Finding Fraser (13 page)

I jammed my little spiral notebook into
my pack after making the notes. I’d post to the blog again when I returned to
the hostel. By then I’d probably have a ton of interesting facts to add. Susan
had turned out to be the best part of the trip so far; a walking Wikipedia of information.

But as I waited for her to come back from
the restroom, I found my thoughts turning to the drop in comments from my
Japanese fan club. I mean, this trip was supposed to be for me, after all. But
my self-confidence had been really shaken by the sudden cyber-silence.

What did this say about me? Just who was I
making this trip for, anyway?

I grabbed my notebook again.

Also, remember to leave a note to HiHoKitty
and the other commenters from Asia: Make sure to say I’m truly sorry if
Rabbie’s remark about the feet offended anyone. To tell you the truth, it
offended me, too, and I was just trying to get that across.

Hoping they don’t give up on
support for my “Finding Fraser” quest. I have to find some way to say just how
important their encouragement has been to me. Whatever else comes of this trip,
I’ve learned that I really do enjoy the writing. I’d love to find some way to keep
it going, even after the journey...

Susan came marching out of the restroom
and slapped me on the arm.

“Why so glum, chum? This place is amazing.
And I’ve a few special treats in store for yeh, too. Just follow ol’ Suzy and
learn all about it.”

For an Irish visitor, Susan’s knowledge of
this ancient Scottish site was almost encyclopedic. Within minutes, she had me
choking back tears as we walked into the visitor’s center at Culloden Moor. The
course of history had been changed at this very location and the skirl of the
pipes that greeted us as we entered was a reminder of all the Scottish lives
lost on those fields so long ago.

I had to stop and take a deep breath. I was
here in the very place where Jamie and his clan brothers had fought and so
desperately lost against the English. Or—his real-life counterparts had,
at least. I could hardly believe it.

We wandered through the displays describing
the banishment and return of the pretender, Charles Stuart, known to all as
Bonny Prince Charlie, and the lead-up to the battle as he rode through Scotland
gathering support. I had to dig around in my pocket for a tissue as I read the
displays, and by the time we sat down for a short film re-enacting the battle
itself I was nearly losing it.

Susan must have sensed my emotion, as she
moved away to give me some privacy. A few minutes later, as the lights went up
between film loops, I could see I was not the only person wiping their eyes.

I walked into the main section of the visitor’s
center and Susan was there to greet me.

“Yeah—difficult to see, ain’t it?” she
said, her voice low. “Let’s go outside and yeh can get a feel for the actual
battlefield in person.”

She hurried through the rest of the displays
and I followed her outside. The sunny morning had clouded over somewhat, but
the day was still bright. We followed the path that led out into the field.

“It’s pretty mucky out there right now, but
yeh get the idea of what it musta been like, yeah?” said Susan. She shaded her
eyes and pointed off to one side of the field. “The fight had begun at Nairn,
but hadn’t gone well and the feckin’ English chose this site to finish the
Scots off. That flag over there shows where the Scots made their stand, and the
English troops stood over on t’other side.”

We followed the path as far as we could as
it wound across the bleak moor. A collection of black sheep gathered to one
side of the field, nosing at the frozen grass and nibbling the first tender
shoots under the snow.

“I can’t believe they could hold a battle on
this land—it’s not even remotely flat. You’d think they’d all be tripping
and falling into the rough patches.”

Susan shrugged. “Well, they had no heavy
equipment, or even horses really,” she said. “And it was likely not quite as lumpy
as it seems today. Here, check these out.”

She hurried over to one of the mounds under
the snow and reached down to brush it off. Under her gloved fingers, words
appeared on a surface of rough-hewn stone.
Clan
Stewart of Appin
, it read.

“A gravestone?” I breathed. I could hardly
believe it.

Susan nodded. “Indeed. These were put in
place by the landholders after the battle and have been here since. And see
over there?”

I followed as she hurried past a much larger
stone to one side of the moor. “Is this another grave marker?” I asked, pausing
beside it.

“Tch,” Susan waved her hand, not even
turning her head to look. “That marks the graves of the few English soldiers
who fell here. Doesn’t even bear a second glance. No—what I wanted to
show you is away this side.”

She stood well over to one side of the
field, beside a couple of low rocks almost completely buried in snow. But
instead of brushing them clean, she bent over almost on one foot, leaning and
listening.

“Can ye hear it?” she asked. I paused and
solved the problem of my winded panting by holding my breath. It had been a bit
of an energetic day to that point.

After a moment, I looked at her. “Is that
water?” I asked, and she beamed at me as though I had just passed an important
test.

“Tis the Well of the Dead,” she explained.
“On’y source of water fer the poor souls on the battlefield.”

I stood beside the spot in the snow and
thought about the real-life version of Jamie and his lads, their lifeblood
quenching this frozen ground. Heroes for their nation but doomed all the same.

“Emma. The mos’ important bit is here.”

Thinking of Jamie and the wrenching choices
he and his family had to make, with so many lives lost, I wiped my eyes
surreptitiously and turned to where Susan was standing. It was yet another
snow-covered rock, and I marveled at how well she knew the geography of the
place.

I bent to brush the rock face off, but she
put her hand on my arm.

