queen-on-the-float function: be pretty if you can but be charming if it kills you.

Having resolved to be an ambassador of goodwill, Elizabeth smiled encouragingly at an adorable little boy at the Stewart tent. Little blond boys were so cute, she thought. This one looked about ten years old and he was wearing jeans; she thought he’d look wonderful in a kilt.

“Hello, there!” She beamed at him. “This is Cluny, the Chattan bobcat. Would you like to pet him?”

The boy stared at her, his face a cherubic blank. “No.”

“Oh, it’s all right! He’s had his claws removed, and he doesn’t bite. He won’t hurt you.”

“So?”

Here’s a chance to be charming against overwhelming odds, thought Elizabeth. She tried another smile. “Do you have any questions?”

“Just one,” said James Stuart McGowan. “If you gain another five pounds, will you have to buy a new kilt, or can they let out this one?”

Elizabeth’s smile froze into a grimace. “Are you a Campbell, little boy?” she growled between clenched teeth.

James Stuart shrugged. “I doubt it.”

“Well, you ought to be!”

By the time she arrived at the Clan Chattan tent, Elizabeth was feeling more like the Queen of Hearts than the queen of the Rose Bowl. Off with their heads! She had now been rude to old people and children; she felt like a boiled owl in her wool outfit; and so far she had not seen anyone she knew. “Not one of my better days,” said Elizabeth to Cluny. He was washing his paw and did not bother to look up.

“We’re here!” she called out with as much cheerfulness as she could muster.

A plump woman in white shorts got up from a lawn chair. Pinned to the shoulder of her white blouse was a scarf of the MacPherson tartan. “Oh, dear,” she murmured. “I’m not sure what to do with the mascot. Betty is in charge, and she isn’t here yet. They had an out-of-town guest, I think…”

Elizabeth sighed. “I’ll settle for a drink. Cluny probably needs one, too. Do you have an ice chest? We can drain off the water into a cup for him.”

The woman edged away from them. “He won’t bite, will he?”

“If he doesn’t get some water, he might. Where are the cups?”

Elizabeth scooped out some ice water for the bobcat while the substitute hostess straightened pamphlets and murmured, “I’m sure Betty will be here soon.” The occupants of the other lawn chairs were discussing home computers.

“Do you want Cluny to stay here? I wanted to go over and see the border collies, but I’m afraid he might scare them.”

The woman didn’t know, she was sure.

Elizabeth sat down in the grass and began to stroke Cluny’s brindled fur. “I wonder what Geoffrey’s doing,” she mused.

James Stuart McGowan had managed to give his parents the slip, and he was wandering around the meadow looking for something to do. The only other children he’d seen so far were toddlers; he certainly didn’t want to be bothered with them. He was briefly tempted by the refreshment tent, but that would be the first place his parents would look for him-better avoid it for a while. If he knew Babs, he had about another hour before she lost it completely and had him paged over the loudspeaker system.

He edged his way past the dancing platforms with an ill-concealed sneer and wandered over to a souvenir booth. The old man behind the counter looked like the wizard in Star Wars. That qualified him as mildly interesting, James Stuart thought. Behind the white ruff of beard lay a pleasant expression and a pair of sharp blue eyes that twinkled all the same. James Stuart didn’t think the man looked grandfatherly: his grandfather lived in a chrome-and-glass apartment and went to a tanning salon. The lack of resemblance was in the stranger’s favor, but he had his doubts about the wardrobe. The man wore a tartan tarn, a lace-up shirt with white puffed sleeves, and the full regalia of a kilt. The only other person nearby was a young guy in yellow slacks who was flipping through the tie racks.

James Stuart noticed the fancy daggers in the display case, and decided that this was as good a place as any to waste a couple of minutes. He leaned forward to examine the jewel on the dagger’s hilt. The costumed proprietor turned away from the tie racks with a regulation smile and bore down upon the new customer.

“Hoots man, and what would a wee bairn like yoursel’ be wantin’ wi’ a dirk o’ that ilk? And where might ye be from, laddie?”

James Stuart looked him up and down with his most withering stare. “Earth,” he said at last.

Geoffrey looked up from his perusal of a Campbell necktie and laughed. “Pretty clever, kid!” he said admiringly. “I’ll buy you a drink on the strength of that. Want a root beer?”

The icy gaze transferred itself to Geoffrey. “No, mister. And I don’t want to ride in your car either.” James Stuart felt a glimmer of satisfaction as he watched the red-faced young man stalk off in the direction of the refreshment tent. “How much is the dagger?” he asked.

“Depends, lad,” said the proprietor with a considerably diminished accent. “Will you be taking it or wearing it between your shoulder blades?”

James Stuart smiled. This grown-up knew his way around. “What do you call these knives?”

“Skian dubh. That translates to black knife. Natural stag horn with sterling silver fittings, that one is. The Highlanders used to wear them in their socks. Not fancy ones like these, though. I reckon they cut their onions with it.”

“It’s real, isn’t it?”

“That it is, Jimmy.”