“There’s no call for that. No words mark
this stone,” she said, somberly. “This is a place of our shared heritage, you
and I. For this is the stone where the Irish fell—the Irish who came to
the aid of their Scots brothers against the foul shared enemy.”

“There were Irish battling at Culloden?” I
whispered, feeling my fingertips tingle at the very thought. “I had no idea.”

She nodded. “My very own family members fell
here, and yours, for the bugler was a Sheridan.”

I think my mouth must have dropped open. One
of my own ancestors had fought with the brave, doomed Scots at Culloden? Where
so many of the Frasers and MacKenzies had fallen? My heart swelled with a
fierce pride, which must have shone through on my face, for Susan smiled and
patted my arm.

“Aye. God’s truth, though ye’ll find it in
no history book. It’s a point of pride, passed down from Irish father to son in
story and song.”

I squeezed her arm. “I can’t believe it—I
am
so
lucky to have met you,” I said.
“How would I have learned any of this without you here?”

“Mus’ be destiny,” she said, with a grin.
“Now, how about some lunch? I’m feckin’ starvin’, I am.”

I couldn’t talk Susan into going back
inside for lunch. She refused to pay tourist prices, she said. I pointed out
that as it was March, they likely still had the lower winter season rates in
play, but she was adamant.

“I’ll wait for yeh here,” she said, brushing
the snow off a wooden bench and pulling out a small sandwich. I left her there,
went inside and bought two containers of warm clam chowder and a couple of ham
sandwiches. She received my offerings of food with earnest thanks, and while we
ate, pointed out the various strategic battle sites that were in view.

The day had assumed a kind of silvery-gray
tinge, but Susan insisted there was little chance of rain. As she scraped the
last of the soup from her cardboard container, my will broke.

“I have to tell you something, Susan,” I
said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I haven’t told you the whole truth. I’m
not just a normal tourist. I’m here—well, I’m chasing a fugitive.”

She looked up at me, her spoon poised halfway
to her mouth, a startled expression on her face.

“A—what …?”

“A fugitive from the past. A ghost. A person
who has never existed, but is so real that I believe he must be here somewhere.
Here for me.”

Her startled expression gave way to what
almost looked like relief before settling on full-out puzzlement. “What the
feck are y’sayin’, girl?”

So I started at the beginning and told her.
I brought out the book, even opening the cover to show where I had drawn Claire’s
journey on the map of Scotland printed inside. I admit that her eyes widened
several times as I went through the details, but to give her credit, she didn’t
laugh at me. Not even once.

When I was through she stood up and checked
her watch.

“Well, it seems perfectly feckin’ clear to
me,” she said, shouldering her pack. “Ye need to cross that yon field, and head
to Clava to see the stones.”

“Clava,” I repeated slowly. “I think Craig—the
cute guy in the pub last night—I think he mentioned Clava. But he said
they were cairns.”

“Jes’ another word for an old grave site.
There are three of ’em there, and the center one is circled by standing stones.
They are the only ones anywhere near Inverness, as far as I know. If you’re
looking for stones hereabouts, y’must see the ones there.”

“But—Craig did say they’re not on the
side of a hill, or even in a forested grove …”

“The side of a hill? Ah, girl, yer author
lady there must have been using some of that there poetic license, righ’? The
stones were for reading the sky—why would they plant ’em in the woods?
But ye’d be crazy not to go today—it’s jes’ a mile or so ride from here,
on t’other side of that road over there.”

I nodded at that. I seemed to remember
Craigh na Dun
was in a clearing —
and who’s to say what had happened to the forests of Scotland since the 1740s?

“All right,” I said, at last. “Let’s do it.
We’ve got the bikes for another couple of hours. Why not?”

Susan shook her head regretfully. “Ah, girl,
I’d love to come and help ye find yer Highlander, but I have an errand or two
to attend to this afternoon. I have to be ridin’ back to Inverness, now. Ye
mus’ go on without me and have a look at the place. Who knows? Maybe the man o’
your dreams will be there, ready to show ye what’s unner his kilt, eh?”

She patted my shoulder to show she was just
joking, and then drew a few lines on the local map the hostel lady had given
me. “No distance at all, really. And there are road signs the whole way, to
direct the tourists. Y’won’t have any trouble findin’ the place.”

We walked past the entrance to the visitor center.
“Listen, you,” she said as the warmth of the building enfolded us. “I’ll have a
chat with that looker at the bike shop, eh, and tell him you’ll be along
shortly with yours. Y’can allus lock it up outside if the shop’s closed by the
time ye get back.”

I pulled out my wallet. “Okay, but let me
give you the money for my share, at least.”

She folded the bills into her pocket. “If
there’s a late charge, I’ll cover it and you can jes’ get it back to me
tomorrow, aye?”

“No—no—take five extra pounds,
just in case.”

That bill disappeared into her pocket with
the rest. “Righ’, perfect. And if there’s no charge, I’ll get this back to you
in the mornin’, then.”

We were walking toward the exit through the
gift shop, among the rows of plaid shortbread biscuit packets and stuffed
Nessies, when a bit of a disturbance rose up at the cash desk. A man I
recognized as one of the people who had been wiping his eyes at the end of the
battle re-enactment movie was complaining loudly to the cashier.

“Look,” he said. “My wallet is gone. I had
it when I came in, because I paid the entrance fee. Someone’s taken it.